Ashen Winter

We couldn’t get very close to the house—all the makeshift shelters blocked the driveway. I parked at the edge of the road and grabbed the backpack with the food, slinging it over my shoulder. I carried one of the assault rifles and handed the other one to Darla.

As we set out for the house, Darla stumbled. She handed her rifle to Alyssa.

“I don’t know how to use one of these,” Alyssa protested.

“Just carry it!” Darla snapped. “And fake it.”

Instead Alyssa handed the assault rifle to Ben and helped Darla thread her way through the camp, supporting her with a hand under her shoulder.

The house still stank of goat, which surprised me. Surely if there wasn’t enough food, they would have slaughtered all the goats. But then I heard a bleat from the direction of the guest room and realized that Uncle Paul was protecting a few. Maybe he was pla

All the living room furniture was gone, replaced with a dozen crude pallets packed into the limited floor space. A fire roared in the hearth. The room was crowded with the sick and the dying. Some had bloodstained bandages on their torsos. One was missing most of his arm. Others just looked sweaty and feverish. It was horrible—I couldn’t bring Darla in here.

Dr. McCarthy and Belinda were both there, working together to roll a patient over.

“Dr. McCarthy,” I said.

“Good to see you, Alex! Give me a sec.” Dr. McCarthy finished rolling the patient, and Belinda started cleaning his backside with a sponge.

Dr. McCarthy stood. “You look like hell.”

“I’m okay. Darla’s sick,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bullet wound in my shoulder,” Darla said. “It’s infected.”

“Come into the kitchen,” Dr. McCarthy replied.

The kitchen table had been draped with a sheet and pressed into service as an exam table. Alyssa tried to help Darla onto the table, but Darla pushed her hand away and levered herself up. Alyssa shrugged it off.

“All the rest of you, clear out,” Dr. McCarthy said.

Darla seized my hand, holding me there as Alyssa and Ben left. “He stays,” she said.

Dr. McCarthy shrugged. “You can help hold her. I’ve got to clean and debride that wound and check to see if the bullet is still in there. You remember what that’s like.”

I nodded, my thoughts as grim as the look on Darla’s face. Dr. McCarthy passed Darla the familiar leather-wrapped stick.

When he started working on Darla’s shoulder, her face turned vivid red, and she started sweating despite the cold air. She gripped my hand so hard I could feel my bones grinding together. When he started cutting away the dead flesh around her wound, she screamed around the stick and tried to launch herself off the table. I fell across her, pi

Finally, mercifully, Darla passed out. I collapsed into a chair as Dr. McCarthy finished treating her shoulder. He didn’t sew up the wound—just painted it with antiseptic and affixed a bandage over it. I was relieved not to have to help: My head swam in a way that suggested I might be following Darla to la-la land shortly. I stumbled to my feet and stepped out the back door in search of fresh air.

Chapter 86

Dr. McCarthy followed me outside. “You okay?”

I was kneeling in the snow, head in my hands. “I should never have stood up on that overpass. Should never have gone looking for my parents. None of this would have happened if we’d just stayed put.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Terrible things happen to good people, Alex. They did before Yellowstone blew, and it’s even more true now. Hiding out on the farm wouldn’t have protected you or Darla from that.”

I shook my head, and Dr. McCarthy extended a hand to help me up.

“You going to the meeting?”

“Meeting?”

“Mayor’s addressing all the able-bodied adults in camp tonight.”

“Guess I’m going, then.”

“You should.”

When Darla woke up, Alyssa and I helped her upstairs and got her settled in one of the bedrooms. It was bitterly cold up there, but at least Darla wouldn’t have to sleep with the crowded stench in the living room. As we came out, Mom and Uncle Paul came up the stairs with Rebecca, cousin Max, and cousin A

We had a little party of hugs and smiles right there in the hallway. For a moment, I was able to forget the horrors of Iowa. The moment passed quickly. They looked tired and wan. After the joy of our reunion had passed, I saw something else in their faces. Fear.

“Rebecca. I’m sorry,” I whispered, “about Dad.”

She scowled at me for a moment before her face melted, and she started sobbing. I pulled her into a hug.

I started trying to explain. “I, he—”

“I know,” she choked out the words between her sobs. “Mom told me. How he saved your lives.”

We held each other like that for a bit, while everyone else shuffled uncomfortably around us. Eventually I tried changing the subject. “You going to the meeting tonight?”

“No.” She broke the hug, folded her arms, and scowled. “They say I’m not an adult.”

“That’s crazy! At fourteen you’re old enough to walk and chew bubble gum at the same time—of course you’re an adult!”

Rebecca punched my arm, hard enough to hurt. She’d gotten a lot stronger.

“Seriously, would you do me a huge favor? Keep an eye on Darla while I’m gone at the meeting—”

“You get to go? That’s so not fair.”

“I know. Look, Darla’s sick. Just make sure she stays in bed and rests and get her water and food if she’ll eat.”

“There isn’t any food, Alex.”

How could I explain to my little sister that I’d brought food and fully intended to make sure Darla ate even if everyone else in the camp starved? “Never mind the food.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She got shot. The wound is infected.”

“Got plenty of that around here. Yeah, I’ll watch her.”

“Thanks. Love you, sis.” I kissed her on the forehead and left.

Uncle Paul, Aunt Caroline, Mom, Alyssa, Ben, and I went to the meeting together. A huge bonfire had been lit between the edge of the camp and the woods. Everyone crowded in close enough to absorb the heat radiating from the fire.

The mayor of Warren, Bob Petty, stepped even closer, so that the fire illuminated his face as he spoke. Soon he was sweating, and the orange light glinting from his wet face gave him a demonic look.

His speech was long and convoluted, but basically it boiled down to this: Since Stockton invaded Warren, the mayor had assigned scouts to keep watch and look for an opportunity to fight back. Stockton had only moved a small amount of pork and kale out of Warren in the week they’d held it. But earlier today, eleven trucks had pulled into Warren. They were being loaded with pork, kale, and cornmeal, the food the people of Warren needed to survive. The mayor had decided that instead of waiting to starve on the farm, every able-bodied person with a weapon would try to retake Warren. He ended his speech with a bunch of meaningless rah-rah stuff and instructions to be ready at dawn.

When the applause and scattered cheers died down, Ben spoke into the silence. “That is a stupid plan,” he said in a loud voice. A few people booed, but Ben went on, “It does not make sense to attack where the enemy is expecting it or when he expects it. A better alternative—”

Ben kept talking, but the mayor shouted over him. “You’re not from Warren, son, and I don’t recall asking for your opinion. It’s decided.”

The crowd broke out into a babble of conversation. I sucked in a deep breath and bellowed, “He’s right! It’s like sparring. You never strike where your opponent expects you to.”

The mayor glared at me. “And what would you suggest?” His voice practically dripped with derision.