Scott Nicholson - The Shock

“That would be Greensboro,” Arnoff said.

They both turned in surprise to see Arnoff perched in the bed of a pickup truck, scanning the horizon with binoculars. They hadn’t even heard him come up behind them.

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.

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.