Ashfall

“We should splint that leg before we move him,” Darla said.

“Wouldn’t we have to straighten it out first?” I said.

“Don’t do that,” Caroline said. “You might make it worse.”

“We’ll have to set the bone at some point,” Darla said.

“No. I want Doc McCarthy to do it,” Caroline insisted.

“He’s in Warren?” Darla asked.

“Yes.”

“Let’s just get him inside for now.” I moved down to Uncle Paul’s broken leg and slid one hand under his knee and the other under his calf, just below the break. “I’ll try to hold the break still. Everyone else grab on. We’ll slide him over onto the stretcher.”

When everyone was in position, I called out, “On three. One . . . two . . . three!” We slid Paul onto the stretcher. I tried my best to hold his leg steady, but I heard the bones grind against each other. He grabbed my arm, clutching so tightly it hurt.

We spread two blankets over the top of the stretcher and carried it slowly to the house. Uncle Paul moaned as we lowered him to the living room floor in front of the fireplace. A

“Put the pillow under his good leg,” Darla said. “He’s in shock, so we want to elevate his legs, but we probably shouldn’t disturb the broken one until we get it splinted.” A

“I don’t have any idea how to splint that,” Aunt Caroline said, staring at the break.

“We’re going to have to set and splint it to get him all the way to Warren,” Darla said.

“No,” Aunt Caroline said. “I’ll go to town and get Doc McCarthy. I’m sure he’ll come—he’s been our family doctor forever.”

Uncle Paul’s hand shot out from beneath the blankets and seized her ankle. “No. Fix the greenhouse.” His voice sounded thin and breathy.

“We can worry about that after we get your leg fixed, honey.”

“No. The greenhouse is the top priority. We can’t afford to lose the kale.”

“Taking care of your leg is the top priority.” Aunt Caroline’s lips were pressed together in a determined line.

“I swear to God, if someone doesn’t get out there and fix that greenhouse right now—” Uncle Paul let out an involuntary moan and scrunched his eyes closed, “I’ll crawl out of here and do it myself.”

“I’ll get the doctor,” I said. “I can probably run most of the way to Warren.”

Aunt Caroline sighed. “Okay, take Max with you. He knows where the doctor’s office is.”

“Can you run?” I asked Max.

“Yeah,” he said. “My side hurts, but I think it’s just bruised.”

“Take Darla, too,” Aunt Caroline said. “It will be safer with three if you run into any problems. A

“Work from inside, on a stepladder,” Darla said. “It’ll be safer.”

I had already turned away, heading for the kitchen. I grabbed a backpack, a water bottle, a knife, some dried meat, and a half-full book of matches. In seconds, Darla, Max, and I were jogging down the road toward Warren.

FEMA hadn’t cleared the road after the last storm, but only a few inches of snow had fallen, so it wasn’t difficult to run along the road. Just a little slick. We ran for about ten minutes, then took a breather, walking fast for a few minutes before breaking into a run again.

We covered the distance to Warren in record time, less than an hour. Nobody was out on the streets, but it was cold enough that anyone sensible would stay inside. Max led us to a low building on the south side of town. The sign out front read: FAMILY HEALTH.

Inside the office, a line of people snaked through the waiting room, past the reception desk, and through the door that led to the exam rooms. Almost everyone in the line was either a kid or elderly, although some of the kids had parents with them. It was almost as cold inside the office as it had been outside; everyone was bundled in hats, gloves, and heavy coats. An oil lamp on a table in the middle of the waiting room provided what little light there was.

“Where’s the doctor?” I asked the guy at the back of the line. He gestured toward the front. I hurried forward, pushing past the people standing in the door to the exam rooms.

“Hey, end of the line’s back there!” someone yelled.

“Emergency, sorry,” I said.

Past the door, the line broke into two, leading into adjacent exam rooms. I ducked into the closest one. Another oil lamp burned on the desk at one side of the room. The guy on the exam table had a face corrugated by age and was wearing an old-fashioned Elmer Fudd hat with earflaps. The guy standing in front of him was younger and bundled up tightly against the cold, but he had a miniature flashlight and was shining it into the first guy’s mouth, so I assumed he was the doctor.

“My uncle broke his leg,” I said. “We need help.”

“Hold on, son,” the doctor replied. “I’m almost done here.” He peeled his patient’s lower lip back. It was spotted with deep purple bruises and blood filled the spaces between the guy’s teeth. The doctor reached into a drawer and pulled out what looked like a plastic bag of Froot Loops. “Take these and stop back next week.”

“Thanks, Jim.” The patient slid off the exam table, took the Froot Loops, and left.

“Okay. Now tell me about your uncle.”

I rushed through the story of uncle Paul’s fall from the top of the greenhouse.

“Is it a compound fracture?” the doctor asked.

“What?”

“Is the bone sticking through his skin?”

“I don’t think so, but we didn’t take his pants off.”

“Hmm. Okay, follow me.” The doctor plucked the oil lamp off the desk and left the exam room. In the hall he yelled, “Belinda! I’m leaving for a trauma call.”

A woman’s voice came from the open door of the other exam room. “Crap, it’s going to take me all night to finish this line by myself.”

“It’s just a fracture. I should be back in time to help you finish up.” The doctor ducked through another door and started stuffing supplies into an old-fashioned, black leather doctor’s bag.

When he finished, I turned to head back toward the waiting area.

“Car’s in back.” The doctor turned the other way.

“You have a car?” I asked as we followed him.

“It’s not really mine, but yeah.” The doctor opened the back door, letting daylight and a cold breeze into the hall. He blew out the lamp and left it on the floor just inside the door.

There was only one car in the parking lot—an antique sedan with a huge triangular front hood and big fenders humped up over its white-wall tires.

“Nice.” Darla whistled appreciatively. “This is what you’re driving?”

“Only car in town that runs decent,” the doctor said. “Hop in.”

There were no seatbelts in the car, but Dr. McCarthy drove so slowly that it didn’t worry me much. Max gave him directions, and soon we were rolling down Stagecoach Trail back toward the farm.

“So what is this thing?” Darla asked. “It looks kinda like a ’39 Ford I saw once.”

“It’s a Studebaker,” Dr. McCarthy said. “’41 Champion.”

“Beautiful car. But I thought all doctors drove Mercedes—” Darla said.

“No, Beamers,” Dr. McCarthy snorted. “I had one. After the ashfall started, the ambulance couldn’t make it here from Galena. So I used my BMW. Ash got in the air intakes and tore up the engine. Pretty much all the cars in town were wrecked by the ashfall. Gale Shipman kept this beauty in his garage under a tarp. Man, he was mad when the mayor told him he had to lend it to me. I don’t know if he’ll ever speak to either of us again.”

“What in the world were you giving that guy at the clinic?” I said. “It looked like . . . Froot Loops?”

“Yep, Kellogg’s Froot Loops,” Dr. McCarthy said.

“Why?”

“We ran out of Special K.”

“Never heard of a doctor prescribing breakfast cereal,” I said.