Ashen Winter

by Mike Mullin

  A real snowmobile would have been a lot faster, but we couldn’t get gas. The meager amount still stored in the tanks at Warren’s only gas station was reserved for emergencies.

  We’d been using Bikezilla for the last six months to haul kale to Warren to trade for pork. Warren had thousands of frozen hog carcasses stored, since there were several slaughterhouses nearby. Bikezilla wasn’t as fast as a real bicycle, but it could handle deep snow okay, and the load bed could carry plenty of pork. On the icy road to Warren, it was at least twice as fast as running.

  Darla and I stood up on the bike for the whole trip, kicking the pedals down. We had no extra breath for talking. My side hurt where the shotgun pellets had hit, and I felt a warm spot of blood soaking into my T-shirt. I gritted my teeth and ignored it.

  Darla and I slid up to the clinic, beating our previous best time to Warren by five or six minutes. I could tell Dr. McCarthy was in because I saw his ’41 Studebaker Champion parked around back.

  We charged into the small, one-story clinic. Dr. McCarthy was in an exam room, chatting with a patient by the light of an oil lamp. When I told him what was wrong, he got his assistant to take over. “You want to ride along?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “We’ll ride back. I don’t want to leave Bikezilla.” I didn’t think it would get stolen in Warren, but I didn’t want to take that chance, either.

  By the time we got back to the farm, Dr. McCarthy was almost done stitching up Max. Aunt Caroline was assisting him. The injured side of Max’s head had been shaved. He was biting down on a leather-wrapped stick, since Dr. McCarthy had run out of painkillers months ago. I wondered if it was the same stick that Uncle Paul had bitten when Dr. McCarthy had set his broken leg the year before. The leather was scarred by dozens of bite marks.

  “He okay?” I asked.

  “Seems to be,” Aunt Caroline answered. Dr. McCarthy was concentrating on his stitches. “He might be concussed. Although with Max, how would you know if his brains were scrambled?” She was smiling as she said it, but unbidden tears spilled from her eyes.

  “Maybe instead of scrambling his brains the bullet knocked them back into working order,” I said.

  “I’m still here,” Max grunted through clenched teeth.

  “I know you are, honey.” The gratitude in Aunt Caroline’s voice was palpable.

  “A leather-wrapped stick is a pretty crappy birthday present,” I said.

  Max grunted. I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or just annoyed at my lame joke.

  Aunt Caroline broke the short silence. “Max said you just walked up to those bandits, Alex.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That was stupid.”

  “Yeah. But I knew Darla was getting help. I’m just lucky she decided to get the rifle instead of going to get you guys.”

  Dr. McCarthy tied off the last stitch in Max’s head.

  “Hey, Doc, can you take a look at my side?” I asked.

  “What’s wrong with your side?” Darla said.

  “Well, that shotgun—”

  “You got hit? And you didn’t tell me?” She was practically yelling.

  “I thought you could tell from the holes in my coat.”

  “Shut up. Your clothing’s so ragged nobody’d notice a few extra holes. And we rode all the way to—lie down on that couch right now, you jerk!”

  I obeyed. When Darla was that angry, doing anything else was insane.

  She started stripping my clothing, muttering all the while, “Stupid, pigheaded, obstinate, obnoxious, oviparous, egg-sucking boy.” I both laid and sucked eggs? That didn’t make sense. Whatever.

  Most of the shotgun pellets hadn’t penetrated my five layers of clothing. I had eight or nine purplish bruises and three blood-encrusted holes on the side of my belly. All three holes were below the huge, horseshoe-shaped scar where Darla had stitched up the hatchet wound a prison escapee named Target had inflicted on me the year before.

  “What, are you collecting scars on that side of your body?” Darla said.

  “I guess.”

  “Well, quit. The spot I stitched up is enough.”

  “That’s a pretty rough-looking patch job,” Dr. McCarthy commented.

  Darla scowled. “Like to see you do better with an old sewing needle.”

  “I probably couldn’t.” Dr. McCarthy took the leather-wrapped stick from Max, wiped it on a cloth, and gave it to me to bite. He dropped a scalpel and scissor-like pair of tongs he called a hemostat into a pan of water boiling over the living room fire. While we waited for his tools to be sterilized, he gently wiped away the dried blood on my side.

  When he slit the side of the first wound, it didn’t hurt much. But then he started digging around in the hole. Tears leaked from my eyes. When he got the hemostat clamped on the pellet and pulled it free, I just about launched off the couch to slug him. Darla grabbed my hand, and I clung to her, trying not to move. Then we had to repeat the whole procedure. Twice.

  Dr. McCarthy didn’t stitch up the holes. He just put a bandage over them and taped it in place. “Guess you all get a bulk discount today.”

  “I guess.” Aunt Caroline sighed. “I’ll get you some supplies.”

  “Got any eggs?”

  “A few. Some goat meat, too.” Aunt Caroline stood up.

  “Where’s everybody else?” Darla asked.

  “Out by the greenhouses,” Aunt Caroline answered.

  “I’ll go see if Paul needs help,” Darla said.

  “Let me get dressed,” I said. “I’ll come, too.”

  “You need to rest,” Darla said.

  “If I can bike all the way to Warren with three shotgun pellets in my side, I can walk to the greenhouses without them.”

  “Tell him to rest, would you please?” Darla begged Dr. McCarthy.

  “He won’t listen to me, anyway. Just stay with him and don’t let him do any heavy lifting for a couple days.”

  Darla scowled, but she got a clean T-shirt out of a basket in the corner of the room and tossed it at me.

  As we approached the greenhouses, I saw Rebecca’s and Anna’s silhouettes moving around inside. Uncle Paul was bent over the toboggan, sorting through the bandits’ supplies.

  “Did you find the shotgun?” I asked.

  “Shotgun?” Uncle Paul said. “One of them had a little .22 pistol in his hand.”

  I pointed at the other corpse lying in the snow. “He had a shotgun.” I walked over to the body. A huge red stain had spread from the hole in the guy’s chest to the surrounding snow, and the blood had already started to freeze. I looked around. Sure enough, there was a long depression in a snowdrift on the far side of the toboggan. The shotgun must have flown out of his hands and buried itself in the snow when Darla shot him.

  I pulled the shotgun free and wiped the snow off it with my shirttail. Someone had painted four tiny blue flowers on the wooden stock. They seemed incongruous—too delicate to decorate a weapon of war. Amid the flowers, two words were drawn in fancy script: “Blue Betsy.”

  “Weird,” I said to Darla. “Who decorates their shotgun with flowers?”

  Darla shrugged.

  “Decorates? With flowers?” Uncle Paul said. “Blue flowers? Let me see.”

  I passed the shotgun to him.

  “How did—”

  “What is it?”

  “Remember I told you I traded a pair of goats for a shotgun and gave it to your dad? And he took it with him when he left here last year?”

  “Yeah . . .?” I said.

  “This is it, Alex. The shotgun he took when he left for Iowa last fall. When he went to search for you.”

  Chapter 3

  I collapsed into the snowbank. Not a good idea when it’s below zero. But I didn’t notice the cold—I was too numb.

  “You okay?” Uncle Paul asked.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Give us a minute,” Darla said as she sat down in the snow beside me.

  Uncle Paul nodded
. “I’m going to help Rebecca and Anna replant the kale those bastards pulled up,” he mumbled as he shuffled off.

  Darla turned to me. “You okay?”

  “What does it mean? Is Dad dead? Why else would this guy have his shotgun?” I punched at a clump of snow.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe Dad sold it. Or traded it for something. He could be alive, right?”

  “Yeah, he could.”

  We sat in silence.

  After a while, Darla asked, “Why’d you stand up in front of those guys?”

  “I was trying to talk to them. To delay them.” In the rush to take care of Max and get Dr. McCarthy, I hadn’t really thought about the fight. “You saved my life again.”

  “Yeah, what’s that now, forty-seven times?” Darla shrugged.

  “About.”

  “You have a serious talent for needing to be saved.”

  “I guess. Thanks.”

  “Trying to talk to those guys was stupid. I wasn’t ready to shoot yet.”

  “I couldn’t let them walk off with the kids. And you got ready in time.”

  Darla grabbed my collar, pulling me closer and yelling in my face. “Yeah, but Christ, you scared me! What if I’d missed? You do anything that idiotic again and I’ll shoot you myself to save the heartache of watching someone else do it.”

  “Sorry.” I really hadn’t been thinking too clearly. Obviously. But still . . .

  “And I still don’t get why the guy with the machine pistol didn’t perforate your sad hide.”

  “He was unnerved by my crazy taekwondo charge?” I forced a smile.

  Darla glared. “You have a death wish or something?”

  “No. Crappy as this world is, I don’t want to leave it.” I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Don’t want to leave you.”

  Suddenly she rolled on top of me, yanking our scarves out of the way and kissing me. Darla pressed her body into mine, burying me in the snow. Her weight, slight though it was, hurt my side. I ignored the pain, wrapping my arms around her and trying to keep up. The kiss lasted for a dizzying minute. When she came up for air, she said, “Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

  “If it means I get another kiss like that, I might.”

  Darla slugged my shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

  “Got it,” I said. “Shouldn’t we be helping Uncle Paul?”

  Darla stood, offered me her hand, and pulled me up. We made our way through the two plastic doors that formed an airlock for the greenhouse. It was relatively warm in there, which was good—I was freezing after being half-buried in snow by Darla.

  Most of the kale had come out of the soft, moist greenhouse soil with its roots intact, so we could replant it. When we found a plant with badly damaged roots, we harvested the leaves, saving the stems and roots for the goats.

  “Will the kale regrow?” I asked Uncle Paul as the five of us walked back toward the house.

  “I think most of it will be okay.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah.” I thought for a moment, picking my next words carefully. “I’m going to leave. To look for Mom and Dad.” I glanced at Darla and was relieved to see her nod.

  “How will you find them?” Uncle Paul asked.

  “I’ll track down the two bandits who got away.”

  “They aren’t going to volunteer the info you want just because you ask them to,” Uncle Paul said.

  “We’ll bring guns,” Darla replied dryly. “Those are pretty convincing.”

  There was a long pause in the conversation as we approached the house. Eventually Uncle Paul nodded. “I’ll start sorting out supplies for you. You’ll want to get moving at first light so they don’t get too far ahead.”

  I held the storm door for my uncle and Darla. “Maybe we should leave now?”

  “Better if you get a good night’s sleep. They won’t be traveling tonight either—their torches are still on the toboggan.”

  The scene inside the house was positively tranquil after all the craziness of that day. Dr. McCarthy was gone. Aunt Caroline was sitting on the floor beside Max, holding a cup of water to his lips while Rebecca stirred a bowl of corn porridge.

  “What’s this about traveling?” Aunt Caroline said to Uncle Paul.

  “How’s Max?” Uncle Paul asked.

  “He’s fine. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Alex and Darla are leaving in the morning.” Uncle Paul frowned. “One of those bandits had Blue Betsy.”

  “What? No.” Aunt Caroline sloshed water across Max’s face, and he spluttered. “There’s no way we can keep up with all the work without Alex and Darla. And what if we get attacked again? What if they attack the house next time?”

  “We’ll have to manage,” Uncle Paul replied. “We can board up all the windows on the ground floor, put bars on the doors, too.”

  “Your leg isn’t completely healed from the fall and—”

  “I’ve been off the crutches for more than a month, hon,” Uncle Paul said, clearly exasperated.

  “I know, but you’re still limping.”

  “Not much. The muscles are weak, that’s all. It’s getting better.”

  “They’re still kids. We can’t let them go running around in this mess—they’ll get killed.”

  “I’m eighteen.” Darla folded her arms over her chest. “And Alex isn’t a kid anymore, whatever his age.”

  “Why do you guys keep talking about Alex and Darla?” Rebecca said. “I’m going, too.” She folded her arms, mimicking Darla so closely that it might have been funny except for her grim expression.

  “Rebecca, no.” I said, as gently as I could manage.

  She turned on me. “You think it was fun, waiting for you last year? Thinking you were dead? And then Mom and Dad left, and I thought I’d lost everyone, my whole family, gone. I’m not going through that again.”

  “I know it’s hard,” I said, “but Aunt Caroline is right—she and Uncle Paul need help. Darla and I wouldn’t be leaving now except for that shotgun.”

  “Darla can stay. They’re not her parents.”

  “I’m going,” Darla said flatly.

  “Then I am, too,” Rebecca said, although she sounded far less certain than Darla.

  I shook my head, scowling. I understood how she felt—I didn’t like being treated like a kid, and really, none of us were kids anymore. We spent our time struggling to survive, not going to school or playing games. But if she got hurt—or God forbid, killed—looking for our parents, I’d never forgive myself.

  Rebecca looked down and whispered, “I . . . don’t want to be alone again.”

  “I know.” I pulled her into a hug. “But you won’t be alone. You’ll take care of Max and Anna. And help your aunt and uncle.”

  “Yeah,” she murmured, holding onto me. “But you better come back.”

  “You and Darla had best get some sleep,” Uncle Paul said. “Caroline and I will get your packs ready. I’ll wake you before dawn.”

  I let go of Rebecca, and Darla took my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen. “Let’s get washed up.”

  That night, I lay awake in bed for more than an hour. Darla was on one side of me; Rebecca, Max, and Anna on the other. My aunt and uncle still hadn’t come to bed. The kids called out or moaned occasionally in their sleep—nightmares, I assumed.

  From her breathing, I could tell Darla wasn’t sleeping, either. I put an arm over her shoulder and hugged her closer. “You okay?” I whispered.

  Her body heaved and she choked back a sob.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Shh. You don’t have to be tough all the time.”

  “I . . . I never killed anyone before.”

  “I know.” I stroked her back.

  “It’s not like killing a rabbit or pig.”

  “No.”

  “Does it get better?”

  I thought about Ferret and Target—bandits I’d killed during our escape f
rom Iowa last year. They still occasionally starred in my own nightmares. “No.”

  Darla snuggled against my shoulder. I couldn’t hear her crying, but I felt the tears washing my neck. It was a long time before she fell asleep.

  My side ached and my thoughts raced. I stared into the darkness, thinking about my trip from Cedar Falls last year, about all the people who’d helped me during my journey.

  My thoughts turned to Mom and Dad. I couldn’t call up a clear picture of either of them. I mean, I knew what they looked like, but the images were blurry. I lay awake, struggling to remember my parents’ faces until Uncle Paul called to me in the grayness just before dawn.

  Chapter 4

  We ate a huge breakfast. Duck eggs scrambled with kale from our farm and ham we’d gotten in trade from Warren. Everyone was silent, like they had so much to say, they couldn’t decide where to start. It made me uncomfortable, so I wolfed my food and excused myself.

  Bikezilla’s load bed was packed with bags and bundles. Darla untied the ropes holding down the load and started poking through it.

  “I packed everything you’ll need,” Uncle Paul said.

  “Doesn’t hurt to check,” Darla replied.

  The pistol and the shotgun, Blue Betsy, were there along with a box of shells. I was a little surprised. That gun, with the extra ammo, was worth a fortune. People everywhere were hoarding weapons, so their value had skyrocketed since the eruption. By now, the shotgun and shells were probably worth as much as a small herd of goats or a flock of egg-laying ducks.

  The shotgun wasn’t the most valuable thing Uncle Paul had given us, though. Twenty small envelopes made from pages of an old Dan Brown novel were tucked into a cloth pouch. Each envelope contained two hundred carefully counted kale seeds. One packet like these had been enough to buy the snowmobile, tandem bike, and a welding rig in Warren. If, before the eruption, someone had handed me a briefcase stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, it would have been about this valuable.