Ashen Winter

“Look,” I said, trying to alleviate the shouting match, “can we—”

“Come on.” Rita Mae grabbed my arm and towed me out of the mayor’s office. She slammed the door so hard the whole wall shook.

She led me back to her house, muttering all the way about “damn bureaucrats” and “interfering do-gooders.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

“I know. I’m making a plan.”

“What?” I asked as we stepped into her living room. I hoped it was a good plan—I didn’t really relish a sixteen-foot drop off the outside of the icy wall.

“Never mind that. Help me untie this clothesline.”

A nylon rope was tied just above head height in Rita Mae’s living room, zigzagging five or six times in front of the fire. Rita Mae started taking clothespins off the line while I struggled with the knots. “You know, I have rope in my pack.”

“You might need that later. Best we use mine for this.”

“Won’t the guards see us? I don’t want to wait ’til dark.”

“You let me worry about that.”

I shrugged and got back to work on the knots. When we finished, we had a coil of good nylon rope about fifty feet long. Rita Mae led me out of the house and to the southeast corner of town, out of sight of the south gate.

The ice wall ran right through the backyard of a one-story house. A path led to a staircase carved on the inside of the wall. Not far from the staircase a man lay atop the wall, sca

Rita Mae pushed through the deep snow near the base of the staircase, whispering, “It was here somewhere. I know it was.” After a minute or two of that, she gestured for me to join her and started digging in the snow. I helped her uncover a hidden tree stump. Rita Mae tied one end of her rope around the stump and tugged hard on it, making sure it was secure.

“Now, when the time is right,” she whispered, “you run up those steps and use the rope to lower yourself down the far side of the ice wall.”

“But the guard—”

“I’ll handle him. Now get your skis and poles secure in one arm so you can manage the rope with the other. And Alex . . .”

I paused in my preparations. “Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself.” Rita Mae pulled me into a hug.

I nodded, but the lump in my throat prevented me from saying anything. I fought down sudden tears.

The guard still hadn’t noticed us—his attention was focused completely on the world outside the ice wall. Rita Mae released me and tiptoed up the steps. When she reached the top of the wall, she took a step toward him, and he startled, swinging toward her, his rifle at the ready.

“Rita Mae! Don’t go sneaking up on me like that. I could have shot you!”

“You’re more of a danger to yourself than to me with that rifle. Now Mr. Chapman, I have important business to take up with you.” Rita Mae’s voice was laden with disapprobation.

“Well then, get your fool head down while you conduct whatever your business is,” Chapman said. “You’re liable to get shot standing up here like that.”

Rita Mae stepped over Chapman and crouched on his far side, so to face her he was forced to roll over and put his back toward the staircase.

I took that as my cue. Paying out rope from one hand, I crept to the base of the ice stairs.

“Mr. Chapman, you checked out a copy of Gone eighteen days ago. As you are no doubt well aware, checkout periods for fiction have been reduced to two weeks for the duration of the emergency.”

“Jesus, is that what you came all the way up here for? I’m on duty! Besides, I returned that book last week.”

I moved up the steps as fast and quietly as I could. They were slick, and my hands were fully occupied.

“My records clearly indicate that Gone has not been returned to the collection.”

“Well your records are wrong, Rita Mae.”

“Librarians never make mistakes, Mr. Chapman. Now I must insist that you—”

While they argued, I reached the top of the wall. It was at least eight feet wide and sloped slightly back toward the town. I stood at the outer edge and stared over the brink. Sixteen feet doesn’t sound like much, but from where I stood it seemed like a long drop. I dropped the rest of the rope over the side. The slap of the rope hitting the ground drew Chapman’s attention. He rolled back toward me. “Hey, you! Stop!”

It was now or never. I grabbed the rope, scrunched my eyes closed, and stepped off the edge. I fell sickeningly at first, but then the rope went taut and caught me with a jerk that threatened to tear my left arm out of its socket. I eased my grip on the rope and let it slide slowly through my glove. In seconds, I felt snow under my feet.

When I opened my eyes and looked up, Chapman was standing atop the wall, aiming his rifle at me. Rita Mae grabbed the barrel of the rifle and pushed it upward, so it aimed at the horizon instead of my head.

“What are you thinking, aiming a rifle at that boy? We can’t go shooting our friends.”

Chapman sighed so heavily I could hear it at the base of the wall. “There never was any problem with any overdue library book, was there?”

“Of course not. Although I do have the sequel for you. We can stop at the library and get it on our way to the mayor’s office. You do want to turn me in to Kenda for insubordination or some such, don’t you?”

“Not really. But I have to.”

I’d gotten snapped into my skis while they talked. Now I looked up and called, “Thanks, Rita Mae.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “You be careful, you hear? I’d like to see you again—to know you made it.”

“I’ll be careful. And I’ll visit again if I can.” I turned my skis south toward Cascade and pushed off, sliding away from the safety and confinement of Worthington’s wall.

Chapter 34

The only way I knew to get to Cascade, where Darla had been shot, was by following Highway 136. But on skis I could stay off the roads, and traveling cross-country seemed safer. So I veered left until I could just make out the snow berm alongside Highway 136 and followed that south.

I needn’t have been so cautious. The road and surrounding countryside were deserted all morning. I reached Cascade in about three hours and slid between the close-set brick walls of two burnt houses to rest and have a quick lunch.

After lunch I clambered up a fallen and charred beam inside one of the houses until I could poke my head above the exterior wall and look out over the town. The blue steel water tower that marked the Peckerwoods’ base was barely visible in the distance. Between me and the water tower there was a downtown with a lot of fire-gutted brick buildings. To my left, the land fell away into a valley with a small frozen stream well below the level of the town itself. That appeared to be the best route. The buildings and slope would shield me from anyone who might be looking. On the other hand, if anyone did get close enough to see me, I would get barely any warning.

I inched carefully back down to ground level, sliding along the beam on my butt. I snapped into my skis and set out, heading toward the valley. To get there, I had to cross the highway I’d been following all morning. I stopped alongside a shell of a convenience store and looked both ways, waiting and listening for anyone who might be in a position to spot me as I crossed the open road. After five minutes or so, I decided it was safe and darted across.

On the far side a steep slope led down to the valley. I dropped into a tuck and whooshed silently down the hill.

I skied through the valley until I’d left the downtown behind. A small, frozen creek with steep banks cut across my path. I slid down onto the ice and sidestepped laboriously up the far bank. I emerged from the gully onto a football field. The turf wasn’t visible, of course, but the yellow goal posts still stood, shockingly bright against the snow. The blackened and broken windows of a low brick building looked out over the field—the local high school, I figured. Past the school there were several large metal commercial buildings, mostly crushed by the ash and snow. Everything was quiet, dead.