Ashen Winter

“Yeah.” I helped him drag the wooden crates out of the truck’s load bed. We stacked the crates on the packed snow outside. As I went to move one of the last crates out of the back of the truck, something shifted, and I heard a metallic clunk. Something had been buried under the pile of crates. I couldn’t see exactly what it was, so I grabbed it and carried it out into the light.

“Son of a mangy coyote bitch,” Eli said when he saw what I was holding. Then we started laughing. I held the truck’s hydraulic jack and tire iron. Instead of stowing the jack in the toolbox, the Peckerwoods had just tossed it in the load bed.

Four of the crates held manacles; all the rest were loaded with ammo. We split everything down the middle, as agreed, although that probably made it the most fabulously expensive tire change in history. Unfortunately it was all rifle and shotgun loads, and all I had was a pistol. That gave me an idea, “You have any long guns I could trade for?”

“No way,” Eli replied. “Just got the rifle and revolver you already saw. Can’t afford to give either of them up, not for any price.”

So much for that idea. We resealed all the crates—I didn’t want the ammo flying everywhere if we hit a pothole or something. By that time the dim daylight was fading to night. We’d have to wait for morning to leave. Navigating unknown roads in a truck I could barely drive would be impossible in the pitch-black postvolcanic night. My anxiety increased with every day that passed—every day that Darla had to endure the Peckerwoods.

Chapter 58

I woke with a start. Something had touched my head. I slept using my backpack as a pillow; now, by the light cast by the embers of our fire, I saw the pale gleam of an arm being withdrawn from my pack.

I whipped out my left arm, caught the intruding arm, and twisted. I heard a high-pitched moan as I forced the intruder’s arm behind her back, bringing her to the floor with a thump. I rolled over onto her, controlling her legs with mine. They weren’t really taekwondo moves, but we had practiced ground fighting occasionally at my dojang.

I leaned down and whispered in her ear, lacing my words with sarcasm, “You needed something from my pack?”

“I know you got more of them greens,” Mary Sue replied.

“I don’t, and if I catch you in my backpack again, I’ll break your arm.” I forced her wrist toward her neck, emphasizing just how easy it would be to break her arm in this position. Mary Sue whimpered quietly.

I let go of her wrist and rolled off her. Mary Sue crawled away. Ben and Alyssa hadn’t even woken up. Mary Sue’s enmity didn’t make any sense to me—I’d given her dandelion greens, kale seeds, and ammo. Maybe it was a case of mama tiger gone rogue. I lay awake for an hour or more, wondering if she would return and force me to make good on my threat. To my relief, she never did.

• • •

I woke with the dawn. It took us less than ten minutes to get packed. Eli offered to make us breakfast, but I declined. I didn’t want to spend any more time than I had to in close proximity to his wife. He and Brand said goodbye, clasping arms with me and Alyssa. Ben was already in the truck. Mary Sue wouldn’t even meet my eyes, and the girls were too shy to shake our hands or offer hugs.

“Come back anytime,” Eli said as I climbed into the truck.

“I will,” I lied. The scowl on Mary Sue’s face told me exactly how welcome I’d be if I ever showed up again.

I slammed the door, pushed the starter, and stalled the truck. Not my proudest moment. But on the second try I found first gear, and we rolled away from the farmstead, headed east. I pla

I’d driven about a half hour when we approached a small town. A sign barely protruding from the snow bank read WELCOME TO OLIN. I drove down the abandoned and burned-out main street. The highway ended in a T on the far side of town, and a short knoll rose in the field to the left of the road.

I slowed as I neared the intersection, looking for street signs. Without warning, a telephone pole toppled in front of us. I stomped on the brakes, sliding to a stop well before the intersection. The pole had slammed into the snow berm just ahead of us, so it was perched about four feet above the road, completely blocking our passage. I struggled to throw the truck into reverse, but I was so freaked out that I stalled it again. It didn’t matter. In the rearview mirror, I saw another telephone pole topple behind us, boxing us in.

The worst part: A line of nine or ten men appeared at the top of the knoll, bellies in the snow, aiming rifles right down at us.

Chapter 59

“Get down!” I yelled as I ducked below the driver’s window.

I figured they’d start shooting. But instead I heard a voice amplified through a bullhorn, “Turn off your vehicle. Place your hands on the dashboard. Resistance will be met with deadly force.”

Well, duh. I’d stalled “the vehicle” already. Alyssa crouched in the passenger footwell and Ben bent over so he was mostly behind the dash. Alyssa looked scared. Ben looked about the same as he always looked—a bit detached.

“You must comply or we will open fire!” the voice boomed. “Ten . . . nine . . .”

“Can we get out the passenger side?” I whispered.

“Their tactical position is excellent,” Ben replied. “We could take cover on the opposite side of the truck, but if we climb the snow pile or move down the road in either direction, we’ll enter their field of fire.”

I thought about trying to restart the truck and using it to ram the telephone pole. But they were only thirty or forty feet away, and they were above us. Would the truck’s roof stop a rifle shot from that close? I didn’t think so. As the voice counted “three . . . two . . .” I got out of the footwell, leaned forward to lay my hands on the dashboard, and told Alyssa and Ben to do the same.

Four of them detached from the troop, sliding down the knoll toward us. They wore white and gray military camo—the first people I’d seen who had the perfect camouflage to hide in the volcanic winter. When they reached me, the nearest one wrenched open the driver’s door while another guy trained his rifle on my head. One of them searched me, efficiently and none too gently, but he took only the knife and pistol off my belt. The patch on his chest read BLACK LAKE LLC. I stifled a groan. No way did I want to repeat my experience with Black Lake, locked in one of the camps they ran as a subcontractor for FEMA. But it wasn’t like I had much choice.

On the other side of the truck, two guys were dealing with Alyssa and Ben the same way. Ben started moaning, and Alyssa tried to comfort him, but there wasn’t much she could do.

“Hands behind your back,” the guy ordered. When I complied, he slipped plastic ties around my wrists and cinched them tight. My right arm didn’t like being held behind my back and wasn’t shy about telling me so. I quickly had spasms of pain shooting toward my neck. I grunted as they pulled me out of the truck.

Alyssa, Ben, and I stood together, watching a short, pudgy Black Lake guy work his way around the edge of the knoll toward us. He was the only one not carrying an assault rifle, although he had a pistol on his belt. “What do we got? Flensers?” he asked as he approached. He unsnapped the leather strap that held his pistol in its holster, and the other four Black Lake guys took a step back, away from us.

“We’re not flensers,” I said.

“Looks like a flenser truck. One of the old-model deuces we were using ’til the flensers raided our Dubuque depot.”

One of the guys with the assault rifles snorted, and Pudge silenced him with a glare.

“I took the truck from the Peckerwoods. Crashed it. See the windshield?” It would have been hard to miss, with the hole punched in the passenger side and long spiderweb cracks radiating out across the glass. I hadn’t cleaned the blood off the inside of it, either.