by Mike Mullin
“I guess.”
“I don’t know how it’s going to work for rabbit. Not much fat on them. Probably going to be pretty dry and tough when we get done smoking them.”
“Better than nothing.”
“Yep, it’ll beat not eating.”
Since I’d spent two days on the way here not eating, I had to agree with her. Almost anything beats starvation.
Chapter 23
The next day at breakfast, Darla proposed digging more corn. Mrs. Edmunds flatly refused. “Have either of you looked at the dirty clothes? If we throw one more thing on the pile, it’ll collapse the floor, and we’ll have to move to the barn.”
After Darla and I took care of the rabbits and fed the fires in the smokehouse and living room, we hauled water. Endless buckets of water, to fill the bathroom tub. Once we had it mostly full, Mrs. Edmunds tossed in the clothing, and we started scrubbing. Our clothes were so filthy, they quickly turned the water into a grayish sludge thick enough that Darla worried about it clogging the drainpipe.
We then had to wring out the clothing, rinse the tub, and refill it. Each refill required pumping six buckets of water, hauling the heavy pails across the yard, through the kitchen, and into the bathroom, and pouring them into the bathtub. We refilled that stupid tub five times before Mrs. Edmunds was satisfied that the clothes were “clean enough.” Then, of course, we had to wring the water out of the clothing and hang it on makeshift lines strung through the living room in front of the fireplace—the living room I’d been sleeping in. The damp clothes dripped onto the couch—my bed. I hoped it would dry before I turned in that evening.
After lunch, Mrs. Edmunds declared an afternoon of rest. She planned to read for a bit and maybe take a nap, she said. Darla frowned but didn’t reply. The nap bit sounded good to me.
It was not to be. As soon as Mrs. Edmunds settled into the easy chair with her paperback, Darla said, “Come give me a hand. I’ve got a project that’s perfect for this afternoon.” I sighed and followed her into the farmyard.
As usual, helping Darla mostly meant handing her tools. And, like when we built the smokehouse, I got yelled at whenever I didn’t know exactly what she was asking for or I couldn’t find it, which totally spoiled the good part of this project: watching her bend over the engine of the old F250 pickup parked beside the barn. The pickup was half-buried in drifted ash.
“Are we fixing it?” I asked.
Her voice came back muffled by the hood. “No, I don’t think I can. I drove it a bunch before the ash got too deep. The air filter is completely clogged, and I don’t have a spare. The ash probably tore up the engine, too. Might need a valve job.”
I didn’t know what a valve job was and wasn’t about to ask. Odds were, the answer wouldn’t make sense to me, anyway. “So why are we working on it?”
“I need the alternator. Gimme a medium ratchet with a half-inch hex head.”
I found the ratchet but couldn’t read the socket sizes in the crappy light. I put one that looked right on the ratchet and handed it to her.
She glanced at it. “That’s 15/32nds. Christ. Put on the next size bigger.”
I replaced the socket and handed it to her. “How can you even read the sizes?”
“Don’t need to. Honestly, any idiot could’ve seen that wasn’t a half inch.”
“Well, I couldn’t.” I raised my voice a bit and shot clipped words at her. “And I’m not an idiot. And this is getting old. I know you’ve probably got ash in your panties, but do you have to take it out on me?”
She pushed herself out from under the hood. “Huh? What did you—”
“Ash in your—well, you seem so irritated at me all the time.”
“Ash in my—” She laughed. “Yeah, I do. And it is irritating. And what are you doing thinking about my panties, anyway?”
I blushed, hoping the inevitable layer of ash on my face hid it. “Uh, sorry. But seriously, it’s not my fault I wound up here. And I’ll be moving on soon. I feel tons better already.”
“Good. Maybe I have been bitchy, but having you around hasn’t exactly been easy for me. Mom thinks we can take in all the world’s strays, but who knows how long this will last? We might still be eating cornmeal a year from now—or three.”
“Yeah, I understand. I won’t hang around. I need to find my own family.”
“And when you go, don’t take all our supplies. I know Mom, she’ll try to convince you to stay, and failing that, she’ll load you down with more of our food than you can possibly carry.”
“I won’t.”
“I guess you’re entitled to some of it . . . .You’ve been working pretty hard, considering that hole in your side.” Darla buried her head back under the truck’s hood. “Gimme a big flathead screwdriver.”
I found one and slapped it in her outstretched hand. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed as though her fingers lingered against mine a bit longer than necessary to take the screwdriver. Could the frozen shell she kept between us be thawing just a little?
We pulled the alternator out of the truck and carried it to the barn. Darla bolted it to a workbench. Then she welded a bicycle gear onto the disc on the side of the alternator. She had a welding setup that ran off two metal cylinders that looked like helium tanks. When that was finished, she disconnected the bicycle we’d been using to drive the grain grinder and connected it to the alternator with a long chain. She attached the alternator wires to a battery charger, the kind that held eight D-cells.
Meanwhile, I’d been doing nothing useful. Handing her a tool now and then, but mostly watching her work. She checked the tension on the chain, made an adjustment, and said, “Your turn to work. Get on your bike and ride.” Darla grinned. “I think I just quoted some band Mom likes.”
I climbed on the bike and started to pedal. It was easier than driving the gristmill—there was a lot less resistance. As I got the bike up to speed, a red light began glowing on the battery charger, lurid in the dimness of the barn.
“When that light changes to green, we’re done,” Darla said.
I pedaled away in silence, listening to the sound of my breathing grow louder and more labored as I rode. Each time I slowed a little, Darla snapped, “Faster!” or “Pedal harder!” I kept it up for a long time, maybe an hour or so, before she finally offered to relieve me. I might have gotten annoyed at her bossiness, but I was too tired to care.
I collapsed onto the dirty straw on the barn floor, utterly spent, as Darla mounted the bike and pumped the pedals. We traded off twice more, riding the bike at least three hours before that stupid light finally winked green.
By then, I was exhausted and hungry, and Darla wasn’t looking too perky, either. She pulled the batteries out of the charger and put them in her jacket pockets. We trudged to the house to wash up for dinner. I was surprised at how sweaty I’d gotten despite the cold air.
After dinner, all three of us sat around the fire in the living room while Darla fiddled with an old radio. Mostly we listened to static. My legs had paid dearly for that static: They ached. I reached down to rub my calves—it felt like rubbing tires, they were so tight.
Low on the AM dial, Darla finally got something. A couple of stations drifted in and out, frequencies changing slightly, as if the vagaries of the ash-laden atmosphere were somehow distorting them. One of them was playing music, of all the useless things they could do. Peppy, annoying, big band music, the kind my great-grandmother might have listened to on the radio. It baffled me why they were playing it now.
Another station was more helpful. They read nonstop news—all of it related to the eruption. The maddening bit was that we could only make out little snatches of news over the static as Darla chased the station around the dial. She caught it the first time at 590 AM, but it would drift as high as 640 and as low as 570 at times.
The first snatch of news was, “. . . In addition, the Admiral announced that a U.S. Navy relief convoy will dock at Port Hueneme in Oxnard, California, somet
ime tomorrow. While most supplies are designated for federal refugee camps in northeastern California, some food, medical supplies, and tents will be available to citizens through their local interim authority.
“Admiral McThune went on to say that a third Chinese humanitarian mission has been granted permission to land in Coos Bay, Oregon, joining the previous two in Newport and . . .”
“Damn. Lost it,” Darla said.
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Mrs. Edmunds scolded.
Darla fiddled with the radio, looking for a signal.
“How big is this thing?” I asked. “If Oregon and California are as bad off as Iowa . . . how long will it take to get any help here?”
“Let’s see.” Mrs. Edmunds pulled an old Rand McNally road atlas off the shelf. Near the front there was a yellow map of the U.S. cross-hatched by blue interstates. Judging by the map, Oregon and Northern California were both closer to Yellowstone than we were.
The room was quiet except for the hiss and crackle of the radio and an occasional pop from the wood burning in the fireplace. I thought about all the people facing this disaster—the millions between me and the Oregon coast. Millions of them must have already died. I’d been incredibly lucky to survive this long. Darla and her mom were doing okay, digging and grinding corn, but most people wouldn’t have access to fields of buried corn or know how to improvise a grinding machine. Millions more people would die unless some kind of help arrived soon.
Darla found the station again. “Responding to critics,” he said, “the suspension of civil liberties contained in the Federal Emergency Recovery and Restoration of Order Act is temporary and will be lifted as soon as the crisis has passed, perhaps as early as late next year.’
“The vice president concluded his remarks with strong words for ‘those nations whose hoarding and profiteering caused the collapse of the international grain markets.’ He pledged to use the full force of the United States to insure an equitable . . .”
None of us were sure what to make of that. It didn’t sound good, but it also didn’t seem to affect us much. The only functioning government I’d seen since the disaster was Mr. Kloptsky’s at Cedar Falls High. And our grain market consisted of the corn we could dig up in a day.
We listened to the radio until the batteries died late that evening, but we only caught one more intelligible fragment: “. . . announced earlier today that, using the emergency powers granted it under FERROA, the Department of Homeland Security has appropriated a large tract of land near Barlow, Kentucky, to control the influx of refugees from southern Missouri. Construction will begin . . .”
This was more interesting. We found Barlow on the Kentucky page of the atlas. It took some searching—it was a tiny black speck of a town near the Mississippi River. Nowhere near us, but at least on the same side of the country.
“Maybe there’s help east of us,” I said.
“Sounds like there must be,” Mrs. Edmunds said.
“I need to leave soon.” I said it with some regret. I would miss Mrs. Edmunds. And I’d miss Darla.
“You’re welcome to stay. You’ve worked so hard—more than earned your keep.”
“Thanks. I . . .” A thought seized my brain: I’d be dead if not for them. I fought back tears. “I don’t know how to thank—”
“Shush,” Mrs. Edmunds said. “Anyone would have taken you in. Why, you were half-dead when you fell into our barn.”
Actually, anyone wouldn’t have taken me in. I’d met people who wouldn’t. The faceless person who’d pointed a rifle at me as I skied toward his farmhouse, for one. Target, for another. I shuddered at that memory. “I wish we’d heard more about what’s going on in Illinois.”
“Your family is there, right?” Mrs. Edmunds asked.
“Yeah . . . at least, that’s where they were headed.”
“Maybe someone in town would know more.”
“I’ve been thinking about going to town, anyway,” Darla said. “I need to ask Doc Smith about my rabbits. I’d feel better if I could save a few of them to breed.”
“What town? How far is it?” I asked.
“Worthington,” Darla replied. “About five miles. It’s an easy walk—I’ve done it before.”
“In this mess? Ten miles there and back? We might not be able to make it in a day.”
“Who said anything about ‘we’? I’ll go, find out what’s wrong with my rabbits, ask about Illinois, and come back.”
“You should both go,” Mrs. Edmunds said. “It’ll be safer. I’ll stay here, watch the rabbits, and catch up on my cleaning. If it gets too late, stay overnight with Loretta Smith or Pam Jacobs. They won’t mind. But don’t stay more than one night. I’ll be worried enough as it is.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom.”
“I know you will, dear. But I’ll still worry.”
Moms. They were all alike in that way.
Chapter 24
The next morning we fed and watered the rabbits by torchlight before dawn. I found my ski boots and skis in a corner of the barn. The right boot had dried stiff. I beat it with a fist and turned it over. Flakes of rusty stuff fell out and floated to the barn floor: my dried blood mixed with ash.
Mrs. Edmunds gave us each a huge stack of corn pone wrapped in old newspaper. Darla added two rabbit haunches fresh from the smoker. She cut a slit in one of them—it was still a bit raw, but they didn’t smell spoiled. I packed my water bottles, tarp, and knife, just in case. I left my hiking boots behind; I figured the ski boots would be okay for a day trip. I planned to carry the bö staff and ski pole.
Darla added a couple bags of cornmeal to her pack—to barter, if we found anything we needed, she said. Mrs. Edmunds pressed a wad of paper money into Darla’s hand, and I hid a smile. I doubted that anyone would have much use for twenty-dollar bills now, except perhaps as fire starter. Darla took the money anyway, jamming it into her jeans pocket.
Mrs. Edmunds hugged Darla, kissed her on the cheek, and admonished her to be careful and look after me. Darla endured it all a bit impatiently.
I was surprised when Mrs. Edmunds hugged me. At first, I let my arms flap around at my side. But she didn’t let go, so I hugged her back. Then I thought about my mom and had a hard time unhugging Mrs. Edmunds. Yes, my mom was a pain in the butt, and we fought a lot, but I missed her. I would have given anything to have her in my embrace now, instead of this wonderful ersatz mother who had adopted me.
So we set out, me on my skis, Darla trudging through the ash beside me. We followed the road that passed in front of Darla’s farmstead, traveling on the crown where wind had blown away some of the ash. In some places, the ash had formed a crust Darla could walk on. But in most areas, loose ash still lay on the road, and Darla sank to her ankles with every step.
Skiing was hard work—my muscles seemed to have forgotten the movements over the last few weeks. Nonetheless, I quickly got way ahead of Darla. I heard her faintly behind me, calling, “Hey, wait up,” as I topped a low rise. I turned and looked—she was at least forty yards back. I grinned at her and pushed off as hard as I could.
The hill wasn’t very steep, but by pushing all the way down I caught a little speed—enough to give me time to flop at the bottom and rest there with a smirk on my face as she struggled down the backside of the hill.
When she finally caught up, Darla silently stomped past me. I felt a little bad watching her rip each foot free of the ash, working for every step—but not bad enough to stop me from sliding past her when I started moving again.
I rested for a bit at the bottom of the next rise, and then began poling my way up. Partway up the hill, it got steep enough that I couldn’t push straight up it anymore. So I had to duck walk. Well, I called it duck walking—I wasn’t sure if that was the right name for it or not. Anyway, if I spread the tips of my skis way out, I could walk uphill without sliding backward—it was hard work, but faster than taking the skis off.
So I was duck walking up the slope, when Darla burned by me
. Her legs were pumping, thrusting her feet in and out of the ash. She looked like an athlete doing a stair run. I picked up speed and tried to catch her, but it was impossible. By the time I reached her at the top of the rise, I was gasping for breath and my side hurt. Darla smiled triumphantly.
“Yeah,” I said between gasps, “let’s see how you do on the downhill.” I pushed off as hard as I could, pointing my skis down the back side of the rise.
As I passed Darla, I felt a weight on the back of my skis, throwing me off balance. I whipped my head around: Darla was perched on my skis, clutching my backpack. I dug in with both poles, pushing hard. I thought a burst of speed might throw her off.
No such luck. She clung to me as I pushed, but I did get us moving. Soon we were flying down the hill.
I yelled over my shoulder, “Hey, this works pretty well. We—” Turning threw my balance off, and the inside edge of my left ski caught in the ash. We spun sideways and fell. The ash sort of cushioned my fall, but it did nothing to protect me from Darla’s knee, which dug painfully into my thigh as she landed on top of me.
Darla pushed herself up. “You okay? Did I land on your side?” She extended a hand to help me up.
I took her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I grinned and gave her arm a vicious yank, pulling her down into the ash next to me.
“You butthead!” Darla grabbed a handful of ash and hurled it at me. I retaliated in kind.
It wasn’t quite like a snowball fight. The ash wouldn’t adhere into a ball, for one thing. It exploded into a gently floating mass of dust when I tried to throw it. But since we were lying next to each other, we could cover each other in dusty clouds of the stuff.
Pretty soon we were laughing and choking on ash at the same time. I called, “Truce!”
Darla said, “Done,” and stood up again. This time I let her help me up. We were both filthy with ash. We looked sort of like those Africans I used to see on the Discovery Channel who painted their bodies with white mud. Maybe they still do, but there isn’t a Discovery Channel to film it now.