Ashfall

“Not bad.” The guy messed with the dozer awhile longer, draining hydraulic fluid into a bucket and wiping parts off with a rag. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Darla Edmunds.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Chet. See you around, maybe.” He picked up his toolbox and the bucket of oil and walked away.

* * *

Guard duty was crazy that night. I’d only walked two circuits of the tent when I caught the first invader, a little boy trying to worm his way into the tent—probably only looking for a warm place to sleep. I’d already dragged him out by his ankles when I realized how small and ski

That’s the way it went all night—the moment I caught someone trying to sneak into the tent, they’d leave. Some of them backed away from me slowly, some sauntered off, but most ran. Nobody wanted a fight, thank goodness. Even the group of four adults I caught loitering by our tent flap about an hour after dark moved on without a peep of protest.

At first, I thought maybe they were giving up because of me. Maybe news had spread, and I’d acquired a reputation for my mad “kung fu” skills. I flattered myself with that idea for a minute before realizing it was total bull. First, something like fifty thousand people were pe

While I was thinking about it, I ran an old guy off. He was trying to sneak into the tent sideways, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out. He weighed next to nothing. He must have been rail thin, although I couldn’t tell from looking at him, since he had at least two blankets tied around himself with scraps of old rope. Pulling him upright brought his face within a few inches of mine. A dirty beard clung beneath his gaunt cheeks. I let go of him, and he almost fell over before regaining his balance and stumbling off into the night.

These people weren’t afraid of me; they were starving. All of us were starving. I felt weak, and this was only my third day with so little to eat. The folks who’d been here since the eruption must have been near collapse. That also explained why so many of the would-be intruders were kids—they’d been getting more food than everyone else. Kids and newcomers were the only ones with enough energy to try raiding the tents.

It didn’t seem likely that Darla and I would be getting any food from the Baptists except an occasional handful of almonds. We were too tall and too old—unless something changed, they’d always run out of food before we made it to the front of the line. Already we were weakening. We had to get more food—and soon.

Chapter 47

The next three days were infuriating. Every morning we fought our way to the front of the breakfast line to get paper cups of rice. After breakfast, we’d wander over to the vehicle depot. Twice we saw the mechanic, Chet. Once he came over to the fence and talked to Darla for a while, speaking in some foreign language that might best be named “Diesel Truckish” (or should it be “Diesel Truckian”? Whatever). Every afternoon we stood in the Baptists’ food line, but they always ran out before we got to the front. We saw Georgia every day, and every day she had the same news for us: nothing. Colonel Levitov hadn’t told Director Evans anything about the wheat, and the Baptists couldn’t go get it without trucks and support from Black Lake. Keep praying, Georgia said.

Prayer is all well and good, but I wanted to do something. Darla looked thi

The next day, our sixth in the camp, something did change. Not long after breakfast, the camp’s loudspeakers came on with a hiss. At first I ignored them, but when I heard Darla’s name I tuned in. “Edmunds report to Gate C immediately. Darla Edmunds, Gate C.” I glanced at her and saw her shrug.

When we got there, the gate was closed. Chet was on the far side, chatting with the two guards.

“Did you call me?” Darla asked Chet.

“Yeah, that idea about using brake master cylinders as control valves on the dozers? You want to try it?”

“Try it?”

“Sure, I had road ops tow in four pickups yesterday. We can scavenge the cylinders off them. I’ve got all the tools we need and a full shop . . . so, you in?”

Darla was quiet a moment. Thinking, I figured. I said, “You should—”

“What’s it pay?” Darla asked.

“Pay?” Chet said.

“Yeah, you want me to help fix your dozers; I ought to get paid, right?”

“I guess so, but getting a job at Black Lake is really hard. I’d have to go to the colonel, and I du

“I don’t need money. I want three square meals a day. For me and for Alex. And I’ll fix as many dozers as you want me to.”

“Um . . . I can feed you when you’re working. Maybe two meals. But if I let you take food back into the camp, I could get fired. Couple a guys caused a riot that way two weeks ago, giving food to girls through the gate. And I only got authorization for one assistant.”

Darla was quiet a moment. “No. If we can’t both eat—”

“Do it!” I whispered. “We’ve got a lot better chance if one of us gets enough to eat.”

“You sure? It doesn’t seem—”

“I have to get back to work,” Chet said.

“Okay. Two meals. One before work and one after, every day. And I start after the camp breakfast.”

“Come on, then.” Chet opened the gate.

Darla gave me a peck on the lips and trotted through the gate after Chet. I watched as they walked across the administration compound and through another gate into the vehicle depot. I kept watching until they disappeared inside a huge canvas tent that served as a garage.

It was strange, being alone. There wasn’t much to do; Darla and I had already visited the latrine trench, refilled our water bottles, and gone through the breakfast line that morning. I’d spent almost every minute with Darla for the last five weeks; being separated was . . . uncomfortable. It felt a bit like being naked in a room full of clothed people. Not that I’d ever done that, but I imagined it’d feel like I did right then.

I found a spot out of the wind where I could crouch beside a tent and still see the vehicle depot. I spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon there, watching. When it was time to line up for the yellow coats’ di

My luck held: bad, same as always. The food line dispersed even quicker than usual. There were three hundred, maybe four hundred kids between me and the last one who had gotten anything to eat. The only kids short enough to get fed looked to be eight or nine. Obviously nobody had gotten any wheat off the barge yet. The Baptists’ food supply was getting smaller, not bigger.

Georgia wasn’t there, either. There were two yellow coats organizing the line, but one of them was new. I caught him as everyone was leaving and asked about Georgia.

“Don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything about that.”