Free After: The Shock by Scott Nicholson Page B

her.”
    “I
can, too, walk that far,” Marina said, her voice was cracked and strained. “I’m
not a baby.”
    Her
English was very good, better than Rosa’s and almost as good as his. Jorge had
taken classes at the community college because he knew he’d never see Baja, California, again. Even though the silver mines of La Paz had paid a fair wage of 200
pesos a day, the United States offered the kind of wealth a man needed to raise
a family. Like many of his migrant countrymen, he’d planned to work for a year
or two and return, but there was always a bill to be paid first, or paperwork,
or some legal obstacle.
    Luckily,
Mr. Wilcox offered employment year round. In the spring, there was gardening,
and in the summer, the crew mowed grass at various gated subdivisions built by
the boss man, and in fall, they cut hay and prepared for the Christmas tree
harvest. In winter, Mr. Wilcox dispensed a list of repairs around the property,
which Jorge had once heard him brag consisted of “nine hunnert acres of East Tennessee’s mountain heaven.” All year round was the task of shoveling of manure:
chicken manure, llama manure, pig manure, horse manure, and, once when the
septic tank was clogged, people manure.
    This
week, there had been no shoveling. If one didn’t count the graves.
    “No,
you’re not a baby,” he said to Marina.
    “Maybe
we walk to the neighbors’ house,” Rosa said, glancing out the window.
    The
closest neighbor was half an hour’s walk, even with a nine-year-old. Jorge
wasn’t afraid of the distance. He was afraid of what they might find when they
arrived.
    Perhaps
they would discover more people like Mr. Wilcox, whose face had been blank and
eyes staring wide, as if the flash had blinded him forever. Or more like the
Detoro family in the trailer next to theirs, with Alejandro and Sergio dead on
the floor and mother, Nima, dead on the couch. Jorge had found Fernando Detoro
in the barn, collapsed over the open hood of the tractor’s engine, his hands
black with grease. Jorge thought perhaps Rosa and Marina survived because they
had been inside, and so, that was part of their luck, but being inside had not
saved the Detoro family.
    “I
don’t think we should risk leaving,” he said. “We have all we need right here.”
    “But
we don’t know—”
    “ Sí. We don’t know. So we stay.”
    Before
Marina, they had talked only in Spanish when they were together, but Jorge
wanted an American daughter. She would have had enough trouble because of her
skin, although her straight black hair and onyx eyes surely made the paler
girls jealous. Not that there were many paler girls around to worry about, now.
    Jorge
crossed the living room and drew back the thick velvet drapes. For a bachelor,
Mr. Wilcox had put a lot of trouble into his home decorating. The front lawn
was now getting ragged, and Jorge had to shake off the itch to mow it.
    Nothing
moved outside, except for a few crows perched on the white fence. Crows would
enjoy this new situation. Plenty of meat to scavenge.
    Jorge
sat on the couch and stared at the big flat-screen TV. Its size was absurd,
like many of the furnishings in Mr. Wilcox’s house. Now the blank screen was a
mockery of all the things that had once played across it.
    “I
should try the tractor again,” he said. “If anything runs, it will be the
tractor.”
    Rosa didn’t challenge the flawed
logic. Although they had been raised in a patriarchal culture, Jorge encouraged
her to express her opinion. He valued her wisdom. Except now, she was
frightened, and fear always hindered wisdom.
    “We
will be alone,” Rosa said. Marina looked up from her drawing.
    Jorge
glanced toward the kitchen pantry where he’d leaned a loaded shotgun against
the racks of wine, spices, and canned goods. “Not alone.”
    “Hurry
back, Daddy,” Marina said.
    “I
will, tomatilla ,” he said, using her toddler nickname of “Little Tomato.”
“You be good for your momma, okay?”
    Marina