After: The Shock by Scott Nicholson Page B

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