Ashen Winter (38 page)
“Third floor, toward the front. There is a staircase around the corner.” Ben sloshed along the hallway.
“Won’t it be locked down?” I asked as I hurried to catch up to Ben.
“Only the cellblocks will be locked down,” Ben replied.
As we reached the staircase, Dad pushed past us both. I caught his arm and tried to pass him again, but he blocked me, stopped, and shook his head. He pointed me to the rear, but when he started up the staircase I crowded his heels. Darla might be at the top of these stairs. If I could, I’d be in the front, taking them at a run. Maybe that was why Dad had wanted me to take rear guard.
The distant boom of a shotgun echoed through the stairwell. The squelching sounds our boots made ended before we reached the third floor, but the coppery stink of blood followed us.
We emerged from the stairwell into a wide corridor. Ben led us right, and we passed through double doors set into a heavy steel gate. The flashlight’s beam landed on a wide, hospital-style door. The doorplate read I
NMATE
I
NFIRMARY.
Dad and I burst through the doorway side by side. An oil lamp at the far side of the room lit up rows of hospital beds. One held a large man with a wild, unkempt beard and mustache. He was asleep or unconscious, and despite the cold room, his skin gleamed with sweat.
A weathered woman in her fifties stood leaning against a Formica desk at the back. It took me less than a second to take in the entire room and focus on the single thing that really mattered: the muzzle of a rifle, pointing directly at us.
The woman raised the rifle to her shoulder. I dove right and Dad dove left, seeking cover behind the beds. Mid-leap, I realized that I was leaving Ben, Alyssa, and Mom completely exposed.
The woman pivoted into a shooting stance, sighting down the barrel.
Alyssa shouted, “Elsa! Don’t shoot! You owe me.”
“Don’t owe nobody nothing,” she said.
I peeked over the top of the bed. Alyssa was striding down the aisle toward the woman. Ben and Mom had retreated into the hall outside.
“Those weren’t your tears splashing on my stomach? The first time you stitched me up? And then you sent me back to them!”
“Weren’t nothing I could do,” Elsa replied, her voice still gruff but softer.
“Well, there is now.” Alyssa was only ten feet from her.
“You stop there,” Elsa ordered, gesturing with the rifle.
Alyssa stopped, her palms outstretched. “That girl they brought in here, with the wound on her shoulder. Darla. Where is she?”
“You mean Biter? Don’t know nothing about no Darla.”
I stood up. “Biter?”
“Yeah. Crazy girl. Had to strap her to the bed, she fought so hard. Beeyotch bit my thumb.” Elsa took one hand off the rifle and waved her thumb. A crusty, dull-red scab encircled it.
“You tied Darla to a bed?” I was up and striding toward Elsa before I had time to think about it.
Elsa’s hand slapped back into place on the rifle as she leveled it at my chest. “Had to gag her, too, so she wouldn’t bite none of our fingers off.”
“You . . . you gagged her? So help me God if she was raped. . . .” I passed Alyssa and kept walking.
“Alex . . .” Dad whispered.
I strode directly toward the gun until my chest was pressed against the barrel so hard I could feel the circle it made in my flesh. This was my fault. I should never have stood up on that overpass. Warning Earl and his guys about the ambush had been a horrible mistake. Darla had told me, over and over, that we had to look out for each other first. If I’d listened, if I hadn’t screwed up, she wouldn’t have been a prisoner. Wouldn’t have been . . .
“Where is she?” I yelled.
“You back off or I’ll pull this trigger,” Elsa said. Her voice quavered, and her hands shook.
“You’d best not,” Alyssa said, her voice soft and menacing.
Elsa took some of the slack off the trigger. I didn’t care. I pressed my chest harder against the barrel, forcing Elsa to step back. Her legs were pushed against the desk now.
“Where’s Darla!” I whipped my hand out, slapping the barrel of the rifle in an open-handed strike. It flew from Elsa’s hands and clattered against the wall ten feet away. Pain flared in my hand. I didn’t care. More fuel for my rage.
“Sh-she’s not here.” Elsa’s hands were in front of her face, palms out, as if warding off an angry demon. She backed up farther, sitting on the desk now.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad pick up the rifle. I stepped forward. My thighs touched Elsa’s knees. “I see that. Where. Is. She?”
“Danny had a deal with them DWBs. T-t-to get vitamin tablets and food.” Elsa glanced at Alyssa. “She was part of the trade. When you all got away, Danny had to get more goods together. Had to include a girl. He sent Biter.”
“Her name is Darla.”
“O-kay. Darla.”
I noticed my fists were balled and chambered to strike. It took a real effort of will to unclench them. “So you sent Darla to the DWBs. Where are they based?”
“When we Peckerwoods kicked them DWBs out of Anamosa, they went to Iowa City. Later we started trading with them.”
“So Darla’s in Iowa City?”
“Might be. I heard they trade stuff all over, though.”
“Stuff?”
“Drugs, guns, girls . . .”
My fists had clenched again of their own accord. “Darla is
not
‘stuff.’ No girl is.”
“Ain’t the same world now,” Elsa whispered.
I brought my fist up. Elsa flinched. At that moment, hitting her would have brought me a vicious, unclean joy. But she wasn’t worth bruising my knuckles over. She shrank into the corner near her unconscious patient, and I turned away.
Dad kept the rifle trained on Elsa. Ben had moved up beside him and was staring at the gun, muttering about Remington 700s, M24s, and M40s.
“See if you can find some ammo,” Dad said.
“I’ll look,” Alyssa replied and started sifting through the desk drawers.
I heard a moan. Mom stood straight and stiff as a board in a corner of the room, clutching the rails of a bed. She looked white as snow. I stepped over to her. “You okay?”
She turned to face me, and her right hand shot out, slapping me so hard that my head rocked back and I saw colored lights. I was so shocked I almost didn’t notice when she raised her left. I blocked her blow, catching her wrist and holding it. She drew her right back, and I caught that wrist, too.
“Do not
ever
do anything like that again!” she yelled. “Do you think I want to see my only son blown to bits? What were you thinking?” She pulled on her arms, trying to free her wrists.
Mom and I had fought often over the last three or four years, but verbally—she’d never struck me before. I easily held her wrists. It had never occurred to me that I was stronger than she was. “Are you done hitting me?”
“Yes.” She didn’t look the least bit apologetic.
I dropped her wrists. “I will do whatever it takes to find Darla. Take any risk. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“What I understand is that you’re with me and you’re alive. I want it to stay that way, Alex.”
“Getting killed doesn’t scare me half as much as returning to Warren and never finding out what happened to her. How would I live with myself if I abandoned Darla now? If I have to become as callous as the flensers, why would I want to survive?”
“You don’t even know if Darla is still alive.”
“No. But all the same, I’m going after her.”
“Doug,” Mom said, “talk some sense into your son.”
“If it were you, Janice, I’d go,” Dad replied calmly.
“That’s different, and you know it,” Mom said.
“Maybe not.”
“We’ve got no food, no supplies—”
“Got extra rounds for the rifle.” Alyssa lifted a box of ammo from the file cabinet she’d been searching.
“We need to get back to Warren. Rebecca’s all by herself,” Mom said.
“My brother and his family will keep watching over her,” Dad said.
The argument was pointless. For me, there was no decision to be made. “I’m going to Iowa City.”
“I’ll help—if you want,” Alyssa said softly. “Look for Darla, I mean.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. Why would Alyssa want to help me find Darla? But before I could ask her about it, Mom started up again.
“We’re going back to Warren. All of us. That’s final.”
“I don’t think Alex is going to Warren, honey,” Dad said mildly.
“We could make him.”
“I don’t know that we could. Even if I were willing to.”
Mom turned back to me. “Alex. I know you think—I know you love her, but you need to go back to Warren. With your family.”
“Darla is my family.”
Even by the lantern’s weak light, I could see the fury reddening Mom’s face, the tension in the cords on her neck. “We will
talk
about this later.”
I shrugged. She could talk about it all she wanted to. I was done talking.
“That’d be fine,” Dad said. “We’re going to need supplies. Help me search.”
We searched the room thoroughly. Under the desk, Alyssa found a whole stack of heavy canvas bags with Abilify and Bristol-Meyers Squibb logos on them. I stuffed one with medical supplies—bandages, a suture kit. I even found some antiseptic spray and a dozen aspirin.
We stuffed two bags with spare clothing we found in a closet. The men’s clothing was all huge—sized to fit the still unconscious patient. The only person it would fit well was Ben. The women’s clothing was the nurse’s and would fit the rest of us okay. I guessed cross-dressing beat freezing.
Mom found a lighter in a bedside table drawer. She flicked it and cracked a grim smile at the flame it produced.
Dad gave me the shake light. Then he grabbed the lantern off the desk and handed it to Alyssa. “Carry this. I want my hands free.”
“I need that lamp,” Elsa said.
“We need it more,” Dad replied, and we left Elsa and her patient behind in the darkness.
Ben led us on a devious, twisty route through the back halls and stairs of the prison. On the main floor, we emerged into a huge, industrial kitchen.
Dad made a beeline for the walk-in freezer. I hung back, having some idea about what he might find. Dad cracked the heavy metal door while Alyssa held out the lantern. He turned back around almost immediately.
“Don’t go in there,” Dad said grimly. “There’s nothing we can eat. Nothing you want to see.”
It occurred to me then that Alyssa had been held captive here for months. What had the Peckerwoods fed her? I started to ask and then thought better of it. If I’d been forced to take up cannibalism, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.
In one of the steel cabinets we found the motherlode: eight one-gallon Ziploc bags packed with coarsely ground cornmeal. We stashed them all, along with a frying pan and a pot we found hanging above the stove. We discovered three one-gallon jugs that would work to store water, once we’d melted some snow. A drawer next to the prep sink was full of butcher knives. We took one each. The knives were big and awkward—not made for fighting—but they might come in handy for chopping wood or something.
Next, Dad asked Ben to show us the way to the armory. We’d need something better than one rifle and an assortment of butcher knives to survive on the road. As he rounded the corner leading to the barracks and armory, Dad suddenly backed up, shuffling backward so fast he almost knocked Ben down. A loud pop-pop-pop echoed along the corridor.
Shards of concrete flew off the corner. Dad had barely gotten clear in time.
“Peckerwoods?” I hissed.
“Black Lake,” Dad replied.
“Quit shooting! We’re the good guys,” I hollered.
“Back up!” Dad ordered. “Now!”
We ran back down the corridor, Dad shuffling backward and pointing the rifle behind us. Maybe the gunfire had been a mistake, but none of us wanted to go back and find out.
We made our way out of the prison. The black night had been replaced by a greasy yellow light. A cluster of Black Lake mercenaries conferred by one of their trucks, but they paid no attention to us.
“Going to be a long walk to wherever we’re going,” Dad said.
“There’s a vehicle depot at the back,” I said. “We can try to liberate a truck.”
“Gas?”
“Yeah, gas, too.”
I led the way around to the back of the prison. The place was huge—just walking around it seemed like a half-mile hike.
Black Lake had beaten us to the vehicle depot. Three mercenaries were guarding it, and they flatly refused to let us “borrow” a truck or any gas. At least they didn’t shoot at us.
“Maybe we can find a car in town?” I suggested.
“Any vehicle that was run during the ashfall will be damaged,” Ben said.
“We might get lucky. Find one that was garaged. Or overhauled afterward.”
Dad shrugged.
I noticed something weird as we kept walking: Although the snow and ash had buried most of each car we passed, all of them had a clear spot over their gas caps. It didn’t matter whether the gas cap was on the left or right side of the car or which way the car was facing.
I stopped by one of the cars and pried open the gas hatch. The plastic cap unscrewed easily, and no air hissed out. I smelled only a faint odor of gas.
“Someone take the gas out of all these cars?” I asked.
“Looks that way,” Dad said. “Why else would they just dig out the gas caps?”
“How would they do that?”
“A siphon would work,” Ben said, “or a portable pump.”
“We’re not going to be able to find gas anywhere, are we?” I said.
“If the Peckerwoods drained all the cars, surely they hit the gas stations, too,” Dad replied.
I nodded morosely.
It took only another five minutes to reach Anamosa’s small downtown. Main Street was plowed. Towering piles of snow and ash lined both sides of the street, making the road a white-and-gray canyon. A few two-story buildings peeked above the snow, their brown bricks streaked with ash and ice. The five of us looked like refugees from a bombed out Bristol-Myers Squibb convention as we lugged our packed Abilify bags awkwardly on our shoulders.
