After: The Shock by Scott Nicholson Page A

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 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