Ashen Winter (4 page)
We raced along the trail for a half hour or so before it intersected a twelve-foot-high snowbank that ran north and south as far as I could see. Darla stopped Bikezilla beside it. Deep leg holes had been punched into the snow. Our two bandits had struggled across the bank directly in front of us. One of them had been leaking blood, staining the snow pink. I stood on the pedals, trying to get enough height to see over the berm. “Can’t see over. Scout it on foot?”
“Yeah, guess so.”
We dismounted Bikezilla and clambered over the snow berm.
On the other side there was a road, plowed but not salted. A fine dusting of snow blew over the icy surface the plow had left. It looked little-used, which wasn’t surprising: Nobody but FEMA had much gas anymore. Keeping the roads clear was about the only useful thing FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, was doing—they were often more of a danger than a help to survivors.
“Well, they didn’t cross here,” Darla said as she inspected the far side of the road.
Between the packed surface and blowing snow, no footprints were visible anymore. Figuring they’d probably keep going in the same general direction, I wandered south. About 50 feet down the road, a drop of blood stained the snow. I turned and discovered that Darla had been following me.
“They’re heading south, away from Warren. How are we going to get Bikezilla across that mountain of snow?” I asked as we walked back to the bike.
“Get up some speed and jump it, maybe?”
“Jump it?” It sounded more like a formula for a wreck than a plan.
“Yeah, sure. Didn’t you ever watch snowmobile races on TV?
“Um, no.”
“You’re weird. Snowmobile races are the best. Were, anyway.” Her voice sounded uncharacteristically nostalgic.
“If you say so.” I climbed onto Bikezilla’s back seat.
We strained to get the bike moving, and Darla steered us in a wide arc until we were lined up perpendicular to the snowbank. She shifted into a higher gear and stood up on the pedals. I stood, too, pounding my legs down, trying to put on as much speed as possible. As we flew up to the berm, Darla yelled, “Hold on!”
Bikezilla tilted backward and my stomach lurched as the front ski started to climb. Then it caught in a nearly vertical wall of snow, and the back end of the bike kicked up, throwing me over the handlebars and into Darla. We face-planted into the embankment in a jumble of arms and legs.
Bikezilla fell sideways behind us and slid partway back down the slope. I lifted my head out of the snow and grabbed Darla’s arm. “You okay?”
She looked dazed for a moment. Then she grinned. “Wicked. Let’s do it again.”
I vetoed that idea. But that meant I had to listen to Darla grumble for the next fifteen minutes while we struggled to drag Bikezilla across the berm. The snow was so deep that some of it got under my jacket and into the legs of my coveralls. I checked the load bed—everything was secure, but the guns were wet, so we spent some time cleaning them. By the time we started out again, I was chilled through.
We’d made good time across the fields, but on the packed snow of the road, we flew. Within moments I was shivering. The wind didn’t help. I thought about stopping to change clothes but figured the exertion of pedaling would keep me warm enough until I dried.
Every few hundred feet, we passed another spot of blood. The bandits were moving faster, too.
We raced past two abandoned farmsteads. Plowed snow completely blocked both their driveways. Most of their outbuildings and barns had collapsed under the weight of the ash and snow.
The third farmstead we came to was different. Enough people had trudged across the berm to make a path where the driveway used to be. And someone had brushed against the snowbank, leaving a pink streak.
Darla pulled Bikezilla up beside the snowbank, where it would be hidden from the house. She slid the shotgun out from under the ropes and tried to pass it to me.
“No, you take it,” I whispered. I took my staff and the pistol instead, tucking the gun into my belt. “You ready?”
Darla nodded.
I crawled into the driveway, moving slowly and dragging my staff along. As soon as I had a clear view of the house and yard, I stopped. The path continued to the front door of the small ranch-style home. Two grain silos, a barn, and two other outbuildings were arrayed in a rough semicircle behind the house. Except for the tracks leading to the front door, the farm looked abandoned.
I whispered to Darla. “Come up to the edge of the snowbank and cover me from there. I’ll run to the house. If I make it, you follow.”
I waited until Darla squeezed in beside me with the shotgun. Then I took the pistol in one hand and my staff in the other and scuttled toward the house in a walking crouch.
The silence was eerie. My breath roared in my ears. I made it to the corner of the house and glanced around. Nothing moved. I waited . . . thirty seconds, a minute . . . then beckoned for Darla to follow.
We crept around the house, peeking in every window. Nothing stirred. The living room and kitchen were empty, but we couldn’t see into the bedrooms—the windows were blocked by miniblinds and curtains. We stopped by the side door, where we had a clear view of the driveway.
Darla planted herself beside the door, the butt of the shotgun tucked against her side. I stood to one side, staying out of her field of fire. The door jamb was splintered. A smear of blood stained the knob. With one hand I gently pushed open the door. It groaned hideously, revealing a small mudroom attached to the kitchen.
I stepped through the doorway and pressed myself against the wall while Darla scouted the kitchen with the shotgun. The kitchen connected to the living room and a pitch-black interior hallway. The carpet was covered with clumps of snow and ash, some of which held crumbling boot prints. It smelled stale and musty, despite the frozen air.
“We aren’t going to be able to see anything in that hall,” I whispered.
“You think anyone is here?” Darla whispered.
“Might be asleep. They could have walked all night.”
“Maybe. Get the lantern?”
“Yeah. Cover the door for me.”
We left the house, and Darla stepped to one side of the door so she could shoot anyone coming out. I jogged back to Bikezilla to retrieve the lantern. Lighting it was a laborious and somewhat noisy process, so I did it beside the bike. I had to strike a spark into some of the oak bark using my knife and the flint, use that to light a candle, and then, finally, fire up the lantern with the candle. Before the volcano, I never would have guessed that matches and lighters would be among the things I’d miss the most if civilization collapsed.
With the pistol on my belt, lantern in one hand, and staff in the other, I jogged back, careful to zigzag, just in case. We stalked back into the house. The hallway was empty, and all three doors at the far end of it were closed. We moved as quietly as we could, but even the whisper of my feet against the carpet sounded loud in my ears.
I opened the first door, Darla beside me with the shotgun ready. The lamplight gleamed on porcelain. A bathroom. The toilet tank was broken, the water within frozen into a block of dirty ice. I stepped inside to peek behind the shower curtain. Empty.
The second door led to a bedroom. The bed was a rumpled mess. Filthy clothes were piled in one corner, next to scattered splinters that might have once been a dresser. The room was otherwise empty.
I opened the third and last door. The lantern revealed another unmade bed. The rest of the furniture had been reduced to broken scraps.
“Check the far side of the bed,” Darla whispered.
I crept across the bedroom. Nobody was beside the bed. But as I turned to go, I noticed a bloodstain on the sheets. I swung the light in a big, slow circle, looking for more blood. And I found some: two droplets low on the closed closet door. I pointed at it.
Darla nodded, and we tiptoed to the closet. I grasped the knob, standing to one side, while Darla trained the shotgun on the center of the door. I yanked it open.
A blond man sat on the floor, his right side soaked in blood, wild blue eyes flicking up at us. The shelves and closet bar were empty. But I noticed all that in passing. What really caught my attention was the machine pistol he had trained on Darla.
“Take it easy,” I said, trying to pitch my voice low and calm. “No need for anyone to get hurt.”
“You know,” Darla said, “if I pull this trigger it’ll turn you into bloody confetti.”
I glared at her out of the corner of my eye. That wasn’t exactly the calm, rational tone I’d been going for.
“Thish ish a MAC-10.” The guy’s words were slurred, as if he were drunk or something. “Put all 30 rounds into you in lesh than two sheconds. Back away!”
I held up my hands, clutching my staff in one and the lantern in the other. “It’s okay. We’re backing up.” I took a slow step backward. “Chill.”
Darla hadn’t moved, and she was glaring sidelong back at me.
“Back up a step, Darla,” I said, using as calm a voice as I could muster.
Her mouth hardened to a line, but she did it, moving back a pace with the shotgun still trained on the bandit.
He started to nod. His head drooped, and his eyes closed. The MAC-10’s barrel fell. When it touched his knee, he gave a start and snapped awake, the gun barrel twitching from Darla to me and back to Darla. “Keep backing up,” he growled.
I took another slow step backward, studying the guy. His right elbow was clamped against his side. His coat and pants shone with fresh blood in the lamplight. A small puddle had collected by his right hip. He could have shot me on the farm. But he hadn’t—he’d run instead. Why? “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied, almost whispering.
“Strange first name your parents gave you, Mr. Matter,” Darla muttered.
“You had me dead to rights back on the farm. Why didn’t you shoot?”
“Was a losht cause. Can’t be washting ammo. Now git out of here!”
“We need to know where the shotgun Darla’s holding came from. Maybe we could trade. We could patch you up if you tell us about that shotgun.”
“I can see the flensing knife on your hip, boy. Don’t take me for no fool.” The gun sagged again, and he snapped it back to horizontal.
“You’re bleeding out—we could help you if you tell us what we want to know. You even
know
where the shotgun came from?”
“Course I do. Was Bill’s.” His gun dipped again.
“Where’d Bill get it?”
He raised the gun again, training it on me. “Get on out of here,” he whispered, “or I’ll drill you both.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy.” I backed out of the bedroom. Darla kept pace with me, the shotgun trained on the guy all the way.
Once we were in the hall, out of his line of sight, Darla hissed, “What now?”
“What was that?” I whispered back. “Last night you were crying about killing two of them. Today you’re ready to blow one of them away?”
“Slumbitches had it coming. Just because I felt bad about shooting them doesn’t mean it was wrong. They weren’t taking Rebecca and Anna to the state fair, you know.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.”
“So what now?”
“Just wait and listen a sec.”
Everything was still for a minute. It was so quiet in the hall that I could hear Darla’s soft breathing. Strange, that such a quiet place was almost the scene of gunfire; that bullets could easily have shredded this silence—and Darla and me with it. I rested my hands on my knees, trying to stop their trembling. My side hurt, but I welcomed the pain. Welcomed the aliveness of it.
I heard a soft thump from the bedroom. I got down on my knees to peek around the doorjamb, figuring the guy would probably expect me to be standing.
I couldn’t see anything in the darkness of the bedroom, so I thrust the lamp through the doorway. The guy had slumped sideways in the closet. The hand holding the MAC-10 was flung outward, resting on the carpet beside him. I stood and stepped quickly through the bedroom.
When I got to the guy, I stepped on his wrist so he couldn’t raise the gun. He didn’t even wake up.
Darla reached down and pried the MAC-10 from his fingers. She fiddled with it for a moment and pulled a rectangular piece off the bottom of the weapon. “Huh. Check this out.” She held the block of metal out toward me.
I shrugged. “What am I looking at?”
“The magazine, dummy. It’s empty. Guy was out of bullets. That’s why he didn’t shoot you at the farm.”
“I can see why his buddy left him here. He was bleeding out, probably slowing his friend down. But why’d he leave him with the gun? It’s valuable. And one without bullets? Useless for defense.”
Darla shrugged.
I bent over the bandit. His skin was pale as snow, and his lips looked bruised. I put the back of my hand against his mouth—he was breathing. When I checked his pulse, though, I had trouble finding it. “He’s alive, but barely.”
“Let’s melt some snow,” Darla said. “Maybe if we splash water in his face, he’ll wake up enough for us to ask him about the shotgun again.”
“Should we try to stop the bleeding first? If he dies on us—”
“Then we won’t find out anything. Yeah, I guess we should patch him up first.” Darla scowled.
I didn’t like the idea of helping this guy any more than she did. He and his buddies had shot Max, had tried to kidnap the girls for who-knew-what. But we had no good way to track the other guy—the one who’d worn a blue scarf, and I needed to know where the shotgun had come from. I yanked the guy out of the closet. Blood was still oozing from the wound at his side.
“Get the med kit off Bikezilla, would you?” I asked.
“Christ.”
I stripped the bandit to the waist while I waited for Darla to return. She had shot him low on his right side. The wound on his back was just a small puncture that had mostly quit bleeding, but the bullet had left a crater the size of a child’s fist as it exited the front.
“It’s not like we have a lot of extra bandages to waste on this guy,” Darla said when she returned with our first-aid kit.
