Ashen Winter

The black night faded to gray and then to a suppurated yellow as we drove. With the increased visibility, I punched our speed up to about forty. The roads were too uneven and slick to go any faster.

The fuel gauge read three-quarters. I thought that would be enough to reach Warren. Maybe. If we didn’t wreck or have to take a massive detour on the way.

Alyssa navigated. We avoided all the big towns and as many of the small burgs as we could. The few we did pass through were burned and abandoned.

When she wasn’t busy plotting our route, Alyssa brushed Ben. He didn’t seem to need it—given everything we’d been through, he was holding up remarkably well. Maybe she was brushing him to comfort herself.

I didn’t want to cross the Mississippi on any bridge. I assumed they’d all be watched, either by Black Lake or one of the gangs. Nor did I want to get anywhere near Lock #12 and the barges of wheat Black Lake defended. Instead, we found a boat ramp between the lock and Sabula, Iowa, and used it to drive out onto the frozen expanse of the Mississippi.

On the far side of the river, I pulled the truck into a cove where we were sheltered by trees. We ate a breakfast of cold cornmeal mush, beef jerky, and dandelion leaves. I didn’t leave the truck ru

As we ate, I sat sideways in my seat, watching Darla. Her face was more angular, her cheeks concave with hunger and illness. But she was here, beside me. The miracle of it left me breathless. I stretched out a hand to hold hers.

After breakfast I asked, “Can I check your fever?” I placed the back of my hand against Darla’s forehead.

“I’m okay,” she said. “I think the Tylenol is working.”

I thought her forehead still felt hot, and she was slumped against the seat. “We should go.”

I started the truck and pulled out of the cove. It took more than an hour to find a way off the ice of the Mississippi. We moved slowly in Illinois, picking our way through the back roads, trying to avoid both Galena, where there was a Black Lake camp, and Stockton, where all the roads were blocked by their crazy wall of cars. It took us almost two hours to travel the last thirty miles to Warren.

We approached my uncle’s farm from the north—the same way Darla and I had arrived last year. I let my speed pick up a little in anticipation. Evidently there’d been a lot of traffic recently—when we left, there had been a few inches of unplowed snow on Canyon Park Road. Now it was packed solid.

I cruised up the last rise before the farm. But when I saw it, I slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to a shivering stop. The farm was gone. In its place there was an enormous, ramshackle tent city, swarming with people.

Chapter 85

I slammed the shifter into reverse and backed down the hill, out of sight from the farm.

“What are you doing?” Mom yelled.

“Getting out of here!” I cranked the wheel over so fast the truck slid into a 180.

“That’s your uncle’s farm! Rebecca’s down there.”

“We don’t know who all those people are.” I shifted into drive and accelerated down the road, away from the farm. “What if they’re another flenser gang?”

“Then we need to get in there right now!” Mom screeched. “To check on Rebecca.”

“We’ll figure out what’s going on. And find Rebecca. But I’m not going to rush in there and risk getting us killed.”

“You have another route in mind, Lieutenant?” Ben asked.

“Park in Apple River Canyon and come in on foot through the forest. Scout it and see what’s going on,” I said. “What do you think?”

“That is a sound plan.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were inside Apple River Canyon State Park, which backed directly against Uncle Paul’s farm. I pulled the truck to the side of the road. “I’ll hike to the back side of the farm, see what’s going on, and come right back. Two hours, tops.”

“I’m going with you,” Darla said. She struggled to lift herself out of the seat.

“No. You need to rest.”

“Somebody needs to go with you. What if you run into trouble?”

“I’m going,” Mom said.

I leaned over to kiss Darla, and Alyssa suddenly became fascinated with something in the back-seat footwell. I opened my door, and Mom and I left. Slogging through the deep snow was hard work. I broke the trail, working my way through the leafless forest to approach the farm from the west. Before we were close enough to see anything, I heard the rhythmic thwacks of several axes in use. We slowed our pace, moving from tree to tree until we were close enough to see.

A party of about a dozen men and women were felling and stripping trees. Most of them had rifles slung across their backs. Five logs were laid out in the snow already. “Isn’t that Stu, from Warren?” I whispered to Mom.

“I don’t recognize him,” she whispered back.

Just then, one of the men lowered his ax and turned our way.

“Paul!” Mom yelled. She started pushing through the snow toward him.

Still, I hesitated a second, trying to make sure.

“Janice!” Uncle Paul dropped his axe and rushed toward us. The rest of the woodcutting party put aside their axes and unslung their rifles, eyeing me and Mom warily.

Mom embraced Uncle Paul, and for a while there were just joyful tears of reunion. “You found them!” Uncle Paul said to me at last. “And my brother? Did he . . .”

“Dad,” I said. “He . . . he didn’t make it.”

Uncle Paul’s face passed through two quick transformations. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and his face broke and sagged. Then he bit his lower lip, and his face reformed as if he were delaying his grief through pure force of will. He turned to the rest of the group of woodcutters and shouted, “It’s okay! My nephew and sister-in-law are home.” They slung their guns and picked up their axes again.

“You have any food?” Uncle Paul asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Enough for the five of us for a week or so.”

“Five of you?”

“Darla and two people I met on the road. Alyssa and Ben. I promised they could stay with us.”

“Huh. Might not want to. Never mind. Keep the food a secret.”

“Okay. That reminds me . . .” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my last, carefully hoarded bag and passed it to Uncle Paul. “Wheat.”

Uncle Paul stowed the bag under his coat, shaking his head in admiration. “Bag could save all our lives.”

“Our truck’s in the park. I’ve got to get back—take Darla to Dr. McCarthy in Warren. She’s hurt.”

“Warren?” Uncle Paul said. “Dr. McCarthy is here. All of Warren is. Everybody who’s left, anyway.”

“What?”

“Slimeballs ru

“Why?”

“Out of food. Wanted Warren’s store of pork and kale, I guess.”

“Bastards!” I said. “Like we don’t have enough to deal with?”

Uncle Paul nodded grimly. “I’ll take your mother up to the house and let everyone know you’re coming.”

I hugged him and turned away, trudging back through the dead forest.

I returned to the truck, filled everyone else in, and drove back to the front side of the farm on Canyon Park Road.

When I got closer to it, I could see that tent city was too generous a description of the chaotic settlement that had engulfed Uncle Paul’s farm. Sure, there were tents. There were also crude wooden shacks, igloos, lean-tos crafted from tree branches, and structures that appeared to be made of plastic scraps and twigs. People were moving everywhere, and hundreds of small fires burned within the camp.

Thirty or forty people were working to build something new. They’d erected a wall—about a dozen stout logs lashed together with their bases buried and tops sharpened. If they pla