Ashen Winter

by Mike Mullin

  Alyssa was sitting on a makeshift pile of rags and blankets. Her jacket was off. As I entered, she was pulling her sweater off. She stretched sinuously, thrusting her chest out. I couldn’t help but stare.

  When her head popped free of the sweater, Alyssa caught me staring and smiled. I moved my focus back to her face, but it nearly took more willpower than I had to succeed.

  “What did you want to talk about?” I asked.

  “When that guy, Deke, ran into me, you were the first one there.” Under the sweater Alyssa had on a heavy, long-sleeved flannel shirt. Not in the least bit sexy—until she started slowly unbuttoning it.

  “I was trying to stay alert—that’s . . . that’s really distracting.”

  As Alyssa unbuttoned the flannel shirt, its plackets fell open, revealing a form-fitting, lacy scarlet shirt beneath. “What? This?” She took a deep breath.

  “Um, yeah.” I reached one hand out to her collar and held her overshirt closed.

  She placed a hand over mine. “That guy didn’t stand a chance. He was a foot taller and probably fifty pounds heavier, and you took him down with one move.”

  I shrugged. I could pull my hand away from hers, but then her overshirt would fall open again. A growing part of me wanted to let go of her shirt and not pull away, let it fall open, and see what would happen next.

  “You could have killed him.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  She lifted my pointer finger and took it between her lips, biting gently. The supple warmth of her lips drove whatever I’d been about to say from my mind. She cupped her other hand behind my neck, pulling me closer. I was clay, moldable into whatever shape Alyssa wanted. She released my finger from between her teeth and moved my hand, sliding it beneath her overshirt until it rested on her left breast.

  “Alyssa, I—”

  She bent forward and kissed me. Suddenly I was kissing her back, and she moaned, and my hand clutched at her breast, far harder than Darla would have liked.

  Darla.

  I pushed Alyssa away, a little harder than I meant to. She rocked back on the bedding.

  “What?” she said.

  “I don’t want—”

  “I can clearly see that you do want.” She reached, and I grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand inches from my groin.

  “Yeah, look. He does what he wants to, not what I tell him to.” I moved her hand farther from the, um, body part in question. “But I love Darla.”

  Her lips formed an insanely hot pout. “You can still love her. I wasn’t proposing marriage, you know.”

  I shook my head sadly. “I can’t.”

  “It’s not like she’d ever know. Even if you do find her. Even if you don’t get killed.”

  “I’d know.”

  Alyssa’s face crumpled. “You could learn to love me,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with sudden tears.

  “Maybe I could have, if I’d met you first. But I didn’t,” I said more gently.

  A tear left a glistening trail down her cheek.

  What was going on? Her moods shifted gears faster than a NASCAR driver in traffic. I was a jumble. Horny, guilty for making her cry, and angry that she’d put me in this position—all at the same time. “It’s okay,” I said, hugging her in what I hoped was a brotherly fashion. “Don’t cry.” That made her start sobbing for real.

  I held her and patted her back until her crying fit ran out. When she seemed calmer, I started buttoning her overshirt back up.

  “I’m sorry,” Alyssa said. “I’m not really a slut or anything.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Ben and me, we’ve been on our own for five months, ever since Mom and Dad were killed, and it’s, I don’t know, I feel . . . maybe lonely sometimes. I mean, I love my brother, but it’s just the two of us. And sometimes I could get the Peckerwoods to do stuff for me, if I did stuff for them, but that wasn’t . . . I only got more lonely. And so I thought that you and me . . . it would be great to have something real.”

  “You do have something real.” I clasped her hand in mine. “We’re friends, okay?”

  “Okay.” Alyssa pulled her sweater back on. “Do you think maybe I could stay here while we nap? Just as friends?”

  “Yeah. That’d be okay, I guess.” I lay down on my back on Dad’s bedroll. Alyssa snuggled against my side, one hand flung over my chest. In seconds, her breathing evened and slowed. I lay awake, staring at the canvas ceiling until Dad called us for breakfast.

  Chapter 63

  I finally got a few hours of fitful sleep after breakfast. A draft of frozen air woke me, and I peered out from under my bedding, bleary-eyed. My mother was holding the tent flap open and peeking in.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t sleeping that well, anyway.”

  “I just . . . I had to look at you. To make sure I didn’t dream up yesterday.”

  “I’m too sore to be part of your dream, Mom.” I pushed aside the layers of blankets and reached for my overcoat.

  Mom brought me a pail of water so cold that a rim of ice had already formed at its edges. I brushed my teeth with Dad’s toothbrush. Icy spikes of cold stabbed my hands and face as I washed. When I finished, Mom took me to see her school.

  Several clear plastic tarps were hung from poles in the center of the camp, forming a rough tent about fifteen feet square. Mom pushed aside the corner of the plastic and gestured for me to enter. Inside, about a dozen students, mostly girls, sat in a circle around the perimeter of the tent. A rangy, gray-haired woman stood in the center, reading from a warped copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “Melba,” Mom said, “this is my son, Alex.”

  The woman looked up. “Pleased to meet you. Will you be joining our class?”

  “I’ve already read that book,” I said.

  “If you don’t mind,” Mom said, addressing Melba, “maybe Alex could teach this section? A self-defense seminar? He’s got a black belt in taekwondo.”

  “Certainly.” Melba closed and pocketed her book.

  “You could have given me a little warning,” I whispered to Mom.

  “You’ll do fine.”

  I stepped into the center of the makeshift room. “Saved by the sub, huh? There’s nothing more boring than English.” I looked around. Nobody was smiling.

  Melba stared daggers at me. “Let’s welcome Mr. Halprin properly,” she said, extending her hand.

  I reached to shake her hand, but she clasped my thumb instead and did a little stutter step, moving closer to me and bending my arm. Her other hand grabbed my elbow, her foot hooked mine, and suddenly I was flat on my back staring up at her.

  “That,” Melba said, “is what is colloquially referred to as a ‘chicken wing.’ My English classes are not boring, Mr. Halprin. And I also teach a judo seminar.”

  A chuckle passed around the room, and I felt my face flush. “Sorry, I should have warned you,” Mom said. Melba held out her hand to help me up, but I rolled instead, coming up in a defensive stance.

  “Good throw,” I said. “You know the counter?”

  Melba nodded.

  “Let’s demonstrate it,” I held out my hand again, and we worked through the counter-move in slow motion. Taekwondo doesn’t emphasize throws the way judo does, so Melba was better at them, but now that I was prepared, I mostly held my own. Soon I was into the rhythm of the class: demonstrating moves with Melba, coaching students, and pairing them off to practice.

  I called a short break after about a half hour. “I’ve got to go check on the other classes,” Mom said.

  “There are more?”

  “Dozens. We do martial arts in here since it’s the biggest space we have. I call it the LGI.”

  “LGI?”

  “Large Group Instruction,” Mom snorted. “See you at dinner.”

  • • •

  We repeated the ambush that night using Alyssa as bait again. It was mind-numbingly boring; I
had to fight to stay alert all night, and absolutely nothing happened.

  Ben had spent the night observing the guards. He joined Dad, Alyssa, and me as we were getting ready for breakfast.

  “Did you figure out an escape plan?” I asked Ben.

  “Yes. But I need more time to observe the guards and confirm it will work flawlessly.”

  “I don’t have more time.” My brain was stuck in a loop, thinking that Darla might not have more time, either.

  “We’ve been over this,” Dad said. “You might never find her. You might get killed trying. Our family is going to stick together.”

  “I know, but—”

  “There’s the minor problem of the fence, razor wire, and guards, too,” Alyssa said.

  “It’s not a significant problem,” Ben said. “The guard pattern has vulnerabilities, and with a simple weighted canvas sling the razor wire can be defeated. There’s a device purpose-built for precisely that . . .”

  Ben kept talking. I figured he might never shut up, so I talked over him. “Dad, I’m going to leave. If you want us to stay together, you’re welcome to come along.”

  “That’s not going to happen. Your mother and I have a responsibility here. We’re going to do whatever we can to protect these people. Whatever that takes!” Dad was practically yelling at me, talking far louder than needed to be heard over Ben.

  “It’s useless, anyway,” Alyssa said. “Walking around all night freezing my ass off. This is never going to work.”

  Ben interrupted his own discourse on methods for breaching fences. “It will work. Statistically, it’s not likely to work on any given night, but with enough trial runs, it’s virtually certain to succeed.”

  “Whatever, computer boy. I’m going to get a decent night’s sleep tonight for once.” She wheeled around and stomped toward the breakfast line.

  Ben’s hands were fluttering at his side. “No . . . no, no, no. The Sister Unit must complete Ben’s plan.”

  “Jesus, Ben. It’s not always about you!” she yelled over her shoulder. I’d never seen her dis her brother like that before.

  Dad was staring, eyes moving from Alyssa to Ben as if he were watching a tennis match.

  Ben started screaming in that high-pitched monotone of his. He lashed out, and his fist hit the side of his own head with a thud. I reached for his arm, trying to stop him from hurting himself. When I touched his arm, he punched wildly. I jumped back, and his forearm swished through the air where my head had been. His foot connected with a tent, tearing away one of its ropes from the canvas. People shouted from within, and Ben fell, tripped by his own kick, arms and legs still wildly flailing.

  Dad grabbed Ben, trying to hold him down. But Dad had trouble even getting a firm grip—Ben thrashed with the insane violence of a fish just tossed in the bottom of a boat. Plus, he was bigger than Dad.

  Ben wasn’t exactly throwing a temper tantrum. It was too violent and uncontrolled for that. When he fell, he didn’t throw out his arms or protect his head. He never looked to see if we were watching—I doubted he was even aware of us by that point. He seemed utterly out of control.

  Suddenly Alyssa was back. She threw herself on top of Ben. She was like a cowboy on a bull at a rodeo—it’d be a miracle if she survived eight seconds. “Let go of him!” she screamed. “Don’t touch him! It’ll make it worse.”

  That seemed odd—she was lying on top of him. That didn’t count as touching? But I figured she knew her brother better than any of us, so I pulled Dad off Ben.

  Alyssa clung to Ben. Her voice dropped to a measured whisper. “It’s okay, Ben. We’ll keep trying your plan. You need to calm down.”

  Ben kept thrashing, almost throwing off Alyssa. I was afraid she’d get hurt. When my little sister had thrown temper tantrums, the moment she got what she wanted, the tantrum was over. This was different. Alyssa brushed her glove along Ben’s side, whispering at him in an impossibly calm voice.

  Gradually Ben quieted. It took fifteen or twenty minutes more, but eventually Alyssa got off him, he stood up and brushed the snow off his clothing, and we went on as if absolutely nothing had happened.

  I turned to my father. “One more night. Then I’m leaving, with or without your help.”

  Dad’s only reply was a scowl.

  • • •

  We moved our ambush spot that night. I was so sick of chanting “This Little Piggy” that I thought I might puke. I tried “Hickory Dickory Dock” for a while, then switched to counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi . . . five hundred Mississippi . . . one thousand Mississipi. I figured it was taking me a second just to say the numbers at that point, so I dropped the Mississippis, too.

  Sometime after 4 A.M.—I’d just reached 21,300 in my count—everything changed. A group of shadows slipped out from between the tents behind Alyssa. Then a hand reached around her face, clamping over her mouth.

  Chapter 64

  I burst from under the tent in an explosive lunge, reaching the closest of the attackers in seconds. Four black-clad shapes had surrounded Alyssa. One of them was turning my way. I swept his legs from under him with a round kick and hit him in the side of the head with a right backfist as he fell. Even as my backfist connected, I was reaching toward the next one with a left uppercut to the stomach and launching a sidekick at a third attacker.

  Suddenly it was all over. Dad and his four prefects swarmed over the attackers. There were six of us and four of them, and we’d taken them by surprise from behind. They all went down. Someone produced a hank of rope and started tying their hands behind their backs.

  “You okay?” I asked Alyssa.

  “Y-y-yeah.” She was shaking.

  I hugged her. “You did good,” I whispered.

  “You, too.” Her cheeks were wet as she cried soundlessly.

  The prefects had hauled all the bandits to their feet. Everyone seemed to be okay, other than some bruises.

  “What will you do with them?” Alyssa asked Dad.

  “Find out who they are. How they got into the camp. Figure out how to stop them—if we can.” We’d started walking back toward the center of camp, the tied bandits in tow.

  “You think it’d be okay if I went to lie down?” Alyssa asked.

  “Yeah, I think that’d be fine,” Dad replied.

  I caught her hand and squeezed it. “You did good. You were brave.”

  “I don’t feel brave. But thanks.”

  Dad directed that each of the bandits be held separately. I followed him as he pushed one of the guys into a tent big enough to stand up in. After a moment we were joined by one of the prefects, Amy Jones, who took the shake light from Dad.

  Dad stood behind the bandit, holding his bound arms. “Search him,” Dad ordered. It was strange to hear him giving orders—as if he’d been replaced by a different man who looked like my father. Amy was holding the flashlight, so it fell to me to do the search. I started at his neck, working my way down. When I patted the guy’s right ankle, I felt a long, slender shape under his pant leg.

  He kicked without warning, aiming for my face. I got my hand between his foot and my head, but the force of the kick still knocked me backward. Dad hauled up on his arms so hard I heard his shoulders crack. The guy moaned, and Dad said, “Kick my son again, and I’ll break your arms off and ram them down your throat.”

  The guy fell quiet, and I rolled back to my feet. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said.

  “Get on with it,” Dad snapped.

  I pulled up the bandit’s pant leg and extracted a wicked knife from its sheath. It was at least six inches long, with a blood gutter and evil-looking serrations along its spine.

  Dad ripped off the bandit’s black ski mask. He was dirtier than we were, his unkempt black beard caked with filth, and his face streaked with dirt and ash. Up until then, I’d thought maybe the bandits were guards, up to some kind of mischief in their off time, but all the guards I’d seen were far cleaner than he was.

  “All you got
is a knife?” Dad asked.

  The guy was silent.

  “Which one of you is in charge?”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you shee-it,” he replied with a cocky smile.

  “Make sure he can’t kick you again,” Dad said to me.

  I moved to the side, out of kicking range. Dad seized the guy’s pinkie in his fist and bent it sharply upward. It made a sickening snap as it broke, and the bandit screamed. I turned away. This was my father, the same guy who had never wanted to watch “CSI” on TV because it was too gory?

  I heard a slap and looked back in time to see Dad pull his hand away from the side of the guy’s head. “Now quit screaming! What’s your name?”

  “Shawn,” he gasped.

  “You have any other weapons?”

  “Ain’t allowed to bring no others.”

  “Not allowed by who? Why? Who’s in charge?”

  “I can’t—”

  Dad grabbed his ring finger. This time he had to work to peel it away from Shawn’s fist. But it snapped as easily as the pinkie. Shawn screamed again. My chest heaved, and I tasted bile. “You’ve got eight more chances to tell me,” Dad stated. The calmness of his voice terrified me, and I wasn’t the one having my fingers broken.

  “Cody . . . Cody’s in charge.” Shawn was panting. “Can’t bring guns in, case this happens and you get ’em.”

  “Where are you all from?”

  “I was in Anamosa when the volcano blew.”

  “And now?”

  Shawn hesitated, and Dad started peeling his middle finger off his fist. “Quit!” he yelled. “Iowa City!”

  “So you’re in one of the prison gangs?”

  “Yeah.” Tears were streaking the dirt on Shawn’s face.

  “Which one?” There was a long pause.

  “Ah, fu—” He screamed as Dad snapped his middle finger, interrupting whatever he was going to say. “You could have just looked at my tats.”

  “Where?” Dad asked.

  “Over my heart.”

  Dad looked at me, and I pulled the guy’s coat and shirts up. Tattooed across his chest in an ugly blue color in fancy script were the letters DWB inside an outline of the state of Iowa.