Damn. What if he’d been a Zaphead?
“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.
He faced the man, daunted by those black lenses. The gloved hand held a slim, silver pistol. Even if Jorge charged, he’d be lucky to raise the blade before the man shot him.
“We mean no harm,” Jorge said.
“We? Changing your story on me?”
“Please, señor. My daughter is not well.”
“Your daughter?”
“Yes. My wife is with her. We stopped to rest on our way across the mountain. We’re headed to the parkway.”
“Is your wife sick, too?”
“No, you don’t understand. My daughter doesn’t have the sun sickness—”
“Sun sickness? Is that what you call it? You haven’t heard of the Zapheads?”
“Zap? No, I know nothing of that. We only know it was the sun that killed people.”
Jorge was surprised to find himself near tears. Be strong. Rosa and Marina need you.
The man’s pistol dipped just a little, now directed at Jorge’s knees. “Your girl? How old is she?”
“Nine.”
“Damn.” The man slipped the pistol into one of his pockets. “All right, let’s go get her.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They’d covered perhaps three miles since leaving the roadside, and Stephen was still slumped over DeVontay’s shoulder, sound asleep. They’d been reluctant to stray out of sight of the interstate, even though the traveling would be easier on the s
houlder of the interstate. They’d descended from the hill into a suburban neighborhood, with silent cars in the driveway and menace in the shaded windows.
The bedroom community outside Charlotte looked beyond sleepy. It looked dead.
“You getting tired?” Rachel asked DeVontay.
“Not too bad,” he answered, although she imagined his muscles were screaming.
“Why don’t we rest a minute?”
“I want to put a little more distance between us and them Zapheads back there.”
“I think they’re oblivious,” Rachel said. “I doubt they’d be much interested in us.”
“Oh, they’re interested in bashing our brains out. You’ve seen ‘em.”
The gunshot boomed up from one of the houses ahead, shattering glass and reverberating across the valley. Stephen stirred in DeVontay’s arms, moaned a little, and pulled his doll close against one cheek as DeVontay knelt into a crouch.
Rachel hurried to a grimy white picket fence and scanned the street ahead. At first, she saw no movement. Then she saw a man in the yard of a brick ranch house. The man was slightly slumped, moving toward the house’s broken picture window with the prototypical confused steps.
Zaphead. But Zapheads don’t use guns.
“What is it?” DeVontay hissed in a whisper behind her.
“Trouble.”
“I figured that. The gunshot was a pretty decent clue.”
“Somebody might be trapped in that brick house,” she said, lifting her head so that she could see without exposing herself. “I see a Zaphead.”
“What’s a Zaphead?” Stephen asked in a drowsy voice.
“Never mind, little man,” DeVontay said.
“Is it like that guy in the hotel who kept beating on the doors?”
“Something like that.”
The Zaphead staggered toward the broken window, and a tool in his hand. It looked like a rake with a broken handle. The Zaphead dragged it behind him like a shell-shocked gardener. He looked to be in his forties, overweight, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. Two weeks ago, he probably had been standing over a barbecue grill, bitching about the Yankees’ starting rotation.
After: The Shock Page 10