Scott Nicholson - The Shock

“Who is he?” Rosa asked.

“The horseman.”

“He’s dead?”

Jorge nudged the corpse with his boot. It lay like a sack of rotted potatoes. “ Sí .”

“Who are these people?”

“Something has changed.” Jorge laid the bloody machete on the granite countertop, crossed the kitchen, and opened the pantry door. Marina sat hunched on a cardboard case of wine, her hands over her ears, hair trailing over her face.

He knelt and brushed her hair away until she peeked at him.

“Is the bad man gone?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t trembling or whiny, just cautious, like she’d done something bad but wasn’t sure what.

“Yes, tomatillo , he’s gone.”

“It’s not like on TV, is it? Where the bad man comes back after you think he’s gone?”

Jorge hugged her, glancing back into the kitchen. From there, he could see the farrier’s feet. “No, this isn’t TV.”

But he’d forgotten about the banker. Jorge had delivered several vicious blows with the blade but probably not enough to kill. “Stay here, okay? Un momento .”

He was slipping, using Spanish. Marina would never become American if he didn’t control himself. She nodded and even gave him a tired smile. He reached behind her and took the hunting rifle with the big scope. He didn’t know what caliber it was, but the shell he’d put in the chamber was nearly as thick as his pinky.

Yes, smile in the face of danger and you will fit in here. Because America is a dangerous land.

He closed the pantry door and Rosa was waiting, still cradling the shotgun. Her eyes were wide and wet with fear, but her jaw was firm.

“Is the other one dead?” she said, quietly so that Marina couldn’t hear, although it seemed as if the boom of the gun still echoed off the kitchen tiles.

“I need to check.”

“I saw through the window. And when he came up on the porch—”

“You did well. Stay while I check on the other one, the banker.”

“Will we be in trouble? For killing these white men?”

Jorge didn’t tell her about Willard. “I don’t know who would cause trouble. Mr. Wilcox is dead. Who would call the police?”

“The phone doesn’t work.”

Jorge took a position near the big window, parting the white curtain with the tip of the rifle barrel. The banker was on all fours, crawling away from the porch. His jacket was shredded and his tie dragged in the dirt. Jorge wondered if he should shoot the man. Was the man in pain, or was he beyond feeling? The anger that Jorge had felt when his family was threatened washed away and left him tired and confused.

“What do we do now?” Rosa said behind him.

“We could stay,” he said, not liking his indecision. He’s always been the patriarch. And now his wife was a protector, a killer, while he let a man crawl away who had attacked him and threatened his family.

“What if there are others? Mr. Wilcox had many friends.”

“He had no friends. He had people who wanted his money.”

And now we have everything he once owned.

Jorge glanced at the giant TV mounted to the wall in the living room, the shadows of the tree branches from outside swaying across the black surface. The high glass cabinet held carved wooden ducks, fish, and turtles, as well as ivory elephants that Mr. Wilcox had boasted were illegal to own. Above the marble fireplace was a painting of black people cutting wheat with hand scythes.

Upstairs, in the dresser beside Mr. Wilcox’s puffy and waxy corpse, Jorge had found eight thousand dollars in a cigar box. He had been afraid to take the money, sure that rich people had a way to track cash.

Everything Mr. Wilcox owned is now worthless, except these guns and the food in the pantry.

Jorge glanced at the farrier’s cooling corpse and the pool of blood that was already coagulating around it.

And horses .

“Get Marina ready,” Jorge said.

“Ready?”

“Load some backpacks with food we can eat on the road.”

“So, we’re not staying here?”

“More people may come. I don’t want to wait.”

Jorge felt a surge of strength as he took control of the situation. He was still masculino . But he kept the rifle, even though he sheathed the machete. Locking the front door behind him, he checked the banker’s progress. The banker was halfway down the drive, flies already circling him in black clouds.

Soon the vultures will have him .

Jorge studied the sky, wondering whether his family would change, would become like them .

But such worries would make him weak, and Marina and Rosa needed him to be strong. Plus he had the rifle. He thought again about Mr. Wilcox’s money and all the useless comforts of his boss’s life. He wasn’t an overly religious man, despite his Catholic upbringing. But perhaps the meek truly did inherit the Earth.

It was as good an explanation as any why the three of them had been unaffected by the sun sickness.

He went to the barn to saddle the horses.

“What road are we on?” DeVontay said, peering at the crumpled map.

They sat in the shade of a large oak, careful not to touch the poison sumac that was already turning fierce red with the end of the summer. The boy had quickly grown tired and had asked for his mother once. But they kept moving, determined to get away from the population centers where Zaphead encounters were more likely.

“That’s I-77,” Rachel said, pointing to the four-lane highway below them. They’d walked parallel to the road, staying in the vegetation even though the traveling was more difficult. Rachel didn’t trust the vehicles, especially since so many of them had tinted windows. On the crest of the slope, they were able to see movement in any direction.

DeVontay squinted through the treetop at the rising sun. “Which way we headed?”

“The sun rises in the east,” Rachel said. “I learned that in Girl Scouts.”

DeVontay scowled, the expression almost comical because of his glass eye. “Wish I’d left you back at the hotel.”

The boy stiffened and shuddered beside Rachel, and she shot DeVontay an angry glance and shook her head.

We’re his parents now. We have to pretend everything’s going to be all right, just like real parents do.

I failed Chelsea, but I won’t fail this boy.

The boy’s blonde hair and freckles suggested a fair complexion that would sunburn easily. At their morning stop at a convenience store, she’d found him some sunscreen and made him put on a Carolina Panthers ball cap. She’d also collected some of the healthiest offerings she could find, including some apple juice she hoped hadn’t spoiled. DeVontay had collected the map, a pack of butane lighters, and half a box of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Rachel fished a bottle of water from her backpack and held it out to the boy, who still clutched the naked doll to his chest. “Here, honey. I’ll bet you’re thirsty.”

The boy shook his head. He’d barely spoken a dozen words all day. Rachel wondered if he was in shock. She hadn’t studied much basic health, but she knew shock tended to kill people before they had a chance to die from more horrible things.

She put the water bottle by his sneakers and offered him a granola bar. He shook his head.

“You gotta speak the language,” DeVontay said. He opened one of his Reese’s and held a cup of chocolate and peanut butter out to the boy. The boy’s mouth visibly watered and he licked his lips.

“It’s okay.” Rachel gave an encouraging smile, hoping the boy didn’t crash from a sugar high while they were putting in some miles.

The boy let the doll fall into his lap. He took the candy, which was soft from the heat. As he bit into it, DeVontay said, “Melts in your mouth, not in your hands.”