Ashen Winter (24 page)
I slowly sat up. The wind ripped at my back, gusting so hard it lifted my butt off the roof now and then. I dragged my backpack onto my lap, where it was protected from the lash of the wind, and rummaged through it for the supplies I needed.
I had emptied more than half a dozen water bottles of various sizes in the two days since I’d left Worthington. The first bottles I found all had regular plastic caps. I pushed those aside, digging deeper. One of the empties got pushed out of the top of my pack, where the wind caught it. I grabbed for it, but the wind whipped it away—it spun drunkenly in the airy backwash of the truck and was gone.
Finally I found what I wanted: an Aquafina bottle with a sports cap—the kind you pop open with your teeth, squeezing liquid into your mouth. I unscrewed the cap and shoved it into my pocket, safe from the tearing wind.
The bottle of oil was all the way at the bottom of my pack, of course. I hadn’t used my lamp or lamp oil in days—the risk of someone seeing the light had been too great. I finally dug it out; it was a plastic half-gallon bottle that had probably once held milk. The oil inside was polluted and black. Perfect.
I unscrewed the cap from the jug of oil and stowed that in another pocket. Then I lifted the jug and tried to pour oil into the Aquafina bottle. The truck jostled and my hands slipped. Oil went everywhere, coating my gloves. The wind whipped the oil away from my face, but it splattered all over my legs, backpack, and the roof of the truck.
I jammed the Aquafina bottle between my legs and cupped one hand around its neck. I upended the jug, using my hand to form a pipe connecting the two bottles. Oil splashed out, running through my hand, but some of it was flowing into the bottle. By the time I finished, more than half the oil was gone, and my glove and crotch were soaked, but I had a full squeeze-bottle of oil.
My left glove was slick. I wiped it off as best I could on the leg of my coverall, reaching below the knee to find a patch of cloth not already soaked in oil. I capped the bottle and the jug and stowed the half-empty jug in my backpack. Putting a backpack on while racing along in a fifty-plus mile-per-hour wind wasn’t particularly easy, but I got it done. Clutching the squeeze bottle, I crawled back to the front of the truck.
The truck was approaching a broad S-curve in the highway. A farmstead was nestled on the inside of the curve—I could see two large concrete silos protruding above the massive snow berm that lined the road. It seemed like as good a place as any to try my crazy plan.
I clamped my left hand around the last bow supporting the front of the canvas roof, holding on in a death grip. The top of the bottle resisted my attempt to open it with one oily glove, so I pulled it open with my teeth, wincing at the acrid chemical taste. I thrust my right arm forward and squeezed on the bottle, aiming for the windshield.
A thin stream of oil flowed out about two feet, was caught by the wind, and flung back into my face. I ducked and squeezed my eyes shut, sputtering, and almost dropped the sports bottle. I rubbed my sleeve against my eyes and mouth, trying to clean them, but all I really accomplished was smearing the oil around. My eyes burned and my mouth tasted like the floor of a quick-lube joint.
Oil was splattered across the top of the truck’s hood, but none had reached my target, the front windshield. I needed to either get closer or apply more force to the bottle. Plenty of oil remained—I’d only squirted out an inch or so. Crawling across the gap between the canvas roof of the load bed and the metal roof of the cab didn’t seem like a good idea. I inched forward anyway until my head and shoulders were hanging over the gap. When I stretched out my arms now, they were above the cab, but if we hit a bump, I’d go flying. I clasped both hands around the Aquafina bottle, lacing my fingers together. Then I squeezed, groaning with the effort.
Oil shot out, coating the roof of the cab. I adjusted my aim. Now the stream arced down onto the windshield. I waved the bottle like a fire hose, still squeezing with all my might. The truck’s windshield wipers squeaked, and its brakes squealed. It fishtailed sideways, tires grinding over the icy road.
We slammed into the mountain of snow alongside the road, and I was hurled into the air.
The world spun around me, a jumble of yellow-gray sky, snow, and forest-green truck. Something slammed into my right shoulder, and I rolled down an icy hill. I plowed into fresh powder at the bottom, winding up splayed out and buried, with snow packed into my mouth and nose.
I rolled over. Spat snow from my mouth. Checked my shoulder. It felt like I’d slammed it in a car door six or eight times, but I could move it, so I figured it wasn’t broken or dislocated. I felt a trickle of warm blood seeping along my arm—I must have split open my gunshot wound.
The twin grain silos towered over me. Beside them slumped a burned out farmhouse and mostly collapsed barn. I couldn’t see the Peckerwood’s truck—the snow berm beside the road was in the way. A long, chaotic trail left by my thrashing limbs marked where I’d rolled down the side of the berm. It seemed far too quiet for the aftermath of a crash. Shouldn’t someone be screaming?
I tried to stand, but dizziness forced me back to my hands and knees. I slowly crawled up the snow berm, without using my bruised arm.
The truck had plowed into the berm and twisted so its back end was blocking the road. Its front wheels were stuck in the snow, raised three or four feet above the roadbed, so the entire truck was stuck at an angle. The front windshield was full of cracks, and a chunk about the size of a man’s head had been punched out of the passenger’s side. The windshield wipers had smeared the oil around, leaving long, half-moon streaks on what was left of the glass.
I crawled over the crest of the berm and slid down the far side. I grabbed the passenger door handle to pull myself upright, looked through the window, and recoiled in shock.
One of the guards was slumped against the passenger window, face pressed to the glass. Blood poured from his hairline, ran in rivers along his nose, sheeted over his sightless eyes, and dripped into his yawning mouth.
I took hold of the handle again. Turned it. The door opened easily. The guy fell out head first. The top of his skull was flattened and bloody.
Behind him, the driver held a pistol aimed at my head.
The pistol wavered, dipping and bobbing as the driver struggled to hold it steady. His other hand was formed into a claw, clutching the center of his chest. His face twisted in agony. He squeezed the trigger. The shot whanged off the door trim a foot from my head.
I dropped flat, under his line of fire. If I crawled away from the truck, he might be able to get an angle on me. The blood-soaked face of the dead guard was inches from mine, contorted by a zombie grin. I had to move. I wormed around the guard’s corpse and under the truck. Its front wheels had been lifted partly onto the snow berm by the crash, so I could rise to a high crawl, although my pack bumped against the undercarriage.
Now what? If the driver got out and poked his gun under the truck, I’d be as easy to kill as a pig in a slaughterhouse chute. I scuttled to the far side of the truck under the driver’s door. I glanced around—the driver’s legs weren’t visible. Either he was still in the cab, or he was standing beside the tires.
I took a deep breath, trying to still my shaking arms. My hands were icy despite my gloves, either from the chill of the frozen road or fear—maybe both. I eased my head out from under the truck, hoping the last thing I saw wouldn’t be the barrel of the pistol.
No flash or sudden retort of gunfire met me. Everything was silent, in limbo. I rolled out from under the truck and crouched to look into the cab. The driver was facing away from me—he had scooted across the bench seat to the passenger’s side.
I turned and ran toward the back of the truck, avoiding the snow berm at the front. As I sprinted past the tailgate, I looked for Darla. I figured she’d be out by now, but the back flap of the truck was still tied shut. I couldn’t see or hear her.
I skidded to a stop at the corner of the truck and peeked around. The driver’s hand and gun protruded from the open passenger door, wavering above the guard’s corpse. I broke into a flat-out sprint toward the door.
The driver was slowly emerging from the passenger door. He got his entire right arm and head out of the door. He looked over his shoulder, saw me, and started to bring his pistol around to shoot me. I jumped, launching myself in a flying front kick when I was still two steps away. My kick connected with his forearm, slamming it against the open passenger door with a sickening crunch. The pistol dropped from his suddenly limp hand. I fell, landing splayed across the corpse.
When I looked up, the driver was clutching his right arm. Either he’d magically grown a bonus elbow, or I’d broken his forearm.
I grabbed his pistol and stood. The driver had a hunting knife in a sheath on his belt. He didn’t react when I took it from him—his breath rasped in his chest, and he was too busy hunching over in extreme pain. I glanced into the cab of the truck—a shotgun lay on the floorboards, so I picked up that, too.
“Darla!” I yelled. “I could use some help out here!”
“What’s going on out there?” Her voice was faint, muffled by the canvas.
What did she think was going on? “Nothing much. I crashed the truck, subdued the guards, and got their weapons.”
“Is it safe?”
That seemed like an even stranger question for her to ask. When had it ever been safe? Not since we had met. Not since the volcano had erupted. What was going on with her? “Yeah . . .” I said anyway.
“Coming.”
I kept my gaze fixed on the driver. I needn’t have bothered. His eyes were closed, and he rocked slightly back and forth, totally absorbed in his agony.
“What the hell is going on out here?”
I looked to my left at the girl who had just stepped out from behind the truck.
She wasn’t Darla.
All the oxygen left my lungs, replaced by disbelief and pain. Like I’d taken a kick to the groin. “Who are you?”
“I’m Alyssa—I have no idea who this Darla you keep talking about is,” she said.
“I thought you were Darla.” She was the right height. Brown hair curled around her shoulders, exactly like Darla’s. But Darla had a rectangular, Midwestern face—beautiful, but tough and solid. This girl was elfin by contrast—her face almost diamond shaped, her features delicate, her tiny nose slightly upturned. I guessed she might be a year or two younger than Darla.
“Who’s Darla?” She hadn’t moved from the back of the truck.
“Where’s Darla?” I strode down the length of the truck toward her.
“How am I supposed to know? I just told you I don’t know who she is!”
“She’s a girl. Your height. Same hair. Peckerwoods took her to Anamosa.”
“Shot in her right shoulder?”
“Yes! That’s her. Where is she?”
“Clevis!” Her face twisted with rage, and she pointed behind me.
I spun. The driver had emerged from the truck and was scuttling down the road, hunched over and clutching his broken arm to his chest. As I stared, the girl grabbed the shotgun from under my arm. I turned back toward her, afraid she might try to shoot me, but she’d aimed it down the road at the driver. She tried to pull the trigger over and over again, but the gun was safetied.
“What’s wrong with this thing?” she screeched, turning back toward me and leveling the barrel at my chest.
“Whoa!” I swept the barrel aside with an inner forearm block, wincing from the pain the move triggered in my shoulder. “Don’t point that thing at me. You need to push the safety off. It’s the button on the right side,” I said automatically, instantly regretting my big mouth. Gunning down the driver as he fled seemed wrong, although letting him fetch his buddies in Anamosa wasn’t such a bright idea, either. And what if Alyssa decided to use the shotgun on me?
She snicked off the safety and pulled the trigger. Her shot was high and wide, and she hadn’t braced herself at all. The shotgun knocked her on her ass. “Piece of shit!” she screamed and threw the shotgun aside.
“Waste of a good shell,” I said wryly.
She sprang back to her feet and reached for the knife on my belt.
I caught her wrist as her fingers wrapped over the hilt. “What are you doing?” I yelled.
“Let go!” she screamed back.
The driver had picked up his pace and was more than one hundred feet down the road now.
“What are you going to do with my knife?” I asked again.
“Fine,” she said. “You win.” She released her grip on the knife hilt, and I turned and crouched to retrieve the shotgun. Something tugged at my waist, and I spun back just in time to see Alyssa running down the road toward the driver with my knife raised above her head, ready to stab.
She’d only taken a few steps when an eerie, monotone moan emanated from the truck’s load bed. She took one more step forward, then looked back, clearly undecided. Finally she pivoted and marched back to me.
“Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset Ben.”
“What are you talking about?”
She pointed the knife at me, waving it as she spoke. “Do. Not. Mess. With. My. Brother.”
“Who do you think I am, other than the guy who just rescued both of you? Give me my knife back. Please.”
She thrust the knife into her belt and turned away, marching toward the truck bed.
I looked down the road at the driver for a while. He was already out of the shotgun’s range, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t double back. I didn’t relax until he was a solid quarter mile down the road.
I turned my attention to the corpse of the truck’s passenger. A ring of keys dangled limply from his belt. I took the keys and started searching his pockets. As I searched, the moaning coming from inside the truck ended. I put the pistol in my belt, stowed the shotgun in the passenger-side footwell, and trudged to the back of the truck.
I pulled aside the canvas flap. Alyssa was crouched in the back of the truck beside the big guy I’d last seen in the Anamosa garage. They sat on a jumbled pile of wooden crates. She had a glove balled up in one hand, and she was rubbing the guy’s back with it, running it repeatedly over his coat. He was blocky, but his flesh appeared to be hung on an oversized skeleton. Like he hadn’t eaten well recently. He looked maybe nineteen or twenty years old.
