Ashen Winter (43 page)

Alyssa and I got out. I ran to Darla. She was conscious but dazed. I helped her into the front seat of the truck, buckling her into the middle, where she’d be next to me.

I turned back toward Mom. “Can you drive?” I asked.

Her eyes were focused on a world apart from this one. Maybe her hearing was damaged, too.

“Mom!” I shouted.

Her lips were still. She stared past the dying glow of the wreck.

I took Mom’s hand. I led her like a child into the passenger seat of the pickup and buckled the seat belt around her. When I slipped back out of the truck, I saw Alyssa brushing Ben, trying to coax him into motion.

“We’ve got to go,” I told Alyssa.

She nodded at me and led Ben toward the truck. They slid into the back seat. I put the truck in drive and headed north, away from Iowa City and the DWB slavers, toward Warren and the safety of Uncle Paul’s farm.

The windshield was cracked so badly, it was tough to see through it. I had to bend my body and crane my neck to peer through a patch of clear glass.

I found a map in the glove compartment and handed it to Alyssa. Darla had passed out again, and Mom was awake but in another world. Alyssa charted a course that skirted around Anamosa and its prison. Each time we reached an intersection, she would point the right direction and yell. I still couldn’t make out words, but at least I could hear that she was saying something now.

My ears started buzzing with a high-pitched whine. I took that as a good sign, even though it was incredibly annoying. I was constantly dizzy—I worried I’d accidentally drive into a snow berm. About twenty miles out of Iowa City, I got so nauseated I had to pull over and vomit on the icy road.

My eyelids were drooping. Mom, Darla, and Ben were completely zoned out. I fought to stay awake, biting my lip, slapping my face, and pinching my legs. The cold air rushing through the broken side windows helped some, but I didn’t think I could keep going long enough to get us to Warren. And Darla needed help—soon.

I wanted nothing more than to stop, curl up, and cry. To mourn my father. To try to help Darla with her infection and my mother with her grief. But I had to go on. The frozen roads of Iowa were no safe place for funerals or remembrances. I pointed to Worthington on Alyssa’s map. “Go there.”

She nodded.

“I don’t know if it’ll still be there, because the Peckerwoods in Cascade were planning to attack. Hope the walls held.”

Alyssa nodded and said something I couldn’t hear.

By the time we reached Worthington, it was late afternoon. We approached from the west on 272nd Street. There was no gate on this side, just a sheer ice wall towering above the road, blocking it completely.

I could make out figures running atop the wall, so I stopped the truck well out of rifle range.

I looked over my shoulder. Mom and Ben were awake but dazed. “I can’t go talk to them,” I said to Alyssa.

She shrugged.

“My ears. They’re still not working. You’ll have to go do it. If they look like Peckerwoods, run. If they’re farmers, tell them you’re with Alex Halprin, and we’ve got Darla Edmunds with us and she’s hurt. Tell them I’ve still got kale seeds to trade. Ask for the librarian, Rita Mae. She’ll help.”

“Okay,” Alyssa yelled into my ear. I was amazed I could sort of hear her in an echoey way.

Alyssa tumbled out the rear door. She trudged toward Worthington, her hands up and palms out. There were nine or ten people on the wall now. I hoped they were farmers, citizens of Worthington, but I couldn’t tell from this distance. All of them aimed guns at her.

A lump of guilt lodged in my throat. I should be the one walking out there alone. But since I couldn’t hear any commands, I might get myself shot. And surely Alyssa would seem to be less of a threat by herself.

There was one thing I could do: If something went wrong, I could drive up and get her. I put my hands back on the steering wheel, put the truck in gear, and rested my foot on the brake. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

Alyssa stopped a few hundred feet from the wall and stood there for a long time. When she finally started back, she moved at a far brisker pace than she had on the way in.

When she reached us, I couldn’t contain my impatience. “Did Worthington hold out? Did you talk to Rita Mae? Will they let us in?”

With a combination of shouted words and gestures, Alyssa told me that, yes, Worthington had beaten back the Peckerwoods’ attack, and they would let us in. Apparently there was a road around Worthington adjacent to the wall that we could follow to reach the town’s only gate.

I inched forward under the guns of Worthington’s defenders. The road along the wall turned out to be more of a track of packed snow than an actual road. Still, the four-wheel drive dually handled it with ease. The DWBs were murderous cannibals, but they sure had good taste in pickups.

At the gate we had to surrender our guns. I still had the assault rifle Dad had taken from Chad, and the gun mounted on the roof turned out to be another assault rifle. I hadn’t thought to check earlier.

I pulled the truck up in front of the low metal building that housed the fire station, city hall, and library. Mayor Kenda came out to meet us before I’d even stepped from the truck.

She yelled something at me, but I couldn’t make out the words. I pointed at my ears. She said something else, and Alyssa shot me a worried look.

“Is Rita Mae around?” I asked.

Mayor Kenda said something else, and Alyssa answered her.

I’d had enough of being outside the loop of this conversation. I knew Mayor Kenda meant well, but she might decide that the best thing for us would be to take our truck and keep us here in Worthington, where we’d be “safe.” I strode directly to the library door and jerked it open.

Rita Mae was at her desk, reading by the light of an oil lamp. She had one hand on the shotgun propped against a bookcase, but when she saw me her face broke into a huge grin. She let go of the shotgun and darted around her desk. She hugged me surprisingly hard for such a tiny old lady, and I struggled not to collapse and pull us both off our feet.

When Rita Mae broke the embrace, she started talking to me. I could make out a word here or there, but not enough to follow what she was saying. I pointed to my ears and pantomimed an explosion.

Rita Mae got it right away. She took a stubby library pencil and a sheet of paper that looked like it was the fly-leaf from a book off her desk. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again,” she wrote.

“Darla’s gunshot wound is bad,” I said. “We need help.” I swayed on my feet and grabbed the edge of the desk for support.

“Paramedic’s in the fire station,” Rita Mae wrote. She tucked the paper and pencil into her pocket, grabbed my arm, and led me out of the library.

I tried to veer toward the pickup where Darla was, but Rita Mae pulled me to the pedestrian door of the fire station. Inside, the station was sparsely illuminated by a small fire smoldering on the concrete floor. A man in a worn paramedic uniform sat on a metal folding chair beside the fire. Rita Mae said something, and he sprang to his feet, rushing past us toward the pickup.

A small hole had been cut high up on a nearby wall to let out the smoke. A row of cots lay to the left of the fire. On the right, there was another room created with make-shift curtains. More metal folding chairs were scattered randomly throughout both rooms. There wasn’t a fire truck in the station. When I’d been here last year, it had been stuck in the ash outside—obviously it had been moved, but not back into its garage.

The paramedic returned, carrying Darla in his arms. He ushered me into the curtained area, and Rita Mae followed us. Inside, there was a vinyl exam couch, two rolling chairs, and a stainless-steel table with cabinets under it.

The paramedic examined Darla efficiently, inspecting the wound in her shoulder and taking her temperature, blood pressure, and pulse.

“Can you treat the infection?” I asked.

The paramedic said something I couldn’t make out. Rita Mae whipped out her paper and pencil and wrote out his words for me. “I’m not supposed to have to treat everything. I just stabilize them and drive them to the Mercy Medical in Dyersville. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.”

“She needs antibiotics, right?”

“Yes. And a doctor to clean and debride that wound.”

“So what do we do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” the paramedic replied. His voice was so loud and anguished that I could understand it even without Rita Mae’s written translation.

“Nothing?” I yelled. “At least give her some antibiotics!”

“Can’t. They’re rationed. Mayor Kenda keeps them locked up.”

“They’re—” I stepped away from the paramedic and slammed my palm into the corrugated metal wall. The pain got me thinking again.

I dug around in my jacket and pulled out the last eleven packets of kale seeds. “I want a ten-day course of antibiotics and a week’s worth of food for five people.” It suddenly occurred to me that kale seeds might not be as valuable now. Presumably Worthington would be growing the ones I’d traded to them right after Darla was shot. I dug deeper in my pocket, pulled out one of my carefully hoarded bags of wheat, and handed it to Rita Mae with all the kale seeds.

“I can get a lot more than that if you give me time to negotiate,” Rita Mae wrote.

“I don’t care. We’re leaving Worthington in fifteen minutes. I’m taking Darla to Dr. McCarthy in Warren.”

“You’re falling down on your feet. You leave now you’ll wreck your truck.”

I started to yell that I didn’t care but bit back my words. She had a point. Crashing on the way to Warren wouldn’t get Darla the help she needed. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “We should get Darla started on her antibiotics, get something to eat, and sleep a few hours.”

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?”