Scott Nicholson - The Shock

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 nail 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 ballpeen 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.

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.

“ 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.