Ashfall

Laura and Spork were standing just inside the doors. They’d already wrapped their faces in damp rags. I dribbled a little water on one of my torn-up T-shirts and wrapped it around my mouth and nose.

“Thought you were shoveling off the roof,” I said to Spork.

“So I’ll be late. Won’t be the first time Kloptsky has yelled at me. And I want to see how you guys are getting out of here.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

It was a little brighter that morning. The ash was still falling, but I could see farther today. The rain had quit, but the ash was wet and slushy from yesterday. Oddly enough, the lightning and thunder continued unabated, even without any rain.

I slowed my skiing to a crawl so as not to outpace Laura and Spork. While they struggled with every step, wrenching their feet free of the muck and plodding forward, I skimmed the surface. It wasn’t easy, though. My muscles protested, particularly after all the abuse they’d endured over the last few days. But watching Laura and Spork made me aware of how much the skis were helping.

Laura’s church was only fifteen or sixteen blocks from the high school, but it took what seemed like hours to get there. The church was a yellow brick building dominated by a big square bell tower at the front. Metal letters bolted onto the brick beside the entrance proclaimed REDEEMER BAPTIST. Ash had collected in tall peaks atop the letters, giving them a Gothic look. I thought I saw some movement in the bell tower above us.

It was impossible to tell where the church’s lawn, parking lot, and driveway began or ended. It was all one ashy plain. A couple of scraggly trees were bent under the weight of the ash, coated so thoroughly that not a speck of green was visible. Four cars and the church bus were parked to the side where the parking lot must have been. All of them were buried under more than a foot of ash.

Laura led us to the side door of the church, protected by a steep-roofed porte-cochère. I unclipped my boots from my skis and leaned the skis against the wall inside the doors. Spork was trying to bang the dust off his clothing and boots, but Laura told him to forget about it, since everyone would be leaving the building soon, anyway.

Someone had left a single candle burning in the sanctuary. By its light, I could see the church was modern, with a bright red carpet and oak pews. There was a path of near-white ash tracked on the carpet, which we followed to the back of the sanctuary and up a staircase to the small balcony.

Another, steeper staircase led upward from the balcony. It turned on itself in a square pattern, following the walls of the bell tower. I was surprised not to see any ropes dangling in the middle to ring the bells. Maybe they did that electronically or omitted the bells altogether. There were windows set into the walls, but the day outside was so dim that not much light leaked into the tower. I held the handrail and took the stairs slowly. It would be a long fall if I tripped in the darkness.

We went up five or six flights and stopped at a hatch set into the ceiling. Laura pushed the hatch open, and the three of us emerged onto an open area under the roof of the bell tower.

It was maybe sixteen feet on a side, but it felt small and crowded. At least twenty people were jammed together up there. All four walls of the bell tower were open to the elements; we were protected from a long fall by only a low brick railing. Ash swirled over the railings, forming drifts inside.

A guy in a minister’s robe was preaching; everyone else faced him, listening. Laura slid through the crowd to someone I took to be her mom.

“Yo, Mrs. Wilder,” Spork said.

“Our last name is Johnston, you idiot,” Laura whispered.

“Be quiet and listen to Reverend Rowan,” Mrs. Johnston whispered sternly.

So I did. He had a powerful head of preaching going: gesturing and sweating and shouting. He was saying something about a fourth seal when I started paying attention. “Behold! A pale horse. Pale because he’s coated in this ash, my brothers and sisters. And his name that sat upon the horse was Death, and Hell followed with him. This,” the reverend made a sweeping gesture, “is a foretaste of Hell; this is the ash that precedes the flood of fire and brimstone. A fourth of the earth shall be given over to famine and pestilence. This fourth, our fourth, where we lived. For this ash is the pestilence that will bring famine. If you are not summoned, if Jesus does not call you to His home, you will surely die. Our Lord told us this was coming. In the book of Matthew, He said, ‘The sun shall be darkened and the moon will not give its light. Therefore you must also be ready; for the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect.’ Pray with me now, pray with me, brothers and sisters, for Jesus to carry us up to sit at His right hand.”

“So this is how you’re leaving?” I asked Laura.

“Yes, Jesus is going to carry us to his home,” Mrs. Johnston responded.

“So, if you’re going to get carried up to heaven, can I have your stuff?” Spork said. He reached for Mrs. Johnston’s purse and flipped up the flap. “Got anything good?”

My face got hot. Although I sort of saw Spork’s point: If they were being summoned to heaven, they wouldn’t need purses or their contents.

“Get out of there, you miserable child.” Mrs. Johnston pulled on her purse strap, yanking it away from him and spilling junk on the ashy floor. A cell phone, a make-up case—and two Snickers bars. Spork pounced on the Snickers.

A couple people nearby were eyeing Spork angrily. The preacher shouted, “Peace, brothers and sisters, let us pray.”

Mrs. Johnston swung her purse at Spork, but he was too quick. Clutching the candy bars, he sprinted down the stairs as one of the parishioners tried to grab him. I followed Spork.

We leaped down the stairs two or three at a time for the first two flights. I almost fell and had to grab the handrail and stop for a second. I couldn’t hear anyone following us. They’d probably decided Jesus was more likely to take them to his home if they forgave the juvenile delinquents in their midst. I yelled at Spork, getting him to stop, and we walked down the rest of the staircase together.

“That was nuts.” I tried to put some disapproval into my voice. I thought the parishioners in the bell tower were wrong, but that didn’t excuse stealing from them. I think God helps those who help themselves. Yeah, I know it’s not in the Bible, but it still makes sense. If the folks at Redeemer Baptist were going to be carried to heaven, God could have found them fine while they scavenged food and worked to survive. At least that was what I figured.

“Maybe it was nuts, but I got two candy bars out of it. You want one?”

“Sure.” I was so hungry that I certainly wasn’t above eating stolen food. I chewed my Snickers slowly, trying to make it last.

“Those skis work pretty slick. Where are you trying to go on them anyway?”

“East. Warren, Illinois. That’s where my folks are, I think.”

“I hope you make it, Mighty Mite.”

“Yeah, me too. What’re you going to do?”

“My dad and I are staying at the high school. We’ll be okay there, maybe.”

“Good luck.” I reached out to shake his hand.

He surprised me by pulling me into a hug. “You too, Alex. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

Skiing away from Spork was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. But I needed to head east—I wouldn’t find my family in Cedar Falls. A sense of dread and loneliness settled over me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d never see Spork, Laura, Darren and Joe, or anyone else from Cedar Falls again.

Chapter 12

I followed Main Street north to the First Street bridge. Most of the old downtown buildings along Main had collapsed. Their thick masonry walls still stood, but the roofs had fallen and the windows were shattered.