Ashen Winter

The biggest problem with Bikezilla was getting it started. Darla and I had to stand on the pedals, straining against our handlebars, just to get it inching forward. Once we got it going, though, we sailed across the snow.

I glanced back. My family had receded to tiny figures, indistinguishable from each other. They were already dispersing to start their morning chores. The land around us was low, rolling hills suffocated under the never-ending burden of ash and snow. Occasionally the sad remnant of a tree protruded from the snow, its branches broken and leafless.

Darla clicked into a higher gear and we sat down, settling into a ground-eating pace. My side hurt, but I ignored the pain as best I could, and soon it dwindled to a numb ache.

I thought we’d have to move slowly to track the bandits, but if anything, Darla was speeding up. I craned my neck to peer around her and figured out why. The bandits had left a trail of trampled snow heading roughly south across the fields. Every thirty or forty feet, a few drops of blood stained the snow—easy to see against the nearly featureless white expanse.

We raced along the trail for a half hour or so before it intersected a twelve-foot-high snowbank that ran north and south as far as I could see. Darla stopped Bikezilla beside it. Deep leg holes had been punched into the snow. Our two bandits had struggled across the bank directly in front of us. One of them had been leaking blood, staining the snow pink. I stood on the pedals, trying to get enough height to see over the berm. “Can’t see over. Scout it on foot?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

We dismounted Bikezilla and clambered over the snow berm.

On the other side there was a road, plowed but not salted. A fine dusting of snow blew over the icy surface the plow had left. It looked little-used, which wasn’t surprising: Nobody but FEMA had much gas anymore. Keeping the roads clear was about the only useful thing FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, was doing—they were often more of a danger than a help to survivors.

“Well, they didn’t cross here,” Darla said as she inspected the far side of the road.

Between the packed surface and blowing snow, no footprints were visible anymore. Figuring they’d probably keep going in the same general direction, I wandered south. About 50 feet down the road, a drop of blood stained the snow. I turned and discovered that Darla had been following me.

“They’re heading south, away from Warren. How are we going to get Bikezilla across that mountain of snow?” I asked as we walked back to the bike.

“Get up some speed and jump it, maybe?”

“Jump it?” It sounded more like a formula for a wreck than a plan.

“Yeah, sure. Didn’t you ever watch snowmobile races on TV?

“Um, no.”

“You’re weird. Snowmobile races are the best. Were, anyway.” Her voice sounded uncharacteristically nostalgic.

“If you say so.” I climbed onto Bikezilla’s back seat.

We strained to get the bike moving, and Darla steered us in a wide arc until we were lined up perpendicular to the snowbank. She shifted into a higher gear and stood up on the pedals. I stood, too, pounding my legs down, trying to put on as much speed as possible. As we flew up to the berm, Darla yelled, “Hold on!”

Bikezilla tilted backward and my stomach lurched as the front ski started to climb. Then it caught in a nearly vertical wall of snow, and the back end of the bike kicked up, throwing me over the handlebars and into Darla. We face-planted into the embankment in a jumble of arms and legs.

Chapter 5

Bikezilla fell sideways behind us and slid partway back down the slope. I lifted my head out of the snow and grabbed Darla’s arm. “You okay?”

She looked dazed for a moment. Then she gri

I vetoed that idea. But that meant I had to listen to Darla grumble for the next fifteen minutes while we struggled to drag Bikezilla across the berm. The snow was so deep that some of it got under my jacket and into the legs of my coveralls. I checked the load bed—everything was secure, but the guns were wet, so we spent some time cleaning them. By the time we started out again, I was chilled through.

We’d made good time across the fields, but on the packed snow of the road, we flew. Within moments I was shivering. The wind didn’t help. I thought about stopping to change clothes but figured the exertion of pedaling would keep me warm enough until I dried.

Every few hundred feet, we passed another spot of blood. The bandits were moving faster, too.

We raced past two abandoned farmsteads. Plowed snow completely blocked both their driveways. Most of their outbuildings and barns had collapsed under the weight of the ash and snow.

The third farmstead we came to was different. Enough people had trudged across the berm to make a path where the driveway used to be. And someone had brushed against the snowbank, leaving a pink streak.

Darla pulled Bikezilla up beside the snowbank, where it would be hidden from the house. She slid the shotgun out from under the ropes and tried to pass it to me.

“No, you take it,” I whispered. I took my staff and the pistol instead, tucking the gun into my belt. “You ready?”

Darla nodded.

I crawled into the driveway, moving slowly and dragging my staff along. As soon as I had a clear view of the house and yard, I stopped. The path continued to the front door of the small ranch-style home. Two grain silos, a barn, and two other outbuildings were arrayed in a rough semicircle behind the house. Except for the tracks leading to the front door, the farm looked abandoned.

I whispered to Darla. “Come up to the edge of the snowbank and cover me from there. I’ll run to the house. If I make it, you follow.”

I waited until Darla squeezed in beside me with the shotgun. Then I took the pistol in one hand and my staff in the other and scuttled toward the house in a walking crouch.

The silence was eerie. My breath roared in my ears. I made it to the corner of the house and glanced around. Nothing moved. I waited . . . thirty seconds, a minute . . . then beckoned for Darla to follow.

We crept around the house, peeking in every window. Nothing stirred. The living room and kitchen were empty, but we couldn’t see into the bedrooms—the windows were blocked by miniblinds and curtains. We stopped by the side door, where we had a clear view of the driveway.

Darla planted herself beside the door, the butt of the shotgun tucked against her side. I stood to one side, staying out of her field of fire. The door jamb was splintered. A smear of blood stained the knob. With one hand I gently pushed open the door. It groaned hideously, revealing a small mudroom attached to the kitchen.

I stepped through the doorway and pressed myself against the wall while Darla scouted the kitchen with the shotgun. The kitchen co

“We aren’t going to be able to see anything in that hall,” I whispered.

“You think anyone is here?” Darla whispered.

“Might be asleep. They could have walked all night.”

“Maybe. Get the lantern?”

“Yeah. Cover the door for me.”

We left the house, and Darla stepped to one side of the door so she could shoot anyone coming out. I jogged back to Bikezilla to retrieve the lantern. Lighting it was a laborious and somewhat noisy process, so I did it beside the bike. I had to strike a spark into some of the oak bark using my knife and the flint, use that to light a candle, and then, finally, fire up the lantern with the candle. Before the volcano, I never would have guessed that matches and lighters would be among the things I’d miss the most if civilization collapsed.