Ashen Winter

Ben had spent the night observing the guards. He joined Dad, Alyssa, and me as we were getting ready for breakfast.

“Did you figure out an escape plan?” I asked Ben.

“Yes. But I need more time to observe the guards and confirm it will work flawlessly.”

“I don’t have more time.” My brain was stuck in a loop, thinking that Darla might not have more time, either.

“We’ve been over this,” Dad said. “You might never find her. You might get killed trying. Our family is going to stick together.”

“I know, but—”

“There’s the minor problem of the fence, razor wire, and guards, too,” Alyssa said.

“It’s not a significant problem,” Ben said. “The guard pattern has vulnerabilities, and with a simple weighted canvas sling the razor wire can be defeated. There’s a device purpose-built for precisely that . . .”

Ben kept talking. I figured he might never shut up, so I talked over him. “Dad, I’m going to leave. If you want us to stay together, you’re welcome to come along.”

“That’s not going to happen. Your mother and I have a responsibility here. We’re going to do whatever we can to protect these people. Whatever that takes!” Dad was practically yelling at me, talking far louder than needed to be heard over Ben.

“It’s useless, anyway,” Alyssa said. “Walking around all night freezing my ass off. This is never going to work.”

Ben interrupted his own discourse on methods for breaching fences. “It will work. Statistically, it’s not likely to work on any given night, but with enough trial runs, it’s virtually certain to succeed.”

“Whatever, computer boy. I’m going to get a decent night’s sleep tonight for once.” She wheeled around and stomped toward the breakfast line.

Ben’s hands were fluttering at his side. “No . . . no, no, no. The Sister Unit must complete Ben’s plan.”

“Jesus, Ben. It’s not always about you!” she yelled over her shoulder. I’d never seen her dis her brother like that before.

Dad was staring, eyes moving from Alyssa to Ben as if he were watching a te

Ben started screaming in that high-pitched monotone of his. He lashed out, and his fist hit the side of his own head with a thud. I reached for his arm, trying to stop him from hurting himself. When I touched his arm, he punched wildly. I jumped back, and his forearm swished through the air where my head had been. His foot co

Dad grabbed Ben, trying to hold him down. But Dad had trouble even getting a firm grip—Ben thrashed with the insane violence of a fish just tossed in the bottom of a boat. Plus, he was bigger than Dad.

Ben wasn’t exactly throwing a temper tantrum. It was too violent and uncontrolled for that. When he fell, he didn’t throw out his arms or protect his head. He never looked to see if we were watching—I doubted he was even aware of us by that point. He seemed utterly out of control.

Suddenly Alyssa was back. She threw herself on top of Ben. She was like a cowboy on a bull at a rodeo—it’d be a miracle if she survived eight seconds. “Let go of him!” she screamed. “Don’t touch him! It’ll make it worse.”

That seemed odd—she was lying on top of him. That didn’t count as touching? But I figured she knew her brother better than any of us, so I pulled Dad off Ben.

Alyssa clung to Ben. Her voice dropped to a measured whisper. “It’s okay, Ben. We’ll keep trying your plan. You need to calm down.”

Ben kept thrashing, almost throwing off Alyssa. I was afraid she’d get hurt. When my little sister had thrown temper tantrums, the moment she got what she wanted, the tantrum was over. This was different. Alyssa brushed her glove along Ben’s side, whispering at him in an impossibly calm voice.

Gradually Ben quieted. It took fifteen or twenty minutes more, but eventually Alyssa got off him, he stood up and brushed the snow off his clothing, and we went on as if absolutely nothing had happened.

I turned to my father. “One more night. Then I’m leaving, with or without your help.”

Dad’s only reply was a scowl.

• • •

We moved our ambush spot that night. I was so sick of chanting “This Little Piggy” that I thought I might puke. I tried “Hickory Dickory Dock” for a while, then switched to counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi . . . five hundred Mississippi . . . one thousand Mississipi. I figured it was taking me a second just to say the numbers at that point, so I dropped the Mississippis, too.

Sometime after 4 A.M.—I’d just reached 21,300 in my count—everything changed. A group of shadows slipped out from between the tents behind Alyssa. Then a hand reached around her face, clamping over her mouth.

Chapter 64

I burst from under the tent in an explosive lunge, reaching the closest of the attackers in seconds. Four black-clad shapes had surrounded Alyssa. One of them was turning my way. I swept his legs from under him with a round kick and hit him in the side of the head with a right backfist as he fell. Even as my backfist co

Suddenly it was all over. Dad and his four prefects swarmed over the attackers. There were six of us and four of them, and we’d taken them by surprise from behind. They all went down. Someone produced a hank of rope and started tying their hands behind their backs.

“You okay?” I asked Alyssa.

“Y-y-yeah.” She was shaking.

I hugged her. “You did good,” I whispered.

“You, too.” Her cheeks were wet as she cried soundlessly.

The prefects had hauled all the bandits to their feet. Everyone seemed to be okay, other than some bruises.

“What will you do with them?” Alyssa asked Dad.

“Find out who they are. How they got into the camp. Figure out how to stop them—if we can.” We’d started walking back toward the center of camp, the tied bandits in tow.

“You think it’d be okay if I went to lie down?” Alyssa asked.

“Yeah, I think that’d be fine,” Dad replied.

I caught her hand and squeezed it. “You did good. You were brave.”

“I don’t feel brave. But thanks.”

Dad directed that each of the bandits be held separately. I followed him as he pushed one of the guys into a tent big enough to stand up in. After a moment we were joined by one of the prefects, Amy Jones, who took the shake light from Dad.

Dad stood behind the bandit, holding his bound arms. “Search him,” Dad ordered. It was strange to hear him giving orders—as if he’d been replaced by a different man who looked like my father. Amy was holding the flashlight, so it fell to me to do the search. I started at his neck, working my way down. When I patted the guy’s right ankle, I felt a long, slender shape under his pant leg.

He kicked without warning, aiming for my face. I got my hand between his foot and my head, but the force of the kick still knocked me backward. Dad hauled up on his arms so hard I heard his shoulders crack. The guy moaned, and Dad said, “Kick my son again, and I’ll break your arms off and ram them down your throat.”

The guy fell quiet, and I rolled back to my feet. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said.

“Get on with it,” Dad snapped.

I pulled up the bandit’s pant leg and extracted a wicked knife from its sheath. It was at least six inches long, with a blood gutter and evil-looking serrations along its spine.

Dad ripped off the bandit’s black ski mask. He was dirtier than we were, his unkempt black beard caked with filth, and his face streaked with dirt and ash. Up until then, I’d thought maybe the bandits were guards, up to some kind of mischief in their off time, but all the guards I’d seen were far cleaner than he was.

“All you got is a knife?” Dad asked.