Ashen Winter

“We’ll go around back,” Rita Mae said. “The first step’s not such a doozy.”

Rita Mae fed me a huge meal. A dandelion-green salad drizzled with a bit of soybean oil. Then hasty pudding—her version turned out to be cornmeal mush flavored with dandelion flowers and tiny bits of beef. It tasted a little odd but was filling, so I ate three servings. She did all the cooking at the hearth in the living room over a small fire she fed with scraps of two-by-four. My offer to help was met with a dismissive wave. For dessert, she fried a hamburger only a little bigger than a quarter.

“Where’d you get the meat?” I asked.

“Some of the cows survived the ashfall. We slaughtered almost all of them not long after winter set in. We ran out of hay, and we can’t afford to feed them on corn. That’s most of my meat ration for the week.”

“Here.” I pushed my plate toward her. “You eat it.”

“Now what kind of hostess would that make me?”

“An alive one?” I shrugged and cut the burger in half with the edge of my fork. “Halvsies. Or I’m not eating it, either.”

“Okay.” Rita Mae speared her half of the hamburger with her fork and lifted it to her mouth. The beef was delicious—hot and crispy and juicy.

When we finished cleaning up from our huge late lunch, I picked up my backpack and struggled to force my aching right arm through the straps.

“You leaving already?” Rita Mae asked.

I nodded.

“Won’t make it to Cascade before dark.”

I shrugged.

“Going to stick out like a sore thumb with that bright blue backpack.”

I thought about it a moment. The insulated coveralls Rita Mae had helped me procure were light brown—not too bad. But the backpack would be painfully obvious against the snow.

“I guess you’re right. I need some kind of camouflage,” I told Rita Mae. “Something that won’t stand out against the snow.”

“A ghillie suit,” Rita Mae said.

“A what?”

“It’s a suit with lots of cloth strips hanging off it made to blend in with underbrush. Snipers use them. I read about them in Rainbow Six by Tom Clancy. Good book.”

“Can we trade for one?”

“They’re usually made in brown-and-green camouflage. What we want is a white-and-gray version to blend in with the snow.”

“Yeah. That’d be perfect.” I put down my backpack.

“I’ll see if we can’t make something that’ll work.” Rita Mae dug through some cabinets, coming back with two old white bedsheets, a fat black Sharpie, and her sewing kit. We spent the rest of the evening tearing strips from the bedsheets, streaking them with the marker, and sewing them onto my coveralls, backpack, and ski mask.

I tried on everything when we were done, posing in front of a full-length mirror in Rita Mae’s bedroom. I looked completely ridiculous, like a survivor of an explosion at a sheet-making factory. Still, the strips of fabric hid most of the bright colors of my clothing and pack. It wasn’t like I was a contestant in some postapocalyptic fashion show. It’d do.

By the time we finished, we were working by lamplight. I still wanted to leave but knew Rita Mae was right about waiting for daylight. I might get lost wandering around in the black, postvolcanic night and never get close to wherever Darla was.

We put away the sewing supplies and started di

• • •

When I awoke, Rita Mae was already up. The dim yellow-gray light in the eastern windows told me it wasn’t much past dawn. We had leftover corn pone pancakes for breakfast—Rita Mae ate just one, but I wolfed six of them. I would need the energy.

I double-checked my gear and finished packing. “You sure you want to head out there?” Rita Mae asked as I worked. “Seems like a good way to get killed.”

“Yes,” I said and then hesitated. Was I answering yes, I wanted to go, or yes, it was a good way to get killed? Both, I decided. “If Darla’s alive, she needs me. If she’s dead, I need to know.”

Rita Mae nodded and gently took hold of my left arm.

“And if I get killed . . .” I shrugged, “at least I’ll have died trying to help the girl I love.”

Rita Mae pulled me into a hug. “Guess I’ll see you as far as the gate.”

I had to keep my pace slow to match Rita Mae’s, but I didn’t mind. I’d spent enough time with her last year and again over the last twenty-four hours that she was familiar and comfortable. I didn’t even feel the need to speak as we walked toward the south gate.

Walking with Rita Mae brought my mother back to mind. I couldn’t remember ever just walking with Mom in comfortable silence like this. Sure, I usually hadn’t said much when we were together. But Mom always kept up a steady stream of chatter: plans, information, and admonitions that I got remarkably good at tuning out. I took Rita Mae’s hand and squeezed it once before letting it drop. She looked at me and smiled, maintaining the easy and precious silence between us.

Perhaps I thought of my mom because it was too terrifying to think about Darla—that she might be dead or worse. Still, I had to focus. Darla first. If I survived looking for her, then I’d resume the search for my parents.

We reached Worthington’s south gate, the one I’d entered through the day before. Two guards sat on stools beside it, four more arrayed at the top of the nearby walls. All of them were armed with rifles.

“Open up,” Rita Mae called. “Crazy boy wants to leave our fine upstanding town.”

One of the guards stood up. “No can do, Miz Rita.”

Chapter 33

“What do you mean?” Rita Mae said. “Lift the bar and pull that gate open. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Can’t do that. Mayor says he’s got to stay inside the city walls.”

I strode toward the gate, figuring I’d just climb over it. One of the guards sidestepped, putting himself in my path. I butted chests with him—the top of my head barely reached his neck.

“What right do you have to keep him here? Get out of his way and open the gate this instant, Roger Thornton!”

“Orders are orders,” he replied. “I can open the gate and let you out, Miz Rita. Heck, with how much you fuss with the mayor, I might not be allowed to let you back in. But if he tries to leave, I’ve got to stop him.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Rita Mae muttered. She yanked on my right arm, clearly forgetting about the gunshot wound.

“Easy. That hurts,” I hissed under my breath.

“Sorry. Let’s go talk some sense into Kenda.”

The leisurely pace Rita Mae had set in reaching the gate was now replaced with a walk so brisk I had to jog to keep up, the pack thumping rhythmically against my back. We crashed through the reception room at City Hall and barged into the mayor’s office without knocking.

“What is this nonsense about imprisoning this young fellow who’s done us no harm?” Rita Mae yelled. “In fact, he’s done us considerable good by bringing those kale seeds.”

“Rita Mae, he’s just a kid,” Mayor Kenda replied.

“I’m sixteen,” I said.

“Exactly. How can I in good conscience let you go wandering around in that mess outside? You’re going to get killed.”

“How can you in good conscience keep him locked inside the city?” Rita Mae retorted. “How are we any better than those FEMA goons locking people into their refugee camps, if we do the same thing?”

“He’s a child, Rita Mae,” Kenda yelled. “Without children we don’t have any future.”

“Without freedom,” Rita Mae yelled back, “why would we want a future?”