CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jorge dreamed of great dragons, their green scales glittering in the sun as they soared over a burning land. Dozens of them poured their flames upon the earth from above. Their gaping, lipless mouths spat sparks and steam, and their brittle cries were like thick sheets of glass sliding across gritty metal.
He awoke in a sweat, not knowing where he was. The dragons faded from his mind’s eye, but the shrieks continued.
He fumbled one hand across the thin blankets until he found Rosa’s warm body, and then rolled to where Marina still slept on the cot. He checked her forehead, pleased to find it relatively cool.
The front door to the cabin burst open, letting dawn rush in. Franklin Wheeler was silhouetted in the opening, a shotgun in one hand, the other tugging up his filthy flannel underwear.
“Goddamn ya, leave my chickens alone,” the old man yelled.
Jorge rose from the makeshift bedding and hurried outside. Franklin stood in the yard, raising the shotgun to the sky as squawking hens raced for the cover of the garden and trees. As Franklin aimed, Jorge squinted against the morning sun and saw a hawk, its wings spread wide in a display of aerodynamic majesty. Its breast was mottled, the tail feathers red, the sharp beak pointing into the morning breeze.
The shotgun belched out a thunderclap, pellets spraying the tops of trees. The hawk lurched and faltered, a few feathers floating away from its body. The wings curled in against the breast and the bird of prey dropped like a wet rock into the forest beyond the compound.
“Got the bastard,” Franklin said, pumping the shotgun and ejecting a smoking red plastic shell to the dirt.
“A red-tail hawk,” Jorge said. Red-tails were common in the mountain forests, territorial and intelligent, and their keen vision served them up small rodents and birds. Mr. Wilcox’s property had harbored several mating couples, and although the farm didn’t feature chickens, Jorge had occasionally seen one of the hawks swoop down and claim a jackrabbit from the Christmas tree fields.
“Is everything okay?” Rosa called from the doorway, Marina wrapped in a blanket and standing behind her.
“Just killing a predator,” Franklin said, not realizing his words could have a double meaning.
“Is okay,” Jorge said, waving them back into the house.
The hens were still unsettled, although most of them had found clefts in the weeds where they crouched, clucking and fluttering their wings. One, however, lay in a lump by a metal watering tub, one yellow leg poked awkwardly in the air.
Franklin shouldered the weapon and walked over to the dead bird. “I’m glad it’s a white one. I got three just like it, so I didn’t bother giving them names.”
The chicken’s head had been torn from its body, ruby-red giblets hanging from the opening. Jorge looked around but he didn’t see the head. The hawk hadn’t been carrying it, so it must have been planning to eat the bird on the spot until its meal had been interrupted. The flies had already found the corpse.
“You mind getting the shovel?” Franklin asked, scanning the sky as if expecting another hawk to make a dessert run.
“Why?” Jorge asked in return.
“To bury it. Put it in the garden and the nutrients go back to the soil.”
“But it’s in good shape,” Jorge said. “Es sabroso. Tasty.”
Franklin shook his head. “I run a no-kill operation here. The chickens give me eggs in trade for their room and board.”
“It’s dead anyway,” Jorge said. “You didn’t kill it.”
Franklin’s face curdled as he looked at the hen. He shook his head. “I don’t know if I could eat it. Almost like eating one of the family.”
“Rosa will cook it very nice,” Jorge said, knowing his English grammar was slightly off but hoping Franklin wouldn’t notice.
“I…I don’t think I could pluck it and clean it,” Franklin said.
“You give me a sharp knife, the job is done.”
Franklin nodded. “Guess there’s not much use letting it go to waste. Like you said, dead is dead.”
Jorge’s admiration for the man had taken a downward slide. All the defenses and food storage and solar-energy panels meant nothing if Franklin wasn’t prepared to make use of every resource. But Jorge also felt a surge of pride. He and his family had something to contribute here. They could be part of this society and culture, as small as it was.
As Franklin went into the house, Jorge called to him, “Please tell Rosa to start a pot of water boiling.”
Jorge lifted the hen, which was surprisingly light, given its bulk. Birds were deceptive in size because of their feathers and hollow bones. This hen could feed the four of them for at least two meals, assuming Franklin’s springhouse did a proper job of cooling. Besides, the most unpleasant part of the task—chopping off the head and taking the life—had already been delivered as a gift courtesy of Mother Nature.
By the time Franklin returned, now dressed in blue jeans and a wool sweater, Jorge had already plucked most of the larger feathers from the wings. He took the knife and dissected the carcass, splitting down the breastbone to the tail and letting the internal organs spill. He carefully collected the heart and liver, both of which were still warm. The gizzard was packed with crushed grain and a few tiny bits of gray gravel.
“Well, will you look at that,” Franklin said, apparently overcoming his squeamishness. “I guess you might call that her last supper.”
“The rocks help grind the food for them,” Jorge said. He knew most Americans had no hands-on relationship with the meat they consumed. Mr. Wilcox had been the same way. Meat was something that came in clear plastic wrap from the store, or else was seared and slapped between pieces of bread at McDonald’s. Their meat was a stranger to them.
Jorge used the tip of the knife to scrape the lungs away from the insides of the ribcage. After he severed the drumsticks just below the knee joints, he peeled away the skin as if removing a tight glove. Normally, he would dip the fowl in boiling water and pluck the feathers, but he figured a skinless bird would be a lean treat and more easily allow Franklin to forget it had once been a pet.
“Are you a man who doesn’t like killing?” Jorge asked Franklin, dangling the naked chicken so that any offal and juice could drain.
“I reckon I could kill if I had to,” Franklin answered. “Like that hawk there. Normally, I’d never shoot one. But when you come and mess with what’s mine, that’s when I fight back.”
Jorge told Franklin about the men he’d fought back at the Wilcox farm, and how the men had changed into something threatening and alien.
“No, they ain’t men no more,” Franklin said. “I heard on the shortwave radio they’re calling them ‘Zapheads.’”
“Well, if they come here, you might have to kill them.”
“If they come here, then they’re breaking the one law of this here compound,” Franklin said, sweeping an arm to indicate the garden, the animal pens, and the outbuildings. “And that law is to live and let live, respect the fences, and mind your own business.”
“It is good to be self-reliant,” Jorge said, proud he’d learned such a word in his studies with Rosa. “But there’s another law that applies.”
“Huh,” Franklin grunted. “What’s that?”
“We’re all in this together.” He held up the chicken. “And let us hope this isn’t our last supper.”