Ashen Winter

by Mike Mullin

  The paramedic said something to Rita Mae. “Floyd says he’s got extra blankets,” Rita Mae wrote. “You can all stay here if you like. I’ll be back with the medicine and food.”

  Floyd had laid a heavy blanket over Darla. As I turned to help get everyone else settled, I saw Darla staring at me from the exam table. Her eyes reflected the light, shining like distant campfires on an icy winter night. I stepped toward her. I wanted, needed, to talk to her about what had happened, to learn how she’d survived. But by the time I reached her side, she was asleep again. I pulled up a chair to sit in vigil over her—as if my will alone could keep her alive.

  Chapter 84

  Rita Mae returned in less than an hour, carrying a backpack stuffed with food and drugs. Floyd woke Darla up and gave her a glass of water, two Tylenol, and a Cipro tablet. I held her hand for no more than a minute before she fell back asleep.

  Everyone else bedded down on the cots, close to the small fire. I dragged my blankets into Darla’s room and wrapped them around myself, sitting on the chair by her bed. Soon I was asleep.

  Darla haunted my dreams. She was naked and curled into a ball, alone in a vast white space. She curled up tighter and tighter, and her skin turned red and blistered, as if from sunburn. I screamed, “Darla!” but she couldn’t hear me. I ran toward her, but she receded faster than I could run. Purple and green and yellow blotches crawled across her skin, and she hunkered down even further, into an impossibly small ball. Suddenly her skin was black and charring, and then there were flames. Darla was burning before my eyes. The flames jumped and lit Mom, who was somehow beside her, and they jumped again and burned Dad. Everything charred to ash.

  Alyssa crawled toward me, blocking the cinders of my family from view. She was naked and above me, her breasts swaying pendulously, hypnotically. I was excited and ashamed. She called to me seductively, “Alex . . .,” and I lifted my head toward her.

  I woke up. “Alex! Alex!” Alyssa was above me, fully clothed. And she was shaking my shoulder and yelling my name, although it was in no way seductive. And I could hear! Not well, maybe, but well enough to understand her.

  “Yeah?” I mumbled.

  “You said you wanted to leave in four hours,” she said. “It’s time.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Alyssa left, and I stood, turning toward Darla. “You okay?” I asked as her eyes opened.

  “Shoulder hurts,” she said. “I’ll live. How about you?”

  “I’m okay. Now that I found you.” Suddenly I recalled what finding her had cost. My dad slamming the shifter into reverse. I choked back a sob.

  Darla reached out with her good hand, drawing me down into an embrace, and I bawled into the comforting semi-circle of her arm. “Shh,” she said.

  When my tears subsided, I whispered, “Things are never going to be the same again, are they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought that finding my parents would change things. Would . . . well, I knew things wouldn’t go back to the way they were before the volcano, but I thought they’d get better.”

  “Get better how?”

  “I guess I thought I wouldn’t have to carry everything on my own shoulders, every decision. It’s—I don’t always know what’s right. Sometimes I think it’d be nice to be a little kid again, to leave the weightiest decisions to my parents.”

  “Alex,” Darla said, her face serious, “you haven’t been a kid for a long time now.”

  “And now I never will be again.”

  “No.”

  I was afraid I’d start bawling again, so I changed the subject. “You, how did you—I was afraid they’d flense you or . . .”

  “Danny didn’t want to flense me. He thought I was cute.” Darla’s face twisted with disgust. “He was going to let me heal and then make me . . . take me to bed.”

  “Rape you.” I held the rail of her cot in one hand, gripping it so hard I wondered if it might crumple in my fist.

  “Yeah. But Alyssa went missing, and he had to send a girl to the Dirty White Boys as a replacement. I was handy.”

  I sat down, rested my head against her shoulder, and listened.

  “The truck broke down on the way. Radiator problem. I told them how to fix it. So when I got to Iowa City, I wound up repairing stuff for them instead of filling a bed in their whorehouse, thank God.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, as gently as I could manage. “You had a lockpick and a weapon—why were you still there?”

  “Look at me. I’m weak. And sick. I wouldn’t eat the meat the DWBs offered me, so I never got enough food to get stronger. And I never found the right moment to use my lockpick and shank until you showed up.”

  “The important thing is that you survived,” I said. “Nothing else matters to me.”

  “Well it matters to me!” Darla snapped.

  An overwhelming gratitude flooded me. I’d been insanely lucky to find her amid the chaos of Iowa. Words failed me, and I hugged her gently instead.

  Then she pushed me back out to arm’s length. “I’ve seen the way Alyssa looks at you.”

  “I rescued her and Ben. At first I thought she was you.”

  “There’s more than gratitude in her eyes.”

  “Yeah. She tried to—”

  “I knew it! I swear to God, I’ll shank that bitch.”

  “Darla, no, it’s okay. She found a way to protect herself and her brother when she was with the Peckerwoods, and she’s still falling back on that—on using sex to survive.”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Give her a break. What’s wrong is that she felt she had to—that she had no other options.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t have to trust her. You can trust me.”

  Darla stared into my eyes for a pregnant moment, then pulled me back into a hug.

  “I saved this for you,” I said, pulling away from her embrace. I extracted the broken chain from my pocket.

  Darla’s eyes shone as she fished the 15/16ths nut I’d given her out of her own pocket. “It was stuck in the layers of my shirts. I fiddled with it when things were bad. It helped.”

  I threaded the nut onto my broken chain and knotted it behind Darla’s neck. “We should get moving.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were rolling away from Worthington. Rita Mae had gotten everything I wanted, although she scolded me about not giving her enough time to negotiate properly. She’d also spent part of the night taping plastic over the broken windows of our truck. I hoped I’d see her again—she was one of the few people I trusted.

  Mom offered to drive, which I took as a good sign that she might be emerging from her daze. But her hands trembled and her voice quavered, so I told her no. She didn’t argue, which struck me as a strange role reversal.

  The black night faded to gray and then to a suppurated yellow as we drove. With the increased visibility, I punched our speed up to about forty. The roads were too uneven and slick to go any faster.

  The fuel gauge read three-quarters. I thought that would be enough to reach Warren. Maybe. If we didn’t wreck or have to take a massive detour on the way.

  Alyssa navigated. We avoided all the big towns and as many of the small burgs as we could. The few we did pass through were burned and abandoned.

  When she wasn’t busy plotting our route, Alyssa brushed Ben. He didn’t seem to need it—given everything we’d been through, he was holding up remarkably well. Maybe she was brushing him to comfort herself.

  I didn’t want to cross the Mississippi on any bridge. I assumed they’d all be watched, either by Black Lake or one of the gangs. Nor did I want to get anywhere near Lock #12 and the barges of wheat Black Lake defended. Instead, we found a boat ramp between the lock and Sabula, Iowa, and used it to drive out onto the frozen expanse of the Mississippi.

  On the far side of the river, I pulled the truck into a cove where we were sheltered by trees. We ate a breakfast of cold cornmeal mush, beef jerky, and dandelion leaves. I
didn’t leave the truck running, but the warmth from the heater lingered long enough to keep us fairly comfortable during breakfast.

  As we ate, I sat sideways in my seat, watching Darla. Her face was more angular, her cheeks concave with hunger and illness. But she was here, beside me. The miracle of it left me breathless. I stretched out a hand to hold hers.

  After breakfast I asked, “Can I check your fever?” I placed the back of my hand against Darla’s forehead.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I think the Tylenol is working.”

  I thought her forehead still felt hot, and she was slumped against the seat. “We should go.”

  I started the truck and pulled out of the cove. It took more than an hour to find a way off the ice of the Mississippi. We moved slowly in Illinois, picking our way through the back roads, trying to avoid both Galena, where there was a Black Lake camp, and Stockton, where all the roads were blocked by their crazy wall of cars. It took us almost two hours to travel the last thirty miles to Warren.

  We approached my uncle’s farm from the north—the same way Darla and I had arrived last year. I let my speed pick up a little in anticipation. Evidently there’d been a lot of traffic recently—when we left, there had been a few inches of unplowed snow on Canyon Park Road. Now it was packed solid.

  I cruised up the last rise before the farm. But when I saw it, I slammed on the brakes, fishtailing to a shivering stop. The farm was gone. In its place there was an enormous, ramshackle tent city, swarming with people.

  Chapter 85

  I slammed the shifter into reverse and backed down the hill, out of sight from the farm.

  “What are you doing?” Mom yelled.

  “Getting out of here!” I cranked the wheel over so fast the truck slid into a 180.

  “That’s your uncle’s farm! Rebecca’s down there.”

  “We don’t know who all those people are.” I shifted into drive and accelerated down the road, away from the farm. “What if they’re another flenser gang?”

  “Then we need to get in there right now!” Mom screeched. “To check on Rebecca.”

  “We’ll figure out what’s going on. And find Rebecca. But I’m not going to rush in there and risk getting us killed.”

  “You have another route in mind, Lieutenant?” Ben asked.

  “Park in Apple River Canyon and come in on foot through the forest. Scout it and see what’s going on,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “That is a sound plan.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were inside Apple River Canyon State Park, which backed directly against Uncle Paul’s farm. I pulled the truck to the side of the road. “I’ll hike to the back side of the farm, see what’s going on, and come right back. Two hours, tops.”

  “I’m going with you,” Darla said. She struggled to lift herself out of the seat.

  “No. You need to rest.”

  “Somebody needs to go with you. What if you run into trouble?”

  “I’m going,” Mom said.

  I leaned over to kiss Darla, and Alyssa suddenly became fascinated with something in the back-seat footwell. I opened my door, and Mom and I left. Slogging through the deep snow was hard work. I broke the trail, working my way through the leafless forest to approach the farm from the west. Before we were close enough to see anything, I heard the rhythmic thwacks of several axes in use. We slowed our pace, moving from tree to tree until we were close enough to see.

  A party of about a dozen men and women were felling and stripping trees. Most of them had rifles slung across their backs. Five logs were laid out in the snow already. “Isn’t that Stu, from Warren?” I whispered to Mom.

  “I don’t recognize him,” she whispered back.

  Just then, one of the men lowered his ax and turned our way.

  “Paul!” Mom yelled. She started pushing through the snow toward him.

  Still, I hesitated a second, trying to make sure.

  “Janice!” Uncle Paul dropped his axe and rushed toward us. The rest of the woodcutting party put aside their axes and unslung their rifles, eyeing me and Mom warily.

  Mom embraced Uncle Paul, and for a while there were just joyful tears of reunion. “You found them!” Uncle Paul said to me at last. “And my brother? Did he . . .”

  “Dad,” I said. “He . . . he didn’t make it.”

  Uncle Paul’s face passed through two quick transformations. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and his face broke and sagged. Then he bit his lower lip, and his face reformed as if he were delaying his grief through pure force of will. He turned to the rest of the group of woodcutters and shouted, “It’s okay! My nephew and sister-in-law are home.” They slung their guns and picked up their axes again.

  “You have any food?” Uncle Paul asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Enough for the five of us for a week or so.”

  “Five of you?”

  “Darla and two people I met on the road. Alyssa and Ben. I promised they could stay with us.”

  “Huh. Might not want to. Never mind. Keep the food a secret.”

  “Okay. That reminds me . . .” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my last, carefully hoarded bag and passed it to Uncle Paul. “Wheat.”

  Uncle Paul stowed the bag under his coat, shaking his head in admiration. “Bag could save all our lives.”

  “Our truck’s in the park. I’ve got to get back—take Darla to Dr. McCarthy in Warren. She’s hurt.”

  “Warren?” Uncle Paul said. “Dr. McCarthy is here. All of Warren is. Everybody who’s left, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Slimeballs running Stockton attacked Warren a few days after you left. Took it over. Threw everybody out of town. That’s why they’re all here.”

  “Why?”

  “Out of food. Wanted Warren’s store of pork and kale, I guess.”

  “Bastards!” I said. “Like we don’t have enough to deal with?”

  Uncle Paul nodded grimly. “I’ll take your mother up to the house and let everyone know you’re coming.”

  I hugged him and turned away, trudging back through the dead forest.

  I returned to the truck, filled everyone else in, and drove back to the front side of the farm on Canyon Park Road.

  When I got closer to it, I could see that tent city was too generous a description of the chaotic settlement that had engulfed Uncle Paul’s farm. Sure, there were tents. There were also crude wooden shacks, igloos, lean-tos crafted from tree branches, and structures that appeared to be made of plastic scraps and twigs. People were moving everywhere, and hundreds of small fires burned within the camp.

  Thirty or forty people were working to build something new. They’d erected a wall—about a dozen stout logs lashed together with their bases buried and tops sharpened. If they planned to encircle the whole camp, they had a lot of work ahead of them.

  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 planning to breed them. There was also an unclean stink, like rotting flesh and feces. When I stepped through the small entryway to the living room, I saw why.

  All the living room furniture was gone, replaced with a dozen crude pallets packed into the limited floor space. A fire roare
d 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, pinning her arms down.

  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.