After: The Shock (12 page)

“What’s
going on?” Pete asked him.

“The
reason I decided we’re heading west. Looks like the cities have gone to the
Zapheads.”

“What
do you mean?” Campbell asked, his stomach tightening with renewed dread. “I
thought they were pretty much brainless killing machines.”

“Like
I told you, they’re changing.” Arnoff lowered his binoculars and slipped on a
dark pair of aviator glasses. “And until we know more about why they’re
changing, or what they’re changing into, we’re keeping clear.”

The
others had reached the bottom of the slope and Donnie was helping Pamela keep
her footing. The professor ascended with the stubborn grace of a goat, showing
himself to be in decent shape. Arnoff watched Donnie like an eagle might watch
a mouse.

“All
right, soldier,” Arnoff said to Pete. “You want to be point?”

“Not
sure what that means.”

“Take
those two wheels of yours and head up the highway about a mile, to the top of
that next rise. We’ll be heading your way. If you see any Zapheads, ride back
and give us a warning.”

“I
have a better idea. Why don’t you give me my gun back, and if I see anything,
I’ll fire a shot in the air.”

Not
bad.
Campbell was impressed with his friend’s shrewdness.

Arnoff
gave a curt nod. “Good plan.”

He
fished in one of the pockets of his camouflage cargo pants and pulled out
Pete’s pistol. Pete rolled his bike beside the truck bed and accepted it. Campbell couldn’t help thinking Arnoff was getting off on authority, a position that only
the end of the world could have granted him.

We’ve
all discovered our worst.

No,
not “worst.”

Because
that assumed things would get better.

As
Arnoff’s crew assembled on the asphalt, Pete mounted his ten-speed and pedaled
between the stalled vehicles, his silhouette growing smaller and smaller. Then
he swerved around a cattycornered dump truck and was gone.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Jorge
had given Marina a few riding lessons, but it was Rosa’s first time on a horse.
He spent most of the first hour just keeping her calm, not wanting to spook
either the horses or Marina. Rosa’s horse, Tennessee Stud, was an older,
thick-bodied stallion, not much for speed but with plenty of durability. All
she had to do was hold onto the reins and Stud would do the rest.

But
even that seemed almost more than she could manage, sliding from side to side
atop the saddle.

“Just
settle into his motion,” Jorge said. “Don’t fight him.”

“I’m
not fighting him,” Rosa said.

“Look
how white your fingers are.”

“Maybe
I’m turning into a
gringa
.”

“No,
you’re just gripping too hard.”

Jorge’s
horse was a spirited mare named Sadie, but she was tame and responsive. Sadie’s
biggest problem was that she wanted to release her pent-up energy and explode
into a gallop. Jorge felt her power beneath him, like a wagonload of dynamite
waiting for a match.

Marina
was riding a pinto pony
that Mr. Wilcox kept around for his grandchildren to ride. Jorge would saddle
the pinto about once every three months, and a few of the kids would make a
circuit around the wooden corral by the barn before heading off for cake, ice
cream, and video games. Marina took to the equestrian arts better than her
mother, rocking back and forth in sync with the pony’s gait.

Jorge
had led them along the logging trails that wound around the Wilcox farm. Jorge
had made up his mind to go east, mostly because the crews had shipped their
Christmas trees downstate, to the wealthy people of Raleigh, Charlotte, and the
Outer Banks, lands where people didn’t grow trees. Jorge wanted to avoid the
highways because he didn’t trust the gringos not to steal their horses.

Plus,
he wasn’t sure what had happened to Willard or the others. He didn’t know if
everyone else had become starry-eyed and murderous. He couldn’t risk his family
on uncertainties.

“What
do you think is happening in Mexico?” Rosa asked.

Jorge
didn’t want to talk about it in front of Marina. Before he could answer,
though, Marina said, “Do you have to shoot crazy people?”

“Shooting
people is wrong,” Jorge said.

The
rifle he’d taken from Mr. Wilcox’s house was stuck in a bedroll slung across
the back of his saddle, the stock protruding. His machete was hanging from his
belt in its leather sheath. He was ready if necessary. But with Willard and the
banker, he’d only been able to fight back after being attacked.

Rosa
had saved Marina. All Jorge had done was drop a sheet over the dead farrier in
the kitchen.

“When
can we go back and get my crayons?” Marina asked.

“Soon,”
Jorge said. “We just have to make sure everything’s okay.”

Rosa
gave him a worried look
and struggled to keep her balance atop Tennessee Stud. “Where does this trail
go?”

“It
connects to the parkway.”

The
Blue Ridge Parkway was part of the national forest, Mr. Wilcox had explained
to Jorge. America had set aside some of its most beautiful land for the people,
although Mr. Wilcox said the government took too much from the people. The
parkway was just across the border in North Carolina.

“Mostly
used by them Yankee tourists,” Mr. Wilcox had said. “But they make the rest of
us pay for it.”

They
started down the back side of Jefferson Peak, a thickly forested slope pocked
with granite. They were about ten miles from the Wilcox house, and Jorge’s
backside was already getting sore. He could only imagine the pain Rosa must be
in, due to her rigid perch, but Marina seemed almost drowsing.

“Marina?” he said, worried.

Please,
Father in Heaven, don’t let her be sick
.

She
jerked erect in the saddle, pulling back on the reins. The pinto pony stopped,
as did the other two horses.

“
Sí,
padre
?” she said.

He
didn’t like her use of Spanish, but he let it pass. “Are you okay?”

“A
little tired.”

Rosa
put a hand over her
mouth, but her eyes showed fear. Jorge didn’t know if the Detoros had fallen sick
before dying, or if the sun sickness came to Willard and the others before they
became murderous.

“Let’s
rest a moment.” Jorge slid out of the saddle and tied his mare to a tree, then
helped Marina off her mount. Rosa hesitated, uncomfortable with putting her
weight on one of the stirrups.

Jorge
let Rosa lean over onto his shoulders so he could guide her to the ground. She
whispered, “She is pale.”

Jorge
didn’t think so, but it was difficult to tell with the sun dappling the
understory of the forest. He’d always prided himself that she was not as dark
as either of her parents. None of the doctors at the clinic had ever expressed
any concern for Marina, but her check-ups rarely lasted more than five minutes.

The
water in the Wilcox house had been fed by a pump that had gone out with the
electricity. The only standing water had been in the toilets, aside from a
quart that had been left sitting in a saucepan on the stove. Rosa had collected
it in a canning jar, and Jorge had packed several soft drinks and a bottle of
grape juice he’d found in the pantry.

A
trickle of water seeped between two cracked slabs of gray granite, and Jorge
decided to trust it. The water in the valleys would be tainted, but up this
high, few people had built houses or roads, and the chemicals used on the
Christmas trees would not reach across the miles they had covered.

Rosa
checked Marina’s temperature by pressing her wrist to the girl’s forehead. She
said nothing, but her lips pursed. Jorge brought water in a canteen he’d found
in Mr. Wilcox’s camping gear and gave it to Marina.

“Don’t
the horses need water, Daddy?” she asked.

“They
will drink when we reach a creek,” Jorge said. “Water runs all over this
mountain.”

“I
like riding,” she said to Rosa. “Can I keep the pony if Mr. Wilcox doesn’t come
back?”

“We’ll
see,” Jorge said. Marina knew about the dead people but she was maintaining the
fantasy that Jorge had spun, about Mr. Wilcox taking the Detoros to an
agriculture exhibit.

“We
don’t keep things that don’t belong to us,” Rosa said. “That brings bad luck.”

“Wait
here,” Jorge said. “I want to have a look.”

The
trails split just ahead, with one continuing up to the peak and the other
starting a slow descent into the valley. The trees were thin on a small jut of
rocky soil, and Jorge pushed through the wild blueberry shrubs and laurel. The
sky opened up to him and he stood on a mossy ledge, nearly dizzy after the
oppressive density of the forest.

The
ribbon of highway stretched below, curving around the base of the next mountain
and only visible in segments. He counted three vehicles stopped on the road,
and an RV was pulled onto the grassy shoulder. No one moved.

Jorge
drew comfort from how little the road was traveled, since it was closed to
commercial traffic. Mr. Wilcox had often grumbled that the tourists could use
the parkway all they wanted but the Christmas tree trucks had to go 20 miles
out of the way to hit the interstate. There was still risk of running into more
of the starry-eyed people, but they would have an easier passage by following
the parkway.

Does
it matter how easy the journey is if you don’t know where you’re going?

Jorge
judged that it would take half an hour to climb down to the road, which would
allow them time to prepare for possible encounters. Jorge had reluctantly left
the shotgun behind, mostly because Rosa would have had to carry it and it would
have been visible to Marina. He wondered if stress was eating away at his
daughter’s little tummy.

He
liked that possibility better than sun sickness.

Jorge
emerged from the shrubs, thinking about how he would get Marina down the
mountain if she was sick, how far they might travel before sundown, and where
they would spend the night.

Perhaps
we could stay in the RV if there are no
—

He
nearly bumped into the man standing on the edge of the trail. Jorge hadn’t seen
him because the man wore a solid green jumpsuit, with a hood drawn tight around
his face. A pair of goggles gave him the appearance of an insect, and his
bushy, salt-and-pepper beard billowed beneath a cloth mask. The man stood
motionless, unarmed, his hands sheathed in gloves.

Jorge
looked past the man, making sure Marina and Rosa were out of sight around the
bend. He felt foolish for not taking the rifle with him. He hadn’t wanted to
alarm Marina. But he had the machete, and he cupped his palm around the butt.

The
man appeared unarmed, but his stillness was even more disturbing than a violent
assault would have been. Jorge recalled the agitated behavior of Willard, the
banker, and the farrier, and he had accepted violence as a symptom of the sun
sickness. If this man had the sickness—and Jorge couldn’t tell from the
concealed eyes—then perhaps the sickness had taken on different symptoms.

This
made him think of Marina. The sickness might be changing her and the
helplessness to fight that change made him angry.

“Hello,”
Jorge said, parting his legs a little and unconsciously going into a slight
crouch, tensing for action.

Ten
feet away with those cold round eyes, the man didn’t respond. The cloth mask was
the only movement, drawing in and out slightly with the man’s breathing. A
moist oval in the fabric revealed the set of his mouth.

Jorge
waited another few seconds, aware of the birds in the trees, the laurel leaves
rattling, and the distant rush of whitewater as a creek tumbled down the broken
Blue Ridge slag.

He
drew the machete.

The
man still didn’t move.

If
he was sun-sick, he would have attacked by now.

Willard
and the banker hadn’t exhibited any understanding of the machete, and
therefore, had no fear of it. Even after it had cut them, they still didn’t try
to dodge its sharp edge. Perhaps they didn’t feel pain or were unaware of the
danger. Or maybe they simply had no fear of death.

“I’m
going that way,” Jorge said, pointing the blade down the trail behind the man.

The
man uttered something, but the words were muffled by the cloth mask.

Jorge
took a step forward, letting the machete dangle loosely in his hand. “We know
this isn’t our land,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

The
man spoke again, louder and more clearly. “Got a card?”

“Excuse
me?”

“Green
card. You legal?”

Jorge
didn’t think the man had sun sickness, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t
dangerous. “I am in the United States on an agricultural visa, yes.”

“Where
do you work?”

“I
work for Mr. Wilcox in Titusville.”

“The
tree farmer? Is he still alive?”

Jorge
wasn’t sure how much to tell. Perhaps the man didn’t know about all the deaths.
Maybe he would accuse Jorge of something, and Jorge wanted to avoid
confrontations. That’s why they’d taken the trail in the first place.

He
thought about turning and fleeing down the trail, away from Rosa and Marina, in
the hope that the man would follow him. But he didn’t know what weapons the man
might have concealed in that jumpsuit. He decided to tell the truth.

“Mr.
Wilcox is dead. So are five of his workers, and two of his friends who were
visiting.”

The
man didn’t alter his position, the mask moving in and out as he considered the
remark. “You sick?”

Jorge
shook his head. “I don’t feel any different.”

“You
hold that machete like you know how to swing it.”

“I
cut weeds on the tree farm.”

“I’ll
bet you did.”

Jorge
squinted, trying to make out the man’s eyes through the goggles. “I mean no
harm.”

“Wouldn’t
expect you to say any different,” the man said. His accent was like that of
most mountain people, the vowels drawn out and sometimes difficult to
understand. People here didn’t talk like the
gringos
on television.

Jorge
stepped onto the trail and gave the man a wide berth. One of the horses snorted
and the man in the jumpsuit turned.

“How
many others are back there?” the man said.

“None.
I left my horse.”

Two
horses whinnied, exposing his lie. Jorge kept walking, letting the machete
dangle at his hip, until the man called to his back: “I’d stop if I were you, unless
you want this bullet to do the stopping.”

If
the man had the sun sickness, he probably wouldn’t use a gun or speak in clear
sentences. That meant he was like Jorge and his family—but it also meant he was
scared and confused and therefore dangerous. Jorge couldn’t risk running.