Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

could drive to Worthington,” I said to Alyssa.
    “Well, I . . . do you think your Uncle Paul would take in a couple more people?” she asked.
    “I think he’d be glad of the extra help,” I said.
    “I don’t know,” Dad said. “They were running awfully low on food when your mom and I left.”
    “Things got better. We were doing okay when Darla and I left,” I said. “And Alyssa and Ben would pull their weight.”
    “Yeah,” Alyssa said, “I’d like to go to Warren with you . . . if that’s okay.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she leaned closer to me. “You’re the only decent guy I know in this shitball world.”
    “Alyssa, I’m not—”
    She blushed. “I know you’re not interested in me that way. But we’re friends, right? I’d rather stay close to you. I don’t know why, okay?”
    “Okay.” Alyssa had seemed different—less confident—since that morning in the tent. But I’d be glad to have both her and Ben around. I put my hand over hers and squeezed.
    Mom and Dad were looking at me. “What?” I said as I released Alyssa’s hand.
    “Nothing.” Mom shook her head.
    “I’m going to try to get some sleep,” I said.
    I picked out a cot at random, lay down on my side, and rested my head on my forearm. We had missed dinner—my stomach was gnawing on a hard knot of nothing. I was exhausted and weak, but sleep refused to come.
    My thoughts spun, revolving through the same worry over and over: Darla. I knew she was alive. She had to be. I’d know it if she were dead, right? Or was that total crap made up by movie writers and believed by overly optimistic morons like me? Was she still in Anamosa? When Black Lake attacked the prison, how could I be sure she wouldn’t be hurt?
    Amid all these worries, a tiny but fierce flame burned: hope. Tomorrow I might find Darla. Finally.

Chapter 72
    It didn’t happen. The next day we were trapped in the infirmary. Black Lake employees came and went all day, setting up kerosene lanterns, bringing paper and pencils to Ben, and quizzing all of us about Anamosa and the Peckerwoods. They even brought food—some kind of wheat porridge—and more water.
    Mostly they talked to Ben. I saw Colonel Levitov twice, but he didn’t acknowledge anyone but Ben. We bugged our guards, but no one would give us any information. We passed a frustrating day of enforced rest and nervous chatter.
    • • •
    That night, I was startled out of a troubled sleep by the light from a lantern. A Black Lake guard barked, “Get up. We move out in fifteen minutes.”
    I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Getting ready in fifteen minutes was not a problem—I had nothing but the clothes I was wearing and the seeds still secreted in my jacket. I rolled out of bed, stretched, and waited for the guards.
    When they returned, they hustled us to the vehicle depot and loaded us into a big, boxy truck Ben called an FMTV. Bench seats lined the back. We were packed in with a dozen Black Lake guys in full gear. I eyed them uneasily and got nothing but glares in return. The four of us huddled at the end of one of the benches, and Dad made a point of sitting between me and the first Blake Lake guy. Our truck joined a convoy of four other vehicles full of mercenaries and their weapons.
    The ride to Anamosa took longer than I expected—maybe two hours. From inside the truck, I couldn’t tell how fast we were traveling. I tried to peek out the back of the truck once, but one of the Black Lake guys stopped me before I could even reach the latch.
    When we finally stopped, all but three Black Lake guys vaulted out. They moved without speaking, weapons cradled to their sides, in a deadly choreographed silence. I started to ask, “What—” but one of the remaining guards put his hand against my mouth.
    When I tried to climb out of the truck, he stopped me with a palm on my chest, but that didn’t keep me from looking out the back.
    It was nearly pitch black. All the trucks were shut down, their running lights off. I heard a pop and hiss, and suddenly a flare of light appeared about twenty feet ahead of me—so bright it felt as if it were burning the backs of my eyes.
    The limestone bulk of the Anamosa prison loomed above me. We had pulled up near a heavy steel side door. The light source was a welding torch that one of the mercenaries was using to slice through the lock.
    Something metallic clanked, and the guy using the torch dialed it down from white-hot to orange. Another guy