Ashen Winter

Burly guys in heavy camo jackets and balaclavas started pouring out of the back of the truck—twelve of them in all.

“We’re going to own Worthington now!” Ace shouted. Raucous cheers echoed through the shed in response. It was getting crowded. If one of them moved a few more feet in my direction, I’d be spotted for sure. I ducked into the deeper darkness behind the minivan.

Would twelve more men be enough to overwhelm Worthington’s icy walls? I wasn’t sure. But I needed to warn them. I wasn’t too happy with Mayor Kenda, but I owed Rita Mae big time. A warning was the least I could do to repay them. But I had to find Darla—fast. And reach my parents at the refugee camp in Maquoketa. It all seemed so overwhelming; I swallowed hard, gritting my teeth. First things first: Focus on getting out of this shed alive.

I thought about what one of the gang members had said. They’d traded “skanks” to Da

A clunk of wood striking wood interrupted my thoughts. It was followed by a steady stream of sliding noises, more clunks, and the hard exhalations of men at work. When those noises ended, there was a squeal—nails ripping free of wood. Someone yelled, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” and I risked a glance around the minivan’s bumper.

A huge pile of crude wooden crates had sprouted by the back of the truck. The lid had been pried off the top crate, and Ace stood beside it, his arms upraised as if in victory. One hand held a crowbar, the other an assault rifle.

“No peckin’ way Da

“Course not,” Ace replied. “They’re short on supplies at Grandma’s. I’m headed back now to take them our meat and some truck parts.”

“What the—”

“Just shut up right there. We’ll be in Worthington by this time tomorrow. Dining at the all-you-can-eat long pork buffet. So load it up!”

Most of the group turned toward the meat locker door on my side of the shed. I ducked behind the minivan again and checked to make sure Brick and I were out of sight.

The ratchet clanked as someone pulled it free of the door. I realized this could be the perfect opportunity to escape and slithered around the minivan on my belly. The gang members’ feet were silhouetted by the fire as they tromped back and forth from the meat locker to the truck.

There was an open area between the minivan and the closest snowmobile—ten feet or so. I waited, ready to rush across the gap. All my muscles were tensed; my breath came in short, fast gasps. Everyone seemed to be focused on their work. I hurled myself across the gap.

A voice boomed, “Hey, there’s someone back there!”

“Uhh,” I groaned softly. I’d almost made it.

Chapter 38

The shed was suddenly silent. I heard footsteps coming closer. “Who’s there?” a voice barked, so close it felt like he was on top of me. I scuttled around the snowmobile, keeping it between me and the voice.

Someone else said, “It’s just Brick.”

“That you, Brick?” the voice said. I prayed Brick was still asleep.

“Dumbass is probably pla

Everything paused for a second, as if they were expecting a response. I held my breath and scrunched as tightly into the darkness as I could.

“Back to work,” Ace yelled. “I want to make Anamosa, deliver this meat to Da

“But Brick oughta be helping—”

“You can deal with him after I’m on the road. Now finish loading, or I’ll be bringing Da

I heard footsteps moving away from my hiding place, and the general racket resumed. I slowly let out the breath I’d been holding. My hands were trembling; I closed my eyes briefly and tried to relax my muscles.

I was still at least twenty feet from the back of the truck and even farther from the shed’s doors—plus the open area between me and the truck was close to the fire and well-illuminated. I’d never make it across without being seen. I needed some kind of distraction.

I wormed toward one of the workbenches against the shed wall, being careful to keep the snowmobile between me and the Peckerwoods. I reached up with one arm and blindly groped around the surface of the workbench. I felt something cylindrical and grabbed it.

It was a heavy flathead screwdriver. That would work. I crawled back to my hiding place alongside the snowmobile. Ready as I’ll ever be, I thought.

I reached over the snowmobile and hurled the screwdriver at the opposite wall of the shed. It clanged against the metal wall so loudly that the sound reverberated through the building. I peeked over the top of the snowmobile. Everyone was looking in the direction of the noise, and about half of them were moving that way. Now or never. I thrust myself upright and ran behind them, moving fast but ru

I reached the back end of the truck and ran alongside it, so it was between me and the gang investigating the noise at the other side of the shed. The cab of the truck was sitting just inside the open doors of the maintenance shed. A beautiful rectangle of light beckoned: freedom. I ran for it, sprinting alongside the truck.

Just then, a leather-jacketed arm pushed the cab door open, blocking my escape.

Chapter 39

I skidded to a stop. I was less than ten feet from the door. When the driver got out, I’d be dead meat. A boot appeared. I dropped to my belly and tried to worm under the truck, alongside the double set of rear wheels. My backpack caught on something. Another boot joined the first under the cab door. I scrabbled against the concrete floor, forcing myself forward. Something ripped as I popped under the truck’s dark, oily underbelly.

I heard Ace yelling from the direction of the cab. “If the rest of that meat isn’t loaded in five minutes flat, I’m adding one of you to the load.”

“But there’s someone in here, Ace!” one of the gang yelled back.

“Forget that! It’s just Brick messin’ with you. Fix his hash after I’m on the road.”

The boots disappeared, and I heard the cab door slam. A moment later thumping sounds started coming through the floor of the truck—the Peckerwoods had started loading meat again.

I had five minutes to get out of here before the truck pulled out. It seemed hopeless. If I crawled out the back or side of the truck, the guys loading meat would spot me. If I crawled out the front, Ace, in the driver’s seat, would see me.

I crawled forward. My backpack caught again. I backed up and rolled, trying to see if I could escape on the far side of the truck, but I wound up on my back with my pack holding me off the ground like a turtle upside down on its shell. I struggled, trying to turn over in the tight space under the truck without making any noise. I could smell my own sweat over the stink of grease and tire rubber—it smelled like fear.

Then the truck roared to life.

The noise of the engine was deafening. I craned my neck to look toward the back end of the truck. I was clear of the wheels. If it pulled out, I wouldn’t get crushed. Instead I’d be left lying in the middle of the shed, completely exposed to the not-so-tender mercies of the Peckerwoods. Being crushed would be preferable.

Out of desperation, I did the only thing I could think of. I groped around above me and found a greasy strut. I pulled on it experimentally—it would support my weight. Then I kicked out with my feet. My boots thumped against the spare tire stored horizontally underneath the truck. I forced my boots into the space between the undercarriage and the spare tire. My head was perilously close to the front wheel.