Ashfall

The truck had been roaring along for fifteen or twenty minutes when Darla whispered, “We’re going the wrong way. The truck’s going south.”

“What? They said they were taking us to the camp.”

“Well, we’re going south. And we need to get to Warren, not some camp, anyway.”

“I figured we could walk to my uncle’s place from the camp—if it’s the one we heard about near Galena, it’s close.”

“Maybe. But we’re getting farther away right now,” Darla whispered.

“Where are we going?” I yelled in the direction of the small guard.

He looked my way but didn’t say anything.

“We’re trying to get to Warren—it’s near Galena.”

He shrugged. “We’re on a sweep. We’ll loop around to the camp and drop you there. It’s outside Galena.”

“O-kaaay,” I said doubtfully, but he had already looked away.

The truck stopped six or seven more times. Each time, one of the guards hopped out and one stayed in the truck with us. We never saw the driver, although we heard him over the guards’ radios. Twice, they picked up more passengers: a guy by himself, then a family of four.

It was late afternoon by the time we finally arrived at the camp. The truck stopped for a bit, then rolled forward. We heard a clang and, out the back of the truck, caught a glimpse of a big chain-link gate. It looked to be at least twelve feet high, not counting the coils of razor wire at the top. I shivered: Was that fence designed to keep us in or someone else out?

The guys from the truck herded us into a huge white tent. Two new guards took charge of us there. They looked nearly identical to the others: young guys in camo fatigues with submachine guns. I tried to talk to them, to find out what was going on or whether we could get a ride to Warren. The only answer they’d give me was to wait and ask the captain. Every few minutes, the guards led a group of refugees through a flap in the tent—to the processing area, they said. There was nothing to sit on, and the plastic floor was filthy with mud, so we stood beside one of the canvas walls.

Eventually, a guard told us to follow him. He led us down a short, canvas-walled hallway to a large room—either the tent was subdivided into rooms, or we were in a new tent. There was a small metal desk in the center of the room. A gray-haired guy sat at it, typing on a laptop. Otherwise, the desk was bare. Two more guys in fatigues stood behind him, slouching as if bored. Freestanding shelves hid most of one of the walls and held a wide assortment of stuff: a dozen knives, two handguns, a shotgun, two rifles, some ca

“Welcome to Camp Galena,” the guy behind the desk said in a monotone. When I got close, I could read his nametag: Jameson. “Under the terms of the Federal Emergency Relief and Restoration of Order Act, you are subject to military rules of incarceration and must obey all orders given by camp perso

“Excuse me,” I said, “we’re trying to get to Warren. It’s not far.”

“You’re from Iowa, right?”

“Yeah, Cedar Falls.”

“Refugees from red zone states are specifically forbidden from travel in the yellow or green zones for the duration of the emergency.”

I shook my head, feeling stu

“Do you have any contraband to declare?”

“No—and what about a ride to Warren?”

“You evidently have confused Camp Galena for a taxi stand.”

What an asshole. I swallowed that thought and said, “I’m happy to walk.”

“As I’ve already told you, it’s illegal for you to travel within the state of Illinois. This will go a lot smoother if you restrict yourself to answering my questions, son. Remove your backpacks.”

The two guards looked much more alert now. They’d taken a couple steps toward us. I glanced at them and took a half step back, dropping into a sparring stance. I kept my hands at my sides, though. “Could you get word to my uncle in Warren? I’m sure he’d pick us up.”

“Your name will be published in the camp roster. If your uncle exists and can show proof of relation and means of support, you’ll be released to him.”

“What about Darla?”

“Son, we’ve got forty-seven thousand inmates here. I do not have the time or the patience for this. Remove your backpacks. That will be the last time I ask.”

“You didn’t ask the first—”

“I’m not from Iowa,” Darla said. “I’m from Chicago. I was in Cedar Falls, visiting family. Alex and I met on the road.”

I looked at Darla, puzzled. She scowled back. I took the hint and kept my mouth shut.

“I’ll need to see proof of residence. Driver’s license, utility bill, or similar.”

“My, um, a house we were staying in on the way here caught fire. My I.D. burned.”

“I do not have time for this. Corporal, remove their backpacks.”

“Captain.” One of the guards moved behind me, grabbing my pack. The other one stood to one side of us, fingering his gun. I was tense and furious, but fighting would have been pointless. There were three of them in the room, armed and ready, and I had no idea how many more guards might be within earshot. I shrugged out of my pack.

The guard behind me set the pack aside and yanked the knife and hatchet off my belt. He put them on the shelves with the other knives. Then he patted me down from behind, feeling under my arms, my sides, the insides of my thighs, and down to my ankles. He repeated the process on Darla. Then he picked up one of our skis. “What do you want me to do with these, sir?”

“Put them on a shelf.”

So our skis, poles, and my makeshift staff went on one of the empty shelves. Next he opened the top of my backpack. It was stuffed with packages of meat wrapped in newspaper. The corporal picked one up and sniffed it. “Pork,” he said. The meat all went on the shelves, too. Then he got a plastic bin off a shelf and poured the loose wheat kernels into it. He found the bulletless revolver in a side pocket and placed it with the other handguns.

The only things left in my backpack when he was done were the frying pan, a blanket, and some clothing. “That’s our food. And my dad’s skis. I need that stuff—how are we supposed to survive without even a knife?”

“Weapons and personal caches of food are prohibited at Camp Galena,” Captain Jameson said.

“I don’t even want to be here. Why don’t you give me back my stuff, and I’ll go?”

The captain ignored me. In the meantime, the corporal had opened Darla’s pack. He pulled out Jack. “Got a live one.”

“Deal with it,” the captain ordered.

The corporal stepped through a flap in the wall of the tent, carrying Jack.

“Wait!” Darla yelled. “What are you doing?”

I heard the crack of a gunshot. Darla ran toward the flap, and the other guard grabbed for her, but missed. I followed Darla.

Outside the tent, the snow had been trodden into a packed, icy mess. There was blood in the snow, some fresh, some old and frozen. The corporal holstered his pistol. Darla bent over a large wooden bin.

I looked into the bin. Jack lay there, twitching and bleeding from the huge, ragged hole a bullet had punched in his head. Beside him lay a golden retriever and a German shepherd, their frozen limbs tangled together. They’d been shot in the head, also.

“What did you do that for?” Darla screamed.

“Orders. No pets allowed.”

“Murderers!” Darla ran at him, her fists flailing wildly. I took a half step forward, ready to unload a number-two round kick on the guard’s face. But out of the corner of my eye I saw three more guards rushing toward us. Plus, the whole area was fenced—there was no way to escape. Fighting was useless, so I checked my kick.