Ashen Winter

“We’ve got to go,” I told Alyssa.

She nodded at me and led Ben toward the truck. They slid into the back seat. I put the truck in drive and headed north, away from Iowa City and the DWB slavers, toward Warren and the safety of Uncle Paul’s farm.

The windshield was cracked so badly, it was tough to see through it. I had to bend my body and crane my neck to peer through a patch of clear glass.

I found a map in the glove compartment and handed it to Alyssa. Darla had passed out again, and Mom was awake but in another world. Alyssa charted a course that skirted around Anamosa and its prison. Each time we reached an intersection, she would point the right direction and yell. I still couldn’t make out words, but at least I could hear that she was saying something now.

My ears started buzzing with a high-pitched whine. I took that as a good sign, even though it was incredibly a

My eyelids were drooping. Mom, Darla, and Ben were completely zoned out. I fought to stay awake, biting my lip, slapping my face, and pinching my legs. The cold air rushing through the broken side windows helped some, but I didn’t think I could keep going long enough to get us to Warren. And Darla needed help—soon.

I wanted nothing more than to stop, curl up, and cry. To mourn my father. To try to help Darla with her infection and my mother with her grief. But I had to go on. The frozen roads of Iowa were no safe place for funerals or remembrances. I pointed to Worthington on Alyssa’s map. “Go there.”

She nodded.

“I don’t know if it’ll still be there, because the Peckerwoods in Cascade were pla

Alyssa nodded and said something I couldn’t hear.

By the time we reached Worthington, it was late afternoon. We approached from the west on 272nd Street. There was no gate on this side, just a sheer ice wall towering above the road, blocking it completely.

I could make out figures ru

I looked over my shoulder. Mom and Ben were awake but dazed. “I can’t go talk to them,” I said to Alyssa.

She shrugged.

“My ears. They’re still not working. You’ll have to go do it. If they look like Peckerwoods, run. If they’re farmers, tell them you’re with Alex Halprin, and we’ve got Darla Edmunds with us and she’s hurt. Tell them I’ve still got kale seeds to trade. Ask for the librarian, Rita Mae. She’ll help.”

“Okay,” Alyssa yelled into my ear. I was amazed I could sort of hear her in an echoey way.

Alyssa tumbled out the rear door. She trudged toward Worthington, her hands up and palms out. There were nine or ten people on the wall now. I hoped they were farmers, citizens of Worthington, but I couldn’t tell from this distance. All of them aimed guns at her.

A lump of guilt lodged in my throat. I should be the one walking out there alone. But since I couldn’t hear any commands, I might get myself shot. And surely Alyssa would seem to be less of a threat by herself.

There was one thing I could do: If something went wrong, I could drive up and get her. I put my hands back on the steering wheel, put the truck in gear, and rested my foot on the brake. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

Alyssa stopped a few hundred feet from the wall and stood there for a long time. When she finally started back, she moved at a far brisker pace than she had on the way in.

When she reached us, I couldn’t contain my impatience. “Did Worthington hold out? Did you talk to Rita Mae? Will they let us in?”

With a combination of shouted words and gestures, Alyssa told me that, yes, Worthington had beaten back the Peckerwoods’ attack, and they would let us in. Apparently there was a road around Worthington adjacent to the wall that we could follow to reach the town’s only gate.

I inched forward under the guns of Worthington’s defenders. The road along the wall turned out to be more of a track of packed snow than an actual road. Still, the four-wheel drive dually handled it with ease. The DWBs were murderous ca

At the gate we had to surrender our guns. I still had the assault rifle Dad had taken from Chad, and the gun mounted on the roof turned out to be another assault rifle. I hadn’t thought to check earlier.

I pulled the truck up in front of the low metal building that housed the fire station, city hall, and library. Mayor Kenda came out to meet us before I’d even stepped from the truck.

She yelled something at me, but I couldn’t make out the words. I pointed at my ears. She said something else, and Alyssa shot me a worried look.

“Is Rita Mae around?” I asked.

Mayor Kenda said something else, and Alyssa answered her.

I’d had enough of being outside the loop of this conversation. I knew Mayor Kenda meant well, but she might decide that the best thing for us would be to take our truck and keep us here in Worthington, where we’d be “safe.” I strode directly to the library door and jerked it open.

Rita Mae was at her desk, reading by the light of an oil lamp. She had one hand on the shotgun propped against a bookcase, but when she saw me her face broke into a huge grin. She let go of the shotgun and darted around her desk. She hugged me surprisingly hard for such a tiny old lady, and I struggled not to collapse and pull us both off our feet.

When Rita Mae broke the embrace, she started talking to me. I could make out a word here or there, but not enough to follow what she was saying. I pointed to my ears and pantomimed an explosion.

Rita Mae got it right away. She took a stubby library pencil and a sheet of paper that looked like it was the fly-leaf from a book off her desk. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again,” she wrote.

“Darla’s gunshot wound is bad,” I said. “We need help.” I swayed on my feet and grabbed the edge of the desk for support.

“Paramedic’s in the fire station,” Rita Mae wrote. She tucked the paper and pencil into her pocket, grabbed my arm, and led me out of the library.

I tried to veer toward the pickup where Darla was, but Rita Mae pulled me to the pedestrian door of the fire station. Inside, the station was sparsely illuminated by a small fire smoldering on the concrete floor. A man in a worn paramedic uniform sat on a metal folding chair beside the fire. Rita Mae said something, and he sprang to his feet, rushing past us toward the pickup.

A small hole had been cut high up on a nearby wall to let out the smoke. A row of cots lay to the left of the fire. On the right, there was another room created with make-shift curtains. More metal folding chairs were scattered randomly throughout both rooms. There wasn’t a fire truck in the station. When I’d been here last year, it had been stuck in the ash outside—obviously it had been moved, but not back into its garage.

The paramedic returned, carrying Darla in his arms. He ushered me into the curtained area, and Rita Mae followed us. Inside, there was a vinyl exam couch, two rolling chairs, and a stainless-steel table with cabinets under it.

The paramedic examined Darla efficiently, inspecting the wound in her shoulder and taking her temperature, blood pressure, and pulse.

“Can you treat the infection?” I asked.

The paramedic said something I couldn’t make out. Rita Mae whipped out her paper and pencil and wrote out his words for me. “I’m not supposed to have to treat everything. I just stabilize them and drive them to the Mercy Medical in Dyersville. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.”

“She needs antibiotics, right?”

“Yes. And a doctor to clean and debride that wound.”

“So what do we do?” I asked.