Sunrise

by Mike Mullin

  But then the van’s headlights popped on, and its engine roared to life. I was still crouched at the base of the door, straining to open it.

  The van accelerated. It was aimed directly at my head.

  Chapter 22

  I lunged backward, trying to get out of the path of the van. There was a mighty crack as the van hit the inside of the rolling barn doors, sending bits of flaming wood flying everywhere. Half the barn door spun free. It struck the side of my head. Everything went black.

  * * *

  “Alex! Alex! Alex!” Darla was standing over me. “Quit yelling, would you?” I mumbled.

  “Are you okay?” She pulled off my ski mask,

  looking for blood. My head felt like it was burning up from the inside. “We’ve got to get farther away from the barn. Can you walk?”

  I reached up took her hand, and levered myself upright with her help. The barn was fully engulfed in roaring flames. Uncle Paul and Ed were kneeling in the snow with rifles butted against their shoulders, firing at the panel van. It slid through the curve from our driveway onto Canyon Park Road and raced north. If Uncle Paul or Ed had hit the van at all, they hadn’t done any damage to it.

  “We need to follow them,” I said. “Get our pork back.” “Sure you’re up to it?”

  I stumbled toward the pickup truck instead of answering. It was parked beside the burning barn, close enough that I couldn’t even approach the passenger door. I slid across from the driver’s side instead, letting Darla take the wheel. Uncle Paul and Ed climbed into the bed behind the driver’s side.

  As soon as she put it in gear, there were two loud pops from the passenger side. The right side of the truck suddenly dropped a few inches. I ducked—the noises sounded vaguely like gunfire. My head swam.

  “Christ and the Michelin man!” Darla yelled. “The fire melted our tires.”

  The wheels spun, hampered by the weight of the still-attached metal pesticide tank and the popped tires, and slowly the truck inched forward. Darla got it going pretty fast down the driveway, fighting to hold the wheel steady When she tried to make the turn onto Canyon Park Road, the truck slid sideways instead of turning, burying itself in the snow berm. The tank we were towing slammed into the bank of snow just after we did, throwing up a huge spray of ice.

  Darla jiggered the truck back and forth, trying to get going again. The panel van was almost out of sight. She leapt out the door, disconnected the chains attaching the tank to the truck, and tried again. We were completely stuck. We climbed out of the truck and ran for Bikezilla, which we’d left parked by the side door of the farmhouse, but by the time we were mounted up, the panel van was long gone.

  I tried to dismount the bike seat, caught my foot on the bar, and fell into the snow beside us.

  Uncle Paul knelt to help me up. “You okay?”

  “No,” I replied. “I mean, short term, I’m okay. But long term, we’re all screwed. Get everyone together in the living room, would you?”

  “I’ll be right there,” Darla said. “I’ve got to move the welder and gas tanks farther from the barn. It’s going to collapse.”

  “I’ll help,” Ed said and left with Darla.

  Uncle Paul helped me into the living room and then went upstairs to find everyone else.

  Max was one of the first ones downstairs. “What happened?” I asked him.

  “Nobody woke me. For some reason I woke on my own and went to check if it was time for my shift or not. Nobody was on the platform, and the barn was already burning.”

  “Who was supposed to be on watch?”

  “Your mom,” Max said in a low voice.

  Anna had come into the room while we were talking. “Your mom’s been missing a lot of watches. Max and I didn’t want to tell you—give you something else to worry about. I guess we should have said something.”

  “You think?” My fists were balled—all that bullshit about Darla and now this? “I’m moving to Delaware,” I muttered.

  “Delaware?” Anna asked.

  “Only state where you’re allowed to divorce your parents,” Max said.

  “And you know this how?” Anna asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re damn lucky they didn’t torch the house. Then we’d all be eating smoke right now. Go back up on watch,” I told Max. “I don’t think they’ll come back, but why take chances? I’ll fill you in later.”

  Max got up but stopped beside me on his way out. “I’m sorry.”

  I grabbed his arm and clasped it, bringing my face close to his. “It’s not your fault—”

  “I wish I’d woken up earlier.”

  “I trusted Mom. You should have told me she was missing her shifts.”

  “I know,” Max said quietly. “But you two’d been fighting anyway. Anna and I talked about it—we didn’t want to make things worse.”

  “Next time someone isn’t pulling their weight, tell me.

  Our lives could depend on it.”

  “I will,” Max said. He left to return to the watch platform atop the house.

  Everyone except Max gathered in the living room, their go-bags still on their backs. I threw three logs on the fire and blew on it until flames licked up, bathing the room in dancing firelight. When I turned away from the fire, my eyes caught Mom’s. She didn’t look away. Her face was calm, placid even, motionless except for the shifty, red shadows cast by the fire.

  I was so angry I wondered if I would spontaneously combust. “How could you?” I yelled.

  “How could I what?” Mom replied calmly.

  “The watch! I trusted you!”

  “What are you talking about?” Rebecca said, incipient panic lifting her voice at least an octave above normal. “The watches! The barn! The greenhouses—”

  “Alex,” Uncle Paul said in a low, urgent voice, “take a deep breath. You’re scaring your sister.”

  “You’re even freaking me out a little,” Ed said.

  Darla took hold of my hand, her concern plain in her eyes. “What happened exactly?”

  I swallowed back another yell, closed my eyes, and sucked in a lungful of cold air that tasted vaguely of smoke. I held the breath for maybe ten seconds and then let it whoosh out. I found I was calm enough to explain our situation. I finished my recap of the disastrous night with an overview of the food we had left: “The front quarter of one hog, about five pounds of kale plus any we can salvage from the greenhouses, some wheat we were saving for seed, about ten pounds of flour, and a bit of cornmeal. Maybe enough food for a week or ten days.”

  “We’ve got kale seeds,” Uncle Paul said. “We can trade for more pork.”

  “Not many people left in Warren willing to trade with us,” Darla said.

  “Maybe I could talk Dr. McCarthy into being a straw man for us.”

  “What?” Rebecca asked.

  “Being a middleman,” Uncle Paul said.

  “Good idea,” I said. “That might work.”

  “We could dig more corn,” Darla said.

  “It’s not that bad,” Mom said. “All we have to do is move to town, which is what we should have done weeks ago.” “This farm is not defensible,” Ben said. “We must combine forces with the town to survive over the long term.” “I don’t think they want us, Ben,” I said.

  “I’m sure if you made a sincere apology, Mayor Petty would come around,” Mom said. “He’s not a bad guy, you know. He’d keep us safe.”

  “I did apologize, Mom,” I said. “In front of everyone. And now most of Warren won’t even talk to me.”

  Mom started to say something, but Darla spoke over her. “Moving is a good idea. But not to Warren. What about moving east of Warren where the wind turbines are?”

  “You still have the defensibility problem,” Ben said. “I’ve been thinking about that,” Darla replied. “We could build a one-room structure—a big timbered hut. Have it back right up to a wind turbine. I could cut sniper ports into the turbine’s support column, build the greenhouses
right next door, and we can use the same heating system to keep everything warm.”

  “That could work,” Uncle Paul said thoughtfully.

  “It would be like a Viking longhouse,” Ben said. “Exactly!” Darla cried. “Make the walls thick enough to withstand most gunfire, build gun ports on each side, and connect the greenhouses with tunnels so we don’t even have to go outside to work.”

  “What about water?” I asked.

  “If we can find a drilling rig in decent shape,” Uncle Paul replied, “we might be able to drill a well inside the longhouse. The water table is high around here.”

  “They used to dig wells by hand.” Darla shrugged. Mom stood up. “There’s plenty of water in Warren! All we have to do is move there! Why isn’t anyone listening to me?” she yelled.

  “Mom,” I replied quietly, “I’m not going to Warren.” “This is about her, isn’t it?” Mom shot a hateful glare at Darla.

  I rolled to my feet and stepped between them. “It’s not about her, Mom, or at least not in the way you think.” “You . . . you’d move out to some wasteland instead of following your mother?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “Come with me,” she whispered. “Let’s go to Warren— you, me, and Rebecca. Get a fresh start. Be a family again.” “No,” I replied as gently as I could. I was still angry at her, but I couldn’t see the point of further aggravating things.

  My mother choked back a sob, spun, and fled up the stairs. I sat in silence for a few moments. Outside, the barn collapsed with a mighty crash, shaking the foundation of my new home.

  Chapter 23

  Darla made me strip down beside the fire to check my wounds. I thought she should have to strip down—she’d gone sliding off the roof of the house too—but she refused. “I’m not the one who nearly got run over by a panel van,” she said. I had a mess of nasty bruises all up and down my left side, and my head still hurt terribly, but otherwise I seemed to be okay. Darla helped me back into my clothes, and we trudged upstairs to bed.

  The next morning Darla and I set out at first light to try to track our attackers. We took two rifles but planned to keep our distance; all we wanted to learn was where our panel van and, more importantly, our pork had gone.

  It took less than half the morning to answer that question. The tracks were clear: four pairs of boots coming in, the four tires of our panel van coming out. We followed the tire tracks until Warren came into view. Darla slammed on Bikezilla’s brakes, bringing us to a sliding halt on the snowy road.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  “You’re just going to charge in there?”

  “Yeah, get our truck back.”

  “What if the whole town was in on it? We go charging in there, we might never come out.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I started to turn Bikezilla around. “Wait,” Darla said, “let’s go around Warren. Scout sites for the longhouse.”

  We found a perfect site later that same afternoon about five miles east of Warren atop a low rise with a stand of large, dead trees lining the creek at the bottom of the hill.

  It was almost fully dark by the time we got back to the farm. Rebecca met us in the foyer before I’d even had time to take off my boots. Her eyes were red and puffy. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Mom,” Rebecca replied. “She’s gone.”

  Chapter 24

  “What happened?” I asked Rebecca.

  “After lunch she asked if I wanted to go to Warren with her. I didn’t know what to say. I asked if we could wait until you got home, and then I went to help Uncle Paul. She left sometime this afternoon. Her go-bag and some of her clothes are gone. . . .”

  Rebecca’s mouth clamped shut, trying to hold in a tremor that rolled across her lower lip. I took her in my arms, remembering that she’d only turned fifteen a few months ago. In the old world, she’d have been a sophomore at Cedar Falls High, hanging out with her friends, complaining about homework—a normal kid. She buried her face against my chest, muffling sobs. “Shh,” I said, “it’s okay.”

  “Why would she leave us?” Rebecca said through her sobs. “Why would she leave me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It has something to do with Dad, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe so. Maybe she blames me or Darla. Tomorrow Uncle Paul, Darla, and I will go to Warren to see if we can talk to her.”

  “I want to go with you,” Rebecca said.

  “The whole city of Warren might be up in arms. No—” “She’s my mother! I’ll keep quiet, keep my head down. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  I thought about it. She was no age to be traveling with us into what might be an ambush. But I was only two years older. And we’d all spent hundreds of hours practicing with the rifles. “You can come—”

  “Thank you!”

  “Ifyou promise to do whatever Uncle Paul or I tell you to. Instantly. No questions or backtalk.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  The next morning Darla and I pedaled Bikezilla back down the road to Warren, with Rebecca and Uncle Paul riding in the load bed. We’d gotten the pickup truck unstuck using a makeshift winch and some levers, but we only had one spare tire for it. One of the goals of this trip was to acquire at least two new tires. With new tires, we hoped we would be able to use the truck to pull the big metal tank free of the snowbank.

  We stopped about a mile from Warren and hid Bikezilla by dragging it over the embankment of snow that flanked the road. We approached Warren on foot, fighting our way through the deep snow covering the fields outside of town. Even with four of us breaking trail in turns, it took over an hour to reach the town.

  The streets of Warren were deserted and silent— normal since no one in their right mind wanted to be outside in the subzero temperatures. The five of us flitted from house to house, keeping abandoned houses between us and the few that were occupied. At least the weeks of campaigning were good for something—both Darla and I knew exactly where everyone lived.

  We reached the back door of the clinic and eased it open, slipping inside like invading winter ghosts. Dr. McCarthy and Belinda were reading at the front desk by the light of an oil lamp—he had a paperback novel with a beach scene on the front, and she had a heavy medical textbook.

  “Another slow day?” I asked.

  “Yes, thank God.” Dr. McCarthy smiled as he stood and shook my hand. “Was meaning to get out and check on you folks soon. Just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

  “You hear about last night?” Uncle Paul asked.

  “Last night?”

  “Someone burned our barn and greenhouses,” I said.

  Dr. McCarthy swore. “It’s not the volcano I curse most in this mess—it’s the knives we keep sticking in each other’s backs. The Reds are back?”

  “No,” I said flatly. “Whoever attacked us came from here.” “You’re sure?”

  I nodded.

  Dr. McCarthy swore again. “There’s a lot of bad feeling around. Some folks feel like you led the Reds here. Mayor hasn’t been helping things any. But I didn’t think it had gotten that bad.”

  “Is the mayor behind the attack?” Uncle Paul asked. Dr. McCarthy paused, scowling. His nose wrinkled as if he were catching a whiff of well-rotted road kill. “If he is, I haven’t heard anything about it. Doesn’t seem like his style—he’d want to arrest and try you, all official-like.” “Whoever attacked our farm last night has our panel van and pork,” I said. “We need it back.”

  “Is it safe to talk to Mayor Petty about it?” Uncle Paul asked. “You think he’ll try to arrest Alex?”

  “If you’d asked me an hour ago, I would have said it was perfectly safe. Now . . . I don’t know.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, and the conversation lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

  “Why don’t I walk downtown and feel him out?” Dr. McCarthy said at last. “If things seem on the level, then we’ll all go meet with him.”

  “Ask h
im to come back here,” Darla said. “Whether he’s behind it or not, someone in this town means us harm. I’d rather not walk around outside any more than we have to.” “I’d like to talk to my mother too,” I said.

  “Me too,” Rebecca said.

  “She’s not out at the farm?” Dr. McCarthy asked.

  “She left yesterday,” I said. “I’m hoping she’s here.” Dr. McCarthy laid one hand on my shoulder and another on Rebecca’s, squeezing gently. “Things okay?” “Not really,” I said. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, suppressing a sudden urge to cry. Rebecca turned, pulling away from his hand.

  “I’ll do what I can.” Dr. McCarthy let his arms drop and reached for his coat.

  Dr. McCarthy was gone for more than an hour. I paced nervously, wondering if he would come back with a posse in tow to arrest me. I trusted Dr. McCarthy, but once he told Mayor Petty I was here, anything could happen.

  But only three people were with Dr. McCarthy when he returned. First through the clinic’s door was the mayor, his wheelchair pushed by Sam Moyers, his twenty-something nephew. Sam wore a sheriff’s badge on his coveralls and a huge chrome revolver strapped to his hip, which was strange. When Darla and I met with him before the election, he told us he’d worked on a road crew before the volcano. He was no kind of sheriff.

  Behind them, Mom walked in. Rebecca called out and ran to her, stopping a few feet away as if she were caught between the opposing forces of two magnets, suspended in the room between me and Mom.

  I started to smile involuntarily and then felt my lips freeze on my face. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Why had she left us without so much as a goodbye? What did it mean that she was here?

  Uncle Paul spoke up before I could, addressing Mayor Petty. “We’re looking for our pork.”

  “Doc told me all about it,” Mayor Petty said. “Terrible, just terrible.”

  “You have anything to do with it?” I asked.

  “Of course not! In fact, I brought our new sheriff along to take your report. We’ll do everything we can to help you track down your stolen property.”