Ashen Winter Read online

  I stared at the bundle, shocked into silence.

  Darla tilted her head toward Uncle Paul. “You sure?”

  He nodded. “I saved enough for a safety margin. And we’ll let a third of the next crop go to seed. We’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Darla said.

  “You and Alex may not be married, and he may not be my son, but we’re all family—you, too. We take care of our own.”

  Darla’s eyes shone in the dawn light as she turned away.

  Uncle Paul pulled her into a rough hug. “You come back. Find my brother and his wife, if they’re alive. And bring that boy home, too.”

  “I will,” she said. “I will.”

  “I’m right here,” I said. “I’ll bring myself home.”

  Darla and Uncle Paul looked at me in the exact same way. Yeah, right, their faces said.

  I decided to change the subject. The pistol the bandit had used to shoot Max lay amid the bundles on Bikezilla’s bed. I picked it up. “How’s this work?”

  “I’m amazed it works at all,” Uncle Paul said. “I stripped it down and oiled it, but it’s a piece of junk—a Saturday-night special.”

  “You test fire it?” Darla asked.

  “Nope. There’s only one magazine with four bullets. I could get more .22 pistol ammo in Warren, maybe, but I don’t have any here.”

  “We should try it anyway,” Darla said. “Better to have three bullets we know work than four we’re not sure of.”

  “It worked on Max’s head yesterday. Wish it hadn’t. But go ahead if you want.”

  “I’ve never fired anything but a rifle or shotgun,” Darla said as she took the pistol from me.

  “It’s a semi-automatic,” Uncle Paul said. “Safety’s on the side. Rack the slide to chamber a round.”

  Darla clicked the safety to “Fire,” pulled the slide on top of the weapon toward her, and released it. She held the pistol in a two-handed grip and aimed at a patch of snow about ten yards off. She squeezed the trigger and I put my hands over my ears, expecting a bang. But the gun just clicked. Darla looked at Uncle Paul.

  “Misfire,” he said. “I was afraid of that. The ammo looked old.”

  Darla tried to squeeze the trigger again, but nothing happened.

  “Rack the slide to eject the dud.”

  Darla ejected the bullet, aimed, and squeezed the trigger again. Pop! It wasn’t much of a noise, even for such a small gun. A spray of snow kicked into the air where the bullet struck.

  “Well, two bullets left. Which might or might not actually fire. You may as well keep it.” She thumbed the safety on and handed it butt first to Uncle Paul.

  “No, you keep it. Maybe you’ll be able to trade it for something. Or buy some decent ammo.”

  Darla started repacking. In addition to the guns, Uncle Paul had given us a huge supply of cornmeal and dried pork, a tent, a large sleeping bag, extra blankets, extra clothing, a coil of rope, two pots, four water jugs, two spoons, a medical kit, old road maps of Illinois and Iowa, a small pair of binoculars, a lamp with an extra bottle of oil, a couple of homemade candles, and a fire-starting kit with a chunk of flint and a mess of dry, shredded oak bark.

  I had a hatchet and a five-inch Bowie knife on my belt. I carried the jahng bong, or staff, I’d made not long after I’d reached the farm eight months ago. The staff had always been one of my favorite taekwondo weapons. I snagged the package of kale seeds and tucked it into the inside pocket of my coat, against my chest. Darla slid both guns and my staff under the ropes on top of the load so we could get at them in a hurry if we needed to.

  Then we said our goodbyes. I hugged everyone in turn—my aunt, uncle, and sister. I’d said goodbye to my cousins Max and Anna earlier. Max was still too woozy to get up, and Anna was keeping an eye on him.

  By this time, I was itching to get moving. I straddled the bike’s back seat. I figured Darla should be in front, because she’d be better at spotting the trail than I would. Plus the view was better from the back seat of Bikezilla. Not that there was much to look at—Darla was wearing heavy winter coveralls, and her luscious dark hair was wrapped in hats and scarves. But still.

  The biggest problem with Bikezilla was getting it started. Darla and I had to stand on the pedals, straining against our handlebars, just to get it inching forward. Once we got it going, though, we sailed across the snow.

  I glanced back. My family had receded to tiny figures, indistinguishable from each other. They were already dispersing to start their morning chores. The land around us was low, rolling hills suffocated under the never-ending burden of ash and snow. Occasionally the sad remnant of a tree protruded from the snow, its branches broken and leafless.

  Darla clicked into a higher gear and we sat down, settling into a ground-eating pace. My side hurt, but I ignored the pain as best I could, and soon it dwindled to a numb ache.

  I thought we’d have to move slowly to track the bandits, but if anything, Darla was speeding up. I craned my neck to peer around her and figured out why. The bandits had left a trail of trampled snow heading roughly south across the fields. Every thirty or forty feet, a few drops of blood stained the snow—easy to see against the nearly featureless white expanse.

  We raced along the trail for a half hour or so before it intersected a twelve-foot-high snowbank that ran north and south as far as I could see. Darla stopped Bikezilla beside it. Deep leg holes had been punched into the snow. Our two bandits had struggled across the bank directly in front of us. One of them had been leaking blood, staining the snow pink. I stood on the pedals, trying to get enough height to see over the berm. “Can’t see over. Scout it on foot?”

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  We dismounted Bikezilla and clambered over the snow berm.

  On the other side there was a road, plowed but not salted. A fine dusting of snow blew over the icy surface the plow had left. It looked little-used, which wasn’t surprising: Nobody but FEMA had much gas anymore. Keeping the roads clear was about the only useful thing FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, was doing—they were often more of a danger than a help to survivors.

  “Well, they didn’t cross here,” Darla said as she inspected the far side of the road.

  Between the packed surface and blowing snow, no footprints were visible anymore. Figuring they’d probably keep going in the same general direction, I wandered south. About 50 feet down the road, a drop of blood stained the snow. I turned and discovered that Darla had been following me.

  “They’re heading south, away from Warren. How are we going to get Bikezilla across that mountain of snow?” I asked as we walked back to the bike.

  “Get up some speed and jump it, maybe?”

  “Jump it?” It sounded more like a formula for a wreck than a plan.

  “Yeah, sure. Didn’t you ever watch snowmobile races on TV?

  “Um, no.”

  “You’re weird. Snowmobile races are the best. Were, anyway.” Her voice sounded uncharacteristically nostalgic.

  “If you say so.” I climbed onto Bikezilla’s back seat.

  We strained to get the bike moving, and Darla steered us in a wide arc until we were lined up perpendicular to the snowbank. She shifted into a higher gear and stood up on the pedals. I stood, too, pounding my legs down, trying to put on as much speed as possible. As we flew up to the berm, Darla yelled, “Hold on!”

  Bikezilla tilted backward and my stomach lurched as the front ski started to climb. Then it caught in a nearly vertical wall of snow, and the back end of the bike kicked up, throwing me over the handlebars and into Darla. We face-planted into the embankment in a jumble of arms and legs.

  Chapter 5

  Bikezilla fell sideways behind us and slid partway back down the slope. I lifted my head out of the snow and grabbed Darla’s arm. “You okay?”

  She looked dazed for a moment. Then she grinned. “Wicked. Let’s do it again.”

  I vetoed that idea. But that meant I had to listen t
o Darla grumble for the next fifteen minutes while we struggled to drag Bikezilla across the berm. The snow was so deep that some of it got under my jacket and into the legs of my coveralls. I checked the load bed—everything was secure, but the guns were wet, so we spent some time cleaning them. By the time we started out again, I was chilled through.

  We’d made good time across the fields, but on the packed snow of the road, we flew. Within moments I was shivering. The wind didn’t help. I thought about stopping to change clothes but figured the exertion of pedaling would keep me warm enough until I dried.

  Every few hundred feet, we passed another spot of blood. The bandits were moving faster, too.

  We raced past two abandoned farmsteads. Plowed snow completely blocked both their driveways. Most of their outbuildings and barns had collapsed under the weight of the ash and snow.

  The third farmstead we came to was different. Enough people had trudged across the berm to make a path where the driveway used to be. And someone had brushed against the snowbank, leaving a pink streak.

  Darla pulled Bikezilla up beside the snowbank, where it would be hidden from the house. She slid the shotgun out from under the ropes and tried to pass it to me.

  “No, you take it,” I whispered. I took my staff and the pistol instead, tucking the gun into my belt. “You ready?”

  Darla nodded.

  I crawled into the driveway, moving slowly and dragging my staff along. As soon as I had a clear view of the house and yard, I stopped. The path continued to the front door of the small ranch-style home. Two grain silos, a barn, and two other outbuildings were arrayed in a rough semicircle behind the house. Except for the tracks leading to the front door, the farm looked abandoned.

  I whispered to Darla. “Come up to the edge of the snowbank and cover me from there. I’ll run to the house. If I make it, you follow.”

  I waited until Darla squeezed in beside me with the shotgun. Then I took the pistol in one hand and my staff in the other and scuttled toward the house in a walking crouch.

  The silence was eerie. My breath roared in my ears. I made it to the corner of the house and glanced around. Nothing moved. I waited . . . thirty seconds, a minute . . . then beckoned for Darla to follow.

  We crept around the house, peeking in every window. Nothing stirred. The living room and kitchen were empty, but we couldn’t see into the bedrooms—the windows were blocked by miniblinds and curtains. We stopped by the side door, where we had a clear view of the driveway.

  Darla planted herself beside the door, the butt of the shotgun tucked against her side. I stood to one side, staying out of her field of fire. The door jamb was splintered. A smear of blood stained the knob. With one hand I gently pushed open the door. It groaned hideously, revealing a small mudroom attached to the kitchen.

  I stepped through the doorway and pressed myself against the wall while Darla scouted the kitchen with the shotgun. The kitchen connected to the living room and a pitch-black interior hallway. The carpet was covered with clumps of snow and ash, some of which held crumbling boot prints. It smelled stale and musty, despite the frozen air.

  “We aren’t going to be able to see anything in that hall,” I whispered.

  “You think anyone is here?” Darla whispered.

  “Might be asleep. They could have walked all night.”

  “Maybe. Get the lantern?”

  “Yeah. Cover the door for me.”

  We left the house, and Darla stepped to one side of the door so she could shoot anyone coming out. I jogged back to Bikezilla to retrieve the lantern. Lighting it was a laborious and somewhat noisy process, so I did it beside the bike. I had to strike a spark into some of the oak bark using my knife and the flint, use that to light a candle, and then, finally, fire up the lantern with the candle. Before the volcano, I never would have guessed that matches and lighters would be among the things I’d miss the most if civilization collapsed.

  With the pistol on my belt, lantern in one hand, and staff in the other, I jogged back, careful to zigzag, just in case. We stalked back into the house. The hallway was empty, and all three doors at the far end of it were closed. We moved as quietly as we could, but even the whisper of my feet against the carpet sounded loud in my ears.

  I opened the first door, Darla beside me with the shotgun ready. The lamplight gleamed on porcelain. A bathroom. The toilet tank was broken, the water within frozen into a block of dirty ice. I stepped inside to peek behind the shower curtain. Empty.

  The second door led to a bedroom. The bed was a rumpled mess. Filthy clothes were piled in one corner, next to scattered splinters that might have once been a dresser. The room was otherwise empty.

  I opened the third and last door. The lantern revealed another unmade bed. The rest of the furniture had been reduced to broken scraps.

  “Check the far side of the bed,” Darla whispered.

  I crept across the bedroom. Nobody was beside the bed. But as I turned to go, I noticed a bloodstain on the sheets. I swung the light in a big, slow circle, looking for more blood. And I found some: two droplets low on the closed closet door. I pointed at it.

  Darla nodded, and we tiptoed to the closet. I grasped the knob, standing to one side, while Darla trained the shotgun on the center of the door. I yanked it open.

  A blond man sat on the floor, his right side soaked in blood, wild blue eyes flicking up at us. The shelves and closet bar were empty. But I noticed all that in passing. What really caught my attention was the machine pistol he had trained on Darla.

  Chapter 6

  “Take it easy,” I said, trying to pitch my voice low and calm. “No need for anyone to get hurt.”

  “You know,” Darla said, “if I pull this trigger it’ll turn you into bloody confetti.”

  I glared at her out of the corner of my eye. That wasn’t exactly the calm, rational tone I’d been going for.

  “Thish ish a MAC-10.” The guy’s words were slurred, as if he were drunk or something. “Put all 30 rounds into you in lesh than two sheconds. Back away!”

  I held up my hands, clutching my staff in one and the lantern in the other. “It’s okay. We’re backing up.” I took a slow step backward. “Chill.”

  Darla hadn’t moved, and she was glaring sidelong back at me.

  “Back up a step, Darla,” I said, using as calm a voice as I could muster.

  Her mouth hardened to a line, but she did it, moving back a pace with the shotgun still trained on the bandit.

  He started to nod. His head drooped, and his eyes closed. The MAC-10’s barrel fell. When it touched his knee, he gave a start and snapped awake, the gun barrel twitching from Darla to me and back to Darla. “Keep backing up,” he growled.

  I took another slow step backward, studying the guy. His right elbow was clamped against his side. His coat and pants shone with fresh blood in the lamplight. A small puddle had collected by his right hip. He could have shot me on the farm. But he hadn’t—he’d run instead. Why? “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he replied, almost whispering.

  “Strange first name your parents gave you, Mr. Matter,” Darla muttered.

  “You had me dead to rights back on the farm. Why didn’t you shoot?”

  “Was a losht cause. Can’t be washting ammo. Now git out of here!”

  “We need to know where the shotgun Darla’s holding came from. Maybe we could trade. We could patch you up if you tell us about that shotgun.”

  “I can see the flensing knife on your hip, boy. Don’t take me for no fool.” The gun sagged again, and he snapped it back to horizontal.

  “You’re bleeding out—we could help you if you tell us what we want to know. You even know where the shotgun came from?”

  “Course I do. Was Bill’s.” His gun dipped again.

  “Where’d Bill get it?”

  He raised the gun again, training it on me. “Get on out of here,” he whispered, “or I’ll drill you both.”

  “Okay, o
kay. Take it easy.” I backed out of the bedroom. Darla kept pace with me, the shotgun trained on the guy all the way.

  Once we were in the hall, out of his line of sight, Darla hissed, “What now?”

  “What was that?” I whispered back. “Last night you were crying about killing two of them. Today you’re ready to blow one of them away?”

  “Slumbitches had it coming. Just because I felt bad about shooting them doesn’t mean it was wrong. They weren’t taking Rebecca and Anna to the state fair, you know.”

  “Yeah. Maybe so.”

  “So what now?”

  “Just wait and listen a sec.”

  Everything was still for a minute. It was so quiet in the hall that I could hear Darla’s soft breathing. Strange, that such a quiet place was almost the scene of gunfire; that bullets could easily have shredded this silence—and Darla and me with it. I rested my hands on my knees, trying to stop their trembling. My side hurt, but I welcomed the pain. Welcomed the aliveness of it.

  I heard a soft thump from the bedroom. I got down on my knees to peek around the doorjamb, figuring the guy would probably expect me to be standing.

  I couldn’t see anything in the darkness of the bedroom, so I thrust the lamp through the doorway. The guy had slumped sideways in the closet. The hand holding the MAC-10 was flung outward, resting on the carpet beside him. I stood and stepped quickly through the bedroom.

  When I got to the guy, I stepped on his wrist so he couldn’t raise the gun. He didn’t even wake up.

  Darla reached down and pried the MAC-10 from his fingers. She fiddled with it for a moment and pulled a rectangular piece off the bottom of the weapon. “Huh. Check this out.” She held the block of metal out toward me.

  I shrugged. “What am I looking at?”

  “The magazine, dummy. It’s empty. Guy was out of bullets. That’s why he didn’t shoot you at the farm.”

  “I can see why his buddy left him here. He was bleeding out, probably slowing his friend down. But why’d he leave him with the gun? It’s valuable. And one without bullets? Useless for defense.”