Ashen Winter

I’d packed a needle and thread in the first-aid kit at the bottom of the backpack. I dug it out and set to work trying to repair my pack. I sat on one of the truck parts and lifted my leg, forcing my boot into the slit in the canvas. That pose was supremely uncomfortable, but it let enough light into the truck to see and kept my hands free for sewing. My hands shook—my muscles were still a limp, noodly mess from being dragged under the truck. Forcing the needle through the nylon with shaking hands was tough, and the thread I had wasn’t really heavy enough, but I managed a crude repair. It would be good enough—I hoped.

That done, I put my pack back on and started exploring, hoping the truck might contain something useful—maybe even a gun or two. A mountain of frozen flesh filled the front of the load bed, and the truck parts were at the back with me—luckily not the other way around. I navigated here and there by feel. I went all the way around the perimeter of the load bed, winding up back by the tailgate. If there was anything useful in the truck, I hadn’t found it.

The truck slowed and tilted through a series of turns. Had we been on the road long enough to reach Anamosa? The truck swung through a final, wide arc and stopped. I held my breath, reserving every ounce of energy for listening and trying to figure out what was happening. I heard a gear grind, and the truck lurched into reverse.

I thought about looking out the back. But if anyone was standing there waiting to unload, I’d be seen for sure. Of course, when they opened the tailgate, it was going to be pretty obvious that some of their meat was still alive and kicking. I started scrambling around the pile, thinking I’d hide behind it.

The truck stopped again and the engine sputtered off. I froze, only halfway around the pile. I was afraid to move without the engine’s growl to cover any sound I might make. I heard the cab door slam, and a moment later a banging noise like someone beating on a door.

Everything was quiet for a moment. Ace’s voice broke the silence. “Get some men out here to help me unload the meat,” he yelled. “I need to gas up and get back to Cascade.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your pecker a minute,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “Everybody on kitchen duty’s busy making lunch.”

“Screw that, I’ve got all our meat here, just like Da

“Whatever,” the other voice replied.

“Len!” Ace roared, “Sons of bitches are making us wait. May as well get out and stretch your legs.”

I heard the truck’s passenger door creak open and then slam. A few moments later, there was a distant scream, abruptly cut short. Who was Len? I’d had no idea there was anyone else in the truck, although I guessed it made sense—nobody with any instinct for self-preservation would travel through this failed and frozen world alone. And what was that scream? More importantly, how was I going to get out of this truck? I could try to get out through the back or sides of the truck by cutting more holes in the canvas. But I wasn’t sure exactly where Len and Ace were, and I was certainly better off avoiding a face-to-face meeting with them.

I resumed moving around the perimeter, trying to get to the front of the truck. I could hide behind the pile, but that wasn’t going to be a viable plan for long.

Something slipped beneath my feet. It rolled down the pile and hit the side of the truck, making a loud clunk. I froze.

“Something’s moving in there, Ace!” The voice sounded like it was right on the other side of the canvas wall of the truck.

“There’s something moving in a truck of meat? You been listening to zombie stories again?” Ace yelled back.

Someone pulled up the canvas at the side of the truck an inch or two, letting in a wedge of light. I quit breathing, closed my eyes, and prayed that the darkness would hide me—prayed that nobody would notice the slit I’d cut at the back. The moment stretched as I waited for Len to give the alarm, to shout the words that would inevitably end with me—or parts of me—joining the pile of meat I was leaning against.

The moment finally passed, and I heard the slap of canvas against steel. I let the breath I’d been holding escape my lips and opened my eyes. The inside of the truck was as black as an ashfall again. I remained motionless, afraid to move.

A few minutes passed before the silence was interrupted again. The same voice I’d heard talking to Ace earlier yelled, “Long pork’s on the fire—at least enough for lunch. We’ll get you—”

The voice was drowned out by a babble of men joking with each other and laughing in rough tones. Their noise was drawing steadily closer.

A memory of Darla came to me: her body hitting the roof of this truck, compressing the canvas around her. There was one direction I’d forgotten that might prove accessible. I ran up the meat pile, heedless of the noise. I hoped the talk of the approaching men would cover it.

I whipped my knife off my belt and stabbed it into the canvas roof. The noise it made as I cut the tough fabric seemed loud, but it was probably no worse than a piece of paper tearing.

The canvas at the back of the truck flapped as the men started to untie it. I thrust my knife back into its sheath and reached through the slit, grabbing one of the bows that supported the roof. The weakness and pain washed from my muscles in a flood of adrenaline. I heaved myself up through the slit, out of the darkness and rancid stink and into the light and the clean, cold air above.

I heard a heavy metallic clunk: the Peckerwoods were opening the tailgate. I reached back to make sure the slit in the canvas was closed, but I needn’t have bothered. The canvas was stretched so tightly over the bows that formed the roof of the truck that it had sealed itself behind me.

I lay on the roof, panting and trying to hold myself motionless. The bows supporting the canvas held me up—one of them dug into my thighs. My body was probably making a bulge in the truck’s ceiling, but I figured if I didn’t move, the Peckerwoods might not notice.

I rotated my head slowly left and right. I couldn’t see anyone around the truck—I was on my back, roughly in the center of the roof, so my view was blocked. Which was a good thing: If I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me.

Boots clanged against the truck floor beneath me. The Peckerwoods’ boisterous chatter was so close, it felt as though I were standing in their midst. I could even hear their grunts and heavy breathing as they unloaded the truck’s horrid cargo.

I twisted my neck, trying to see a way off the truck’s roof. Perhaps I could slide over the front windshield while the Peckerwoods were occupied, but to do that I’d have to turn around. A lump in the canvas ceiling of the truck might not be noticed, but one turning and crawling toward the front surely would be.

I looked up—the prison’s wall loomed above me. It was built of white limestone, carved and ornamented in a gothic style. I’d always assumed a prison would be spare and utilitarian, but Anamosa was fancy—more like a castle than a penitentiary. Tall, narrow windows stretched from the ground floor to the battlements, four or five stories above me. The barred windows were opaque, which was fortunate because no one inside could spot me through the frosted glass.

I could do nothing except wait and pray that I would remain u

The truck growled back to life. The Peckerwoods withdrew from the load bed beneath me, and the tailgate clanged shut. I drew in a huge lungful of air. The truck lurched forward, and I clung to one of the bows.

The truck turned twice, circling the prison. I thought about jumping off—I sure didn’t want to go back to Cascade. Before I could do anything, we pulled into a huge metal garage.