“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 rhythm 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.
&n
bsp; 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.
CHAPTER NINE
“Hola,” Jorge said.
The man on the left was dressed like one of Mr. Wilcox’s banker friends, although his suit was rumpled, the sleeves ragged and his necktie twisted to one side. He was short, fat, and balding, with thick hands and pasty, wormlike fingers. He was a man who’d never performed manual labor.
The other man was close to the porch steps. Despite the heat, he was dressed in brown coveralls and there were dark blotches along the front.
Blood?
The man in coveralls was tall and lean, his face pocked and stubbled. He looked familiar, with his slicked-back hair, green baseball cap, and thick eyebrows, but Jorge was pretty sure the man wasn’t one of the farmhands. Perhaps he worked on one of the construction crews.
Neither man responded to his greeting. Jorge lifted the machete, which had been dangling along his right thigh. Jorge wasn’t sure whether they were sick like Willard White. They didn’t look dangerous, but their quietness disturbed him.
He pointed the machete at the banker and waved the blade down the driveway, indicating that the man should go.
There is no car. How long has he been here?
Maybe the man had walked from town, but that would have taken a day. Jorge couldn’t imagine the plump man walking the length of the gravel drive, much less the ten miles to town. Not in those fancy leather shoes.
“You,” Jorge said to the man in coveralls. “Move away.”
The man turned his back and started up the steps. The banker finally blinked, the first motion to cross his face since Jorge had emerged from the barn.
Jorge pictured little Marina inside the house, and Rosa frightened of the noises outside and unable to hide it. “Stop,” he said, afraid to shout.
The man in coveralls ignored him, crossing the porch to the front door, his heavy boots drumming the wooden boards. Unlike Willard, the man in coveralls moved with purpose, although his gait was jerky and unbalanced.
He’s trying to get in.
Ignoring the banker, who at one time would have commanded almost as much polite respect as Mr. Wilcox, Jorge ran for the porch. If he moved fast enough, the man in coveralls wouldn’t reach the door.
But as Jorge raised the machete and prepared to launch himself up the steps, he sensed motion to the left. The banker closed in with a speed that belied his girth. He slammed into Jorge, wrapping him in a hug and knocking them both to the ground. The machete flew from Jorge’s fingers.
Jorge rolled, scrabbling for purchase on the lawn. The banker gripped him around one thigh, and Jorge kicked backward, pounding into the man’s shoulder. The man’s face was pink with effort. He appeared to be grinning.
“You blanco culito,” Jorge muttered, not wanting to raise his voice.
The “white little asshole” clung to Jorge, his expensive jacket ripping. Jorge kicked and spider-crawled backwards. The crazy attacker still clung to him.
The man in coveralls reached the door and rattled the knob.
While the banker was definitely afflicted with whatever had contaminated Willard, the man in coveralls acted with intent and intelligence. Jorge considered him as the more dangerous of the two, but first he’d have to deal with the banker.
Jorge used a trick he’d learned while wrestling the boars. Mr. Wilcox made them castrate the young male pigs that weren’t needed for breeding. Jorge resented the blood and violence of the act, but now he was grateful for the experience.
Treat the banker like a pig.
The banker didn’t have the strength of a young boar. Jorge straddled the banker’s upper chest with his legs, squeezing him in a scissors grip. The banker bellowed and pushed forward, scraping Jorge’s back but moving them both closer to the machete.
The man in coveralls slammed his fist against the front door.
If you make Marina cry, I will castrate you.
And that was when Jorge recognized him. He was the farrier who visited once a month and trimmed the horses’ hooves and replaced their metal shoes. While the banker had been inside the house, probably sipping lemonade or brown liquor in the den, the farrier had no right seeking entry. Workers never went inside the Wilcox house.
The machete lay five feet out of reach, and the banker wasn’t letting Jorge gain any traction. Jorge squeezed the man harder between his knees. His thighs trembled with fear, rage, and exertion.
The farrier pounded on the door with both fists, the noise like a horse galloping across a wooden bridge.
Jorge thought he heard a scream inside the house.
That would be Rosa. Marina is the calm one. Marina would never break her promise to be good.
He was almost as angry at Rosa as he was the two men. Marina would be an American, not so weak with her emotions.
But the scream fueled him. He grabbed the banker’s head and slammed his face into the ground. A soft merp of surprise flew from the man’s mouth on impact. He hardly seemed to notice the pain.
The banker’s head lifted. Those dry eyes looked right through Jorge and into the Badlands beyond everything.
The man’s pink skull enraged him. The banker became the symbol of all the times he’d had to stand with his hat in his hands, all the nodding and sweating in the immigration offices, all the frowns and smirks in the feed store when Jorge picked up farm supplies. The banker was bacon in a world where Jorge could only afford salted fatback.
Jorge punched at the man, banging against one rubbery ear. He drew back for a second blow, but the banker crawled forward when Jorge’s legs unclenched.
Now the banker was on top of him like a lover, a stench of musky sweat mingled with faint fancy cologne. Jorge swung again but the blow was stunted. It bounced off the man’s shoulder.
“Get off,” Jorge grunted at the man.
The banker wriggled higher onto Jorge’s chest, his bulk making it difficult for Jorge to toss him aside. Then his breath was on Jorge’s face and it stank like a barn stall.
He’s smiling. Like this is American football.
Jorge angled his neck until he could see the farrier at the door. The man had stopped pounding and was fishing in one of the thigh pockets of th
e coveralls. He emerged with a set of metal pinchers, a tool used to trim hooves. Jorge shoved the banker as the farrier clamped the tool on the door lock and began twisting with a skree of metal.
The banker lunged forward again, his glistening forehead now right at Jorge’s chin, and Jorge had to fight an urge to bite into pink flesh.
Instead, he used the momentum to slide them both forward another foot until his fingers found the machete handle.
He waggled the blade through the air, unable to get a clean arc. The side of the steel blade slapped against the banker’s back with a thwack. The banker, apparently not able to understand that the blade could harm him, ignored it and continued to grind himself against Jorge as if to smother him.
Jorge got a better swing the second time and the blade cleaved through the fancy jacket and struck meat. Blood spouted from the wound.
The banker’s face curdled in confusion. Jorge hewed another opening across the man’s back.
Now the banker relaxed his grip enough for Jorge to kick free and roll to his knees, just in time to see the door open in front of the farrier.
He’s broken in—
Jorge’s heart fluttered in fear. He used the adrenalin to hurtle toward the porch, blood dripping from the machete blade. He was off balance, the bright sun blinding him, and the creaking of the door hinges seemed as loud as an animal’s scream.
He wasn’t going to make it in time. The farrier entered the house, the wicked tool dangling at his side.
He waited for Rosa’s scream. He leaped up the steps and raised the machete.
But before Jorge could enter, a loud ka-doom poured through the doorway. Jorge entered to the acrid smell of gun smoke in the air.
The farrier lay facedown on the floor, a patch of crimson blossoming across the back of his coveralls. Rosa stood by the kitchen counter, the shotgun in her slender arms.
A blue thread of smoke curled from the barrel as if she’d just burned the toast instead of killing a man.
Not a man. A thing. A pig.
The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers Page 79