CHAPTER EIGHT
Marina was crying.
Not out loud, which would have disturbed him. They were safe, he was pretty sure of that, as safe as anyone could be these days. But still Marina’s sniffling and small grunts unsettled him. He couldn’t show it, though, not with Rosa about to shatter.
Jorge Jiminez let his face harden into a mask, the same expression he wore when the boss man, Mr. Wilcox, ordered him to shovel llama manure into the flower garden. Jorge liked the llamas, even though one would occasionally spit in his face. He liked them a lot better than he liked Mr. Wilcox.
He even liked the poop better than he liked Mr. Wilcox.
But now the gringo was dead, and so were the sixteen llamas. Jorge had been outside when the flash occurred, his wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his eyes. The llamas collapsed almost instantly, and so did Barkley, the loud border collie that constantly pestered the animals. The chickens barely paused in their scratching and pecking, though, so Jorge thought it must have been some strange sort of gun, although he couldn’t figure out how a gun could kill so many animals at once without making a sound.
But then his mind jumped immediately to Rosa and Marina, and he dropped his shovel and bolted for the tiny mobile home at the back of the property, which was tucked behind a thicket of Douglas firs so that it couldn’t be seen from Mr. Wilcox’s house. His wife and child hadn’t noticed the flash of light. Rosa was stitching a patch on the knee of a pair of jeans and Marina was sprawled on the floor, coloring in her big book of princesses.
That had been over a week ago.
They’d moved into Mr. Wilcox’s house two days ago, and although Jorge instinctively sensed it was safer, he wasn’t even sure what the danger was. After all, everyone else seemed to be dead.
“Maybe we go to town to see,” Rosa said. She sat at the fine oak table, uncomfortable, a glass of water perched in her hand as if she were afraid of leaving spots on the finish.
“I told you, the truck doesn’t start,” he said, as if explaining to a child. “Neither does the car, and neither does the motorcycle. Everything’s dead.”
He didn’t mean to say that last word with such anger. He didn’t mean to say it at all. Such a word was bad luck in times like these.
“What if we walk?”
“We could do it in a day. Marina can’t walk that far, so we’d have to take turns carrying her.”
“I can, too, walk that far,” Marina said, her voice cracked and strained. “I’m not a baby.”
Her English was very good, better than Rosa’s and almost as good as his. Jorge had taken classes at the community college because he knew he’d never see Baja, California, again. Even though the silver mines of La Paz had paid a fair wage of 200 pesos a day, the United States offered the kind of wealth a man needed to raise a family. Like many of his migrant countrymen, he’d planned to work for a year or two and return, but there was always a bill to be paid first, or paperwork, or some legal obstacle.
Luckily, Mr. Wilcox offered employment year round. In the spring, there was gardening, and in the summer, the crew mowed grass at various gated subdivisions built by the boss man, and in fall, they cut hay and prepared for the Christmas tree harvest. In winter, Mr. Wilcox dispensed a list of repairs around the property, which Jorge had once heard him brag consisted of “nine hunnert acres of East Tennessee’s mountain heaven.” All year round was the task of shoveling of manure: chicken manure, llama manure, pig manure, horse manure, and, once when the septic tank was clogged, people manure.
This week, there had been no shoveling. If one didn’t count the graves.
“No, you’re not a baby,” he said to Marina.
“Maybe we walk to the neighbors’ house,” Rosa said, glancing out the window.
The closest neighbor was half an hour’s walk, even with a nine-year-old. Jorge wasn’t afraid of the distance. He was afraid of what they might find when they arrived.
Perhaps they would discover more people like Mr. Wilcox, whose face had been blank and eyes staring wide, as if the flash had blinded him forever. Or more like the Detoro family in the trailer next to theirs, with Alejandro and Sergio dead on the floor and mother, Nima, dead on the couch. Jorge had found Fernando Detoro in the barn, collapsed over the open hood of the tractor’s engine, his hands black with grease. Jorge thought perhaps Rosa and Marina survived because they had been inside, and so, that was part of their luck, but being inside had not saved the Detoro family.
“I don’t think we should risk leaving,” he said. “We have all we need right here.”
“But we don’t know—”
“Sí. We don’t know. So we stay.”
Before Marina, they had talked only in Spanish when they were together, but Jorge wanted an American daughter. She would have had enough trouble because of her skin, although her straight black hair and onyx eyes surely made the paler girls jealous. Not that there were many paler girls around to worry about, now.
Jorge crossed the living room and drew back the thick velvet drapes. For a bachelor, Mr. Wilcox had put a lot of trouble into his home decorating. The front lawn was now getting ragged, and Jorge had to shake off the itch to mow it.
Nothing moved outside, except for a few crows perched on the white fence. Crows would enjoy this new situation. Plenty of meat to scavenge.
Jorge sat on the couch and stared at the big flat-screen TV. Its size was absurd, like many of the furnishings in Mr. Wilcox’s house. Now the blank screen was a mockery of all the things that had once played across it.
“I should try the tractor again,” he said. “If anything runs, it will be the tractor.”
Rosa didn’t challenge the flawed logic. Although they had been raised in a patriarchal culture, Jorge encouraged her to express her opinion. He valued her wisdom. Except now, she was frightened, and fear always hindered wisdom.
“We will be alone,” Rosa said. Marina looked up from her drawing.
Jorge glanced toward the kitchen pantry where he’d leaned a loaded shotgun against the racks of wine, spices, and canned goods. “Not alone.”
“Hurry back, Daddy,” Marina said.
“I will, tomatilla,” he said, using her toddler nickname of “Little Tomato.” “You be good for your momma, okay?”
Marina smiled, nodded, and went back to her drawing. Jorge wondered if she would ever go back to school, or ever again have the normal American life he had wished for her.
He drew back the deadbolt and paused by the front door. He wasn’t sure whether he should be afraid. He didn’t know enough to be afraid.
Jorge didn’t want to retrieve one of the guns from the closet, because that would scare Marina. He fastened his work belt around his waist as if he prepared to weed the landscaping. The machete hung from his belt as it always did.
“Lock up behind me,” he said to Rosa before slipping outside.
The day was bright, the sunlight made even fiercer by the amount of time he’d spent inside. He stood on the porch, looking out between the high white columns. Birds chattered in the trees, but their chirps and whistles were spread across the surrounding woods, eerily sparse for late August.
So, not all the birds have died.
The trees were still, and the pastures vacant. The corn swayed slightly in the garden, the tassels just beginning to turn golden. Whatever had killed people and animals didn’t seem to have affected the vegetation.
Jorge stepped off the porch and walked past Mr. Wilcox’s silver SUV. The vehicle probably cost two years’ worth of Jorge’s salary, but now it was worthless. Jorge had found the keys in Mr. Wilcox’s pants when he’d searched the man’s body, but the SUV was just as dead as his boss. Jorge had even swapped out batteries with the tractor, but the engine hadn’t turned over.
Jorge wasn’t as skilled a mechanic as Fernando Detoro, but he was convinced that whatever had killed Fernando had silenced the engines as well.
He surveyed the road as he continued his trek to the barn. Mr. Wi
lcox often had visitors from town, fat men wearing ties who never set foot in the fields. Rosa said they were bankers and lawyers who used Mr. Wilcox’s money to make more money with no work. Jorge wanted Marina to have that chance one day. He’d been saving cash buried in a jar under the trailer. It was Marina’s college fund.
If she ever went to school again.
He entered the two-story barn. Jorge had lied to Rosa. The tractor had no hope of starting. The engine was in pieces, the radiator removed, spark plug wires and hoses arrayed on a greasy drop cloth.
“Willard?” he called.
On the day of the deaths, Willard White had been mixing chemicals to spray on the shrubs. Willard was the only one whose body hadn’t turned up, and Jorge wanted to be sure his family was alone on the farm. He also didn’t want Marina stumbling across a decomposing corpse.
Perhaps Willard is as afraid as I am. Perhaps he is hiding.
Willard was a local man, a gringo, even if he was unkempt and smelly. He also talked constantly, which is why Jorge couldn’t imagine him hiding for days. Willard ranted about “my old bitch of a wife, Bernice,” “the guddam government,” “guddam sun in my eyes,” “my bitchin’ back acting up again,” “that cheap bastard Wilcox,” “guddam milk thistles taking over the pasture,” and a long litany of life’s constant miseries.
Jorge checked the barn stalls, where a row of horses whinnied uneasily. Mr. Wilcox liked to show off his horses, even though he never rode them. Horses were a luxury, taking valuable pasture and providing no food in return, unlike the cows and chickens. But Jorge liked the horses, because they treated him as an equal, unlike the men.
He patted each on the nose and promised them grain. Unlike the llamas, they had survived the sun sickness.
Jorge entered the cluttered tack room, where Willard liked to take breaks and drink brown liquor called Old Grand-Dad’s. Metal trash cans full of sweetened grain stood in one corner. Harness dangled from one wall, and a row of saddles were perched across three sawhorses. One of Jorge’s duties was to ride the horses once a week to keep them all trained and in shape, but the leather gear was far from broken in.
The shovel Jorge had used to bury the people was hanging on the wall, along with axes, crosscut saws, sledgehammers, chains, animal harnesses, pulleys, fan belts, loops of twine, and all the other tools needed to operate the farm. Jorge couldn’t be sure, but the bags of chemicals and the backpack sprayers appeared untouched.
Thud-dunk.
Something had fallen overhead, up in the hayloft.
The suddenness of the sound kept Jorge from calling out. If it was Willard, the man would have heard him and responded. The barn was large but open, and sound carried well under the corrugated tin roof.
Jorge kept perfectly still, his heart leaping in his chest.
Nothing to fear. Everyone is dead.
Another heavy sound came from above, as if someone was dropping sacks of feed.
Jorge eased out of the tool room, careful not to let the door creak. He headed for the loft stairs and climbed, gripping the machete. Dust motes spun in the open windows like tiny insects. His ascent startled a chicken, which squawked and exploded from under the steps in a blur of feathers. It must have been nesting under there. Jorge wouldn’t trust those eggs, not with everything dying.
A rough, wooden-planked door waited at the top of the stairs. When he reached it, Jorge didn’t lift the rusty hasp that was held in place by a bent ten-penny nail. Instead, he leaned forward and peered through a crack in the planks.
Willard White paced in the middle of the loft, weaving and wobbling like he did after a quart of Old Grand-Dad’s.
But Willard wasn’t muttering or singing the way he would if he were drunk. No, he wasn’t talking at all, which was the first sign that something wasn’t right, because Willard never shut up.
As Jorge spied through the crack, Willard staggered between the stacks of hay bales, plastic water barrels, and sacks of cracked corn like he was looking for his bottle. He stumbled into a loose pile of hay and fell onto his face with a soft thump that shook the floorboards. That was the cause of the sound. Willard must have fallen twice before.
Despite his uneasiness, a wave of relief washed over Jorge.
Maybe this is a different kind of drunk. At least he’s alive. We aren’t alone.
Jorge lifted the hasp and swung open the door.
“Mister White?” Jorge called.
Willard didn’t move.
Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he was afraid to be alone so he spent his time with Old Grand-Dad.
Jorge stepped into the loft, one palm riding the butt of the machete’s grip. He wasn’t sure someone could stay drunk for three days, even Willard.
“Something bad happened, Mr. White,” Jorge said, louder than he normally would have. He wanted the man to wake up, even though that would mean Willard would be in charge, because Mr. Wilcox made sure his Mexicans knew their place. And if he brought Willard White into the house, Willard would become the new Mr. Wilcox.
The sunlight was soft on the hay, creating a golden bed around Willard. Wire mesh covered the windows, which allowed the breeze to drift through and push the chaff around. The hush of the farm was unnatural, and even the frantic chicken had fallen quiet.
“Mr. Wilcox and the others…they are dead,” Jorge said, now ten feet from Willard. The man didn’t seem to be breathing, and Jorge was afraid again. If people could still die from whatever had happened, that meant Marina and Rosa were at risk.
He suddenly wanted very much to be back in the house.
But he had to know.
He knelt by the man, sniffing. There was no sweet stench of liquor about Willard, although the man’s dirty clothes and body odor were plenty strong.
Jorge touched his shoulder. He whispered, “Mr. White?”
The man turned suddenly, grabbing Jorge’s wrist with knotty, calloused fingers. With a yelp, Jorge tried to fall back, but Willard clung with a fierce intensity. The wide eyes glittered, the pupils almost completely filling his sockets, and the remaining whites were streaked with scarlet.
Willard’s mouth moved, and Jorge saw a large cavity in one of the yellow molars. “Yuh…yuh…”
“Yes?” Jorge said, still trying to pry his arm free.
Willard wheezed and brought his other hand from the depths of the hay. It held a ball-peen hammer. That must have been what had been hitting the floorboards.
“You’re afraid, too,” Jorge said.
Now Willard was smiling, although the twisted mouth was open far too wide. “Yuh…yuh…”
“Let me help you up,” Jorge said.
Willard swung the ball-peen hammer while tugging Jorge toward him. Jorge swerved just in time. The hammer bounced off his upper arm, sending a dull, icy knot through his body.
“Mr. White?” Jorge twisted away, but Willard kept his grip on Jorge’s wrist, cutting off the circulation.
Willard still grinned, but there was no humor in his brightly sparkling eyes. The man hadn’t blinked at all and specks of straw were stuck to his eyeballs. Willard raised the hammer again, unable to muster a good swing because he was still lying down.
The hammer came close to Jorge’s skull, close enough that he felt its wind, and he unsheathed the machete with his free hand. Willard was drawing the hammer back for another blow when Jorge struck.
Willard’s forearm wasn’t as limber as the saplings Jorge weeded from the Christmas tree fields. The machete’s blade cleaved the flesh and struck bone with a wet, splintering sound. Blood spattered from the wound and onto Jorge’s face, but Willard didn’t release his grip.
Worst of all, Willard was still grinning, as if the chop was a joke between co-workers killing time. “Yuh…yuh…” the man said, with no passion or pain in his voice.
It was when Willard drew the hammer back for another blow that Jorge chopped again, scared and fierce. This time, the shattered bone yielded. Willard’s stump spouted thick jets of blood in rhyth
m with his heartbeat, and the grizzled farmhand sat and watched it with detached curiosity.
Jorge fell backward now that Willard’s weight wasn’t serving as an anchor. His arm was heavy. He wondered if he had been injured by the hammer, but when he looked down, he saw Willard’s shredded hand still circling his wrist.
Horrified, Jorge tried to shake off the amputated limb. It wouldn’t budge. Jorge tucked the bloody machete in his armpit and started peeling back the fingers. One of them twitched and wriggled as if it had a mind of its own.
Finally, he shucked it free and it bounced off the hard wooden planks.
As Jorge ran to the door, he gave one last glance at Willard White. The man stood and began staggering again, as if Jorge had never been there. Blood dribbled from his ragged wound, but his face showed no shock. He dropped the hammer and it made its trademark thunk.
“Mr. White?” Jorge said, desperate to see the slightest human emotion in that unshaven face.
Willard turned toward the door. “Yuh…yuh….”
The spidery hand still twitched. Jorge stepped forward and drove his boot into it, sending it spinning across the floor to Willard, who picked it up and looked at it, then stuck it at the end of his arm like a child trying to fix a broken doll.
Jorge slammed the door and dropped the hasp into place, breathing hard. He found some baling wire and twisted a loop to secure the hasp. Willard White could easily remove the chicken wire from the windows if he wanted, but Jorge hadn’t seen any glint of remaining intelligence in the man’s face.
Jorge hurried down the stairs, wondering if he should remove his shirt so Marina wouldn’t see the blood stains. He couldn’t come up with a convincing lie, and he still was unsure of the truth.
All he knew was that he didn’t want to leave his wife and daughter alone if men such as Willard White existed.
If he’s even still a man…
In the house were guns and ammunition, and even if Jorge didn’t know what was happening, he could defend his family. He gripped the machete, too frantic to holster it.
After the shadowed dimness of the barn, the sunlight was blinding. He shaded his eyes and headed for the house.
He stopped after a single step.
Two men stood between him and the front porch, their faces as slack as Willard’s, their eyes devoid of emotion but glittering with mad energy.