Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

jammed an oversized pry-bar between the frame and door, wrenching it open. Then all the Black Lake mercenaries sprinted into action, charging into the prison in a double file.
    I heard the muffled pop-pop of gunfire. The echoes of screams escaped the open door. None sounded feminine, but I still felt the cold hand of terror clenching my gut. Was it a massacre? If Darla was in there, would they shoot her? I tried to leave the truck again, but one of the mercenaries shoved me back so hard I fell, crashing down on a bench. I heard a distant clang, and all the sounds blended into a cacophony of death, pain, and clashing metal.
    It was over inside of twenty minutes. Colonel Levitov emerged from the prison door, barked an order, and the headlights of the truck behind ours snapped on, bathing us in light. He stepped up to our tailgate and addressed Ben. “The prison is under control. The last of the Peckerwoods here will be dead or in our custody shortly. Your intelligence was nearly perfect. Well done.” Levitov stuck out his hand.
    Ben looked at his feet. Alyssa nudged him with her elbow, and he limply placed his hand in Levitov’s, still staring downward. “You committed to releasing Ben and his friends,” Ben said.
    “I did.” Levitov released Ben’s hand and Ben balled it up, pulling it back against his chest. “You’re free to go,” Levitov continued. “Make trouble for my camp again, and I’ll see that you regret it.”
    He didn’t deserve a handshake, salute, or thank you from me. I couldn’t give him what he did deserve, so I settled for glaring at him. Evidently Mom and Dad felt the same way—they didn’t say anything to him, either.
    I jogged toward the prison door. Levitov yelled, “We haven’t finished mopping up in there.”
    Dad sprinted up to me, catching my arm just before I reached the door. “We need to clear out of here. They might still be fighting in there.”
    “Darla’s in there,” I said. “I’m going inside to look for her.”
    “We’re going back to the farm,” Mom said. “Back to Rebecca.”
    “After I find Darla.” I twisted my arm free of Dad’s grasp and ducked into the prison. Inside it was pitch black. It smelled terrible—filthy gas station bathroom blended with rank slaughterhouse. I heard Mom just outside the door, still arguing that we should return to the farm immediately.
    Dad followed me into the prison, shake light in hand. He switched on the beam. And I ducked my head, fighting back vomit. Two corpses were sprawled inside the door. A dozen or more bullets had punctured their chests, and their blood had leaked in such prodigious quantity that it nearly covered the entry hall. I was standing in it.
    I heard retching noises and looked back to see Alyssa vomiting in the corner. Ben was staring at the corpses, “These are 5.56 millimeter impact wounds,” he said, “from an AR-15 rifle. The U.S. military designation is M16. Sloppy groupings—they should do much better at short range.”
    “Whatever,” I said. “Where’s the infirmary? Where they were keeping Darla.”
    Dad said, “Alex—”
    “I’m going after her. Now.”
    “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