Ashen Winter (9 page)
“We won’t—”
“That’s not what I mean. He was right that most relationships don’t last long—my friends hardly ever dated anyone more than a month. The only other girlfriend I had, Selene, lasted two months. I’ve never had a girlfriend as long as you.”
“Me, either. A boyfriend, I mean.”
“And I think I love you more now than I did the first time I said it.”
“Me, too.”
We were quiet for a moment. I knew what I wanted to say, but it was bound to come out all wrong. Or hopelessly corny. Eventually, I gave up thinking about it. “If we’re all going to die anyway, I want to die with you. And if we live, I want to live with you.”
“Like, get married?”
I hadn’t really thought about it that way. But wasn’t that what I’d just said? That I wanted to live with Darla? Forever? The idea of it was thrilling. And terrifying. “I don’t know. I’m only sixteen.”
“It’s hard to make plans.” Darla wrapped one arm around her shoulder, hugging herself. “I mean, who knows if we have a future, if we’ll survive that long.”
“We will.” I peeled her hand away from her shoulder and held it. “I mean, if there’s no future, what’s the point of trying? We’ll find my parents. Things will get better.”
“I used to love to daydream about growing up. About what my kids might look like,” Darla said wistfully. “I always thought I’d have a farm. A big red barn, fields of corn and soybeans, maybe a few head of milk cows. Five or six kids running around.”
“Five or six?”
“Yeah, being an only child sucked. So I always wanted to have lots of kids. Now . . . I don’t know.”
“Before, I never really thought about kids much,” Well, to be honest, I’d thought about the process of making them a lot. But not the result. “Now I don’t want any. Not unless things get a lot better.”
“I’ve wanted a big family since I was a little girl.”
“Well, if things do get better,” I said, “you’re going to need someone to take care of all those kids while you work on the farm. And to, um, help
make
all those kids.”
“You don’t get out of farmwork that easy, buster,” Darla said. “You can watch the kids some days, but some days you’re going to have to drive the tractor. You don’t do your fair share, and I’ll make those kids with a turkey baster, see if I don’t.”
“Do I even want to know how that works?”
“Duh, you—”
“No, I really don’t want to know. It’s just that the problem with me driving a tractor is, well . . .”
“You have no clue how to, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I always imagined marrying someone who loved farming, not some city slicker.”
I shrugged. “Well, you can’t always get everything you want.”
“If I can’t have everything I want,” Darla said, “then you can’t, either.”
“Huh?”
“Well, like getting married and having kids—we can do all that someday. But you remember what you said you wanted when we started this whole conversation?”
“Um, no.”
“Good, ’cause you can’t have it.” Darla poked me hard in the shoulder with one finger. “You said you wanted to sleep!” She pushed herself up on her arms and kissed me. I decided sleep could wait—at least for a while.
Early the next morning we set to work repacking Bikezilla. By the time we were ready to go, everyone else was up. So we had to say goodbye for the second time in three days. Coming back to the farm had its disadvantages, though when I thought about the night before, I decided the benefits outweighed them. Not just the making out, either, although that was fun. After our talk the night before, I felt closer than ever to Darla. Closer than I’d ever felt to anyone.
We finished our goodbyes and set out, staying on the route we’d mapped out with Uncle Paul. I’d fully expected to spend the day dodging bandits or FEMA patrols out to catch us and stick us in a camp. They got paid by the government according to the number of refugees they housed, so they were always looking to put stray people in their camps. Thankfully though, the roads were deserted.
Early that afternoon, we turned off South River Road onto the access road that led to Mississippi Lock and Dam #12. We biked up onto a railroad embankment, and Darla slammed on the brakes, bringing Bikezilla to a sliding stop.
Across the road ahead, I saw the chain-link gate we’d climbed over during our trip last year. But behind it there was something new: a guard shack about eight feet square with light pouring from its windows. Black Lake’s eagle logo was stenciled next to a window on the shack’s side.
Darla whipped Bikezilla into a turn, and we took off again. We’d gone about a mile when Darla finally quit pedaling and craned her neck to peer behind us. I looked, too—the road was deserted.
“You think they saw us?” Darla asked.
“I dunno. Let’s go check.”
“Let’s not and say we did. Just go around and avoid the lock.”
“I want to know if they saw us—if they’re going to be looking for us. And we promised Uncle Paul we’d try to get some wheat.” I got off the bike.
“You promised, not me.”
“Right.” I got the bolt cutter off the load bed.
Darla scowled but helped me hide Bikezilla on the other side of the berm. We trudged back to the shack, taking cover behind the berms and railroad embankment. When we got close, Darla stopped to cover me with the shotgun, and I dropped to my hands and knees. I crawled up to the fence. If anyone came out of the shack, they’d see me for sure. But if they were just casually glancing out the windows, the corner of the shack would block me from their view. With the bolt cutters, I opened a hole in the fence just big enough to slither through on my belly. The snow rasped against my coveralls as I crawled to the building and hid beneath one of its windows.
Slowly I lifted my head to peek over the windowsill. Inside, two guys in camo sat at a small table playing cards. They’d slung their assault rifles over the backs of their chairs. Three piles of wheat kernels lay between them. I felt a stab of envy—the seeds they were pushing back and forth so casually across the table were worth a fortune. If we could grow them in the greenhouses, we could have real bread again instead of corn bread and corn pone.
A bottle of Grey Goose vodka sat on the table between them, about half empty. The guards were wholly absorbed in their game—not even glancing out the windows. I crawled back to Darla.
“Two guards,” I whispered. “Playing cards. They’re betting with piles of wheat. Might be drunk—we could take them easy.”
“Let’s see what’s going on at the lock. Maybe we can get some wheat out of one of the barges without fighting.”
“And we can make sure the river is frozen while we’re there.”
“It is.”
We walked toward the river, keeping the snow berm between us and the road. It was exhausting to push through the deep snow, so I wasn’t paying much attention to where we were going. We’d walked about fifteen minutes when I stepped out into thin air. I grabbed at Darla’s hand, trying to regain my balance, but all I accomplished was pulling her with me over the drop-off in front of us.
We tumbled and slid down a steep slope. I lost hold of Darla somewhere along the way and slammed into a horizontal surface at the bottom, sliding a few feet before coming to rest. My shoulder and side hurt, but otherwise I thought I was okay.
“Darla?” I whispered.
“Yeah, over here.”
I turned over and crawled toward her. The surface was hard and slick under my gloves—ice. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
We’d fallen down a steep embankment onto ice. I didn’t think we were on the Mississippi itself—maybe one of the pools or inlets that I’d seen on the map, reaching out from the river’s banks like pudgy fingers.
“Try to climb back up?” I asked.
“No, let’s follow the embankment down here. We’ll be invisible to anyone up on the road.”
Darla took my hand and led the way, walking on the ice. After a few hundred feet the bank started to meander. Tree limbs jutted from it beside and above us. For a while we moved through some kind of narrow frozen channel—in a few places it was tight enough that I could almost touch the trees on either side. I heard a faint roar of falling water growing steadily louder as we walked.
The channel we were following opened up suddenly, and I saw a small pool of open water, beyond which stretched the wide expanse of the frozen Mississippi. On the far side, trapped by the ice and the steel jaws of the lock, was the barge we’d visited the year before. Dozens of soldiers swarmed all over it.
The soldiers were as busy as ants. Darla and I stood in plain sight, but a long way from them—maybe three or four miles across the river. I clambered up the snowy bank next to us. At the top, a grove of trees had caught the blowing snow, holding it in a deep drift. We dove in and hollowed out a foxhole, protected from the chill wind and suspicious eyes.
I raised my head above the lip of our foxhole. The river was mostly frozen. The noise of rushing water came from a pool just below us, where water cascaded over the roller dam and crashed into the river, keeping a small section of it from freezing. Spray from the churning water had frozen around the pool, creating fantastical shapes that appeared to grow out of the ice.
A red dump truck was parked on the ice, backed up against the barge at the far side of the river. The soldiers were loading the truck, passing grain along a line in five-gallon buckets—like an old-time fire brigade. Another line of soldiers was moving the empty buckets from the truck back to the barge’s hold. From our vantage point below the dam, we couldn’t see the other two barges that had been here last year, stuck in the ash and muck above the dam.
“I told you the river would freeze hard,” Darla said.
“I believed you. Well, until I heard the water. Then I wasn’t so sure.”
“Pretty efficient way to unload the barges, I guess.”
“We’re never going to get anywhere near that wheat with all those soldiers around.”
“Forget about the stupid wheat already. Christ.”
“We owe Uncle Paul. And besides, wheat might be good to trade—it’s got to be almost as valuable as kale seeds.”
“Whatever. I think we should just focus on finding your folks.”
I nodded, frowning, and Darla led the way out of the foxhole. We kept to the woods until we were completely out of sight of the barge. The river ice was still and quiet. We neither saw nor heard a sign of anyone else, though occasionally we could see the scuff marks we’d left earlier. The embankment where we’d fallen was a challenge. It was covered with a crusted, icy snow—too slick to climb easily. I kept sliding backward until Darla took the lead and started kicking toe holds in the snow.
As we got closer to the guard shack, I heard a noise ahead—a low rumbling. “What’s that?” I whispered.
“Engine. A big diesel.” Darla replied. “Let’s look.”
We wormed our way to the top of the snow berm and poked up our heads. A Humvee painted in desert camo was parked next to the hut. As we watched, the two guards I’d seen earlier stumbled out and piled into the Humvee. The guy driving did a clumsy five-point turn, tapping the snow berm with his front bumper and the guard shack with his rear. Then he pulled through the gate, and the passenger jumped out to close and padlock it. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t notice the hole I’d cut in the fence. But he was in a big hurry and didn’t spend any time looking around. When they started out again, the Humvee lurched forward, almost stalled, and then bounced up over the railroad embankment out of our sight.
“Did they abandon the hut?” I whispered.
Darla frowned. “I doubt it. Let’s get the bike and move on.”
“I want to check the hut first. Maybe they left some wheat.”
Darla shook her head but got the shotgun ready, anyway. I crawled along the snowbank toward the hut.
When I got there, I peeked over the windowsill. One guy in camo fatigues and a black watch cap was sitting at the table. A pile of wheat kernels was spread in front of him along with five or six purple cloth Crown Royal whisky bags. He was counting the wheat seeds and sorting them into bags. He sat facing the hut’s door but was so absorbed in his task that he didn’t see me.
I crawled back along the snow berm to Darla. “There’s only one guy in there now, and he’s got wheat.”
“I can’t shoot a guy just to get wheat.”
“Who said anything about shooting him? Just hold the shotgun on him, and I’ll tie him up or something.”
“What if he goes for his gun? Then I’ll have to shoot him.”
I shrugged. “You ready?”
“I guess.”
We crawled back to the guard shack together. Everything was still. We hid under the window. When I’d caught my breath, I peeked over the windowsill.
The guard was still messing around with his bags of wheat. We slithered around to the other side. A sliding-glass window faced the road, kind of like a fast-food drive-thru. Next to that was the door, a normal metal entry door with a lock on the handle and a deadbolt. I crawled up to it, reached up, and slowly, very slowly, tried turning the knob to see if it was locked. It was.
Darla pantomimed a kick. I shook my head. She had more confidence in my taekwondo skills than I did. Even with a perfect kick, I might not break the door, and then we’d completely lose the advantage of surprise.
I waved at Darla to follow and crawled around the shack to the opposite side. We peered through the window. The guard’s back was to us. His assault rifle dangled from his chair. He seemed to be completely absorbed in sorting the wheat. I raised my head to examine the window. It was an ordinary double hung, like the ones we’d had in my house in Cedar Falls. A brass latch at the top of the lower sash held it closed.
I ducked back below the windowsill and pantomimed my plan to Darla. She nodded after I went through it once, but I did the whole thing again just to make sure. By the time I finished, she was scowling and rolling her hand as if to say get on with it.
I held up three fingers . . . two . . . one.
We stood simultaneously, and Darla rammed the barrel of the shotgun through the window. The clash of breaking glass shattered the stillness. The guard swiveled in his chair and yelled, “What the—”
