Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

few days after you left. Took it over. Threw everybody out of town. That’s why they’re all here.”
    “Why?”
    “Out of food. Wanted Warren’s store of pork and kale, I guess.”
    “Bastards!” I said. “Like we don’t have enough to deal with?”
    Uncle Paul nodded grimly. “I’ll take your mother up to the house and let everyone know you’re coming.”
    I hugged him and turned away, trudging back through the dead forest.
    I returned to the truck, filled everyone else in, and drove back to the front side of the farm on Canyon Park Road.
    When I got closer to it, I could see that tent city was too generous a description of the chaotic settlement that had engulfed Uncle Paul’s farm. Sure, there were tents. There were also crude wooden shacks, igloos, lean-tos crafted from tree branches, and structures that appeared to be made of plastic scraps and twigs. People were moving everywhere, and hundreds of small fires burned within the camp.
    Thirty or forty people were working to build something new. They’d erected a wall—about a dozen stout logs lashed together with their bases buried and tops sharpened. If they planned to encircle the whole camp, they had a lot of work ahead of them.
    We couldn’t get very close to the house—all the makeshift shelters blocked the driveway. I parked at the edge of the road and grabbed the backpack with the food, slinging it over my shoulder. I carried one of the assault rifles and handed the other one to Darla.
    As we set out for the house, Darla stumbled. She handed her rifle to Alyssa.
    “I don’t know how to use one of these,” Alyssa protested.
    “Just carry it!” Darla snapped. “And fake it.”
    Instead Alyssa handed the assault rifle to Ben and helped Darla thread her way through the camp, supporting her with a hand under her shoulder.
    The house still stank of goat, which surprised me. Surely if there wasn’t enough food, they would have slaughtered all the goats. But then I heard a bleat from the direction of the guest room and realized that Uncle Paul was protecting a few. Maybe he was planning to breed them. There was also an unclean stink, like rotting flesh and feces. When I stepped through the small entryway to the living room, I saw why.
    All the living room furniture was gone, replaced with a dozen crude pallets packed into the limited floor space. A fire roared in the hearth. The room was crowded with the sick and the dying. Some had bloodstained bandages on their torsos. One was missing most of his arm. Others just looked sweaty and feverish. It was horrible—I couldn’t bring Darla in here.
    Dr. McCarthy and Belinda were both there, working together to roll a patient over.
    “Dr. McCarthy,” I said.
    “Good to see you, Alex! Give me a sec.” Dr. McCarthy finished rolling the patient, and Belinda started cleaning his backside with a sponge.
    Dr. McCarthy stood. “You look like hell.”
    “I’m okay. Darla’s sick,” I said.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Bullet wound in my shoulder,” Darla said. “It’s infected.”
    “Come into the kitchen,” Dr. McCarthy replied.
    The kitchen table had been draped with a sheet and pressed into service as an exam table. Alyssa tried to help Darla onto the table, but Darla pushed her hand away and levered herself up. Alyssa shrugged it off.
    “All the rest of you, clear out,” Dr. McCarthy said.
    Darla seized my hand, holding me there as Alyssa and Ben left. “He stays,” she said.
    Dr. McCarthy shrugged. “You can help hold her. I’ve got to clean and debride that wound and check to see if the bullet is still in there. You remember what that’s like.”
    I nodded, my thoughts as grim as the look on Darla’s face. Dr. McCarthy passed Darla the familiar leather-wrapped stick.
    When he started working on Darla’s shoulder, her face turned vivid red, and she started sweating despite the cold air. She gripped my hand so hard I could feel my bones grinding together. When he started cutting away the dead flesh around her wound, she screamed around the stick and tried to launch herself off the table. I fell across her, pinning her arms down.
    Finally, mercifully, Darla passed out. I collapsed into a chair as Dr. McCarthy finished treating her shoulder. He didn’t sew up the wound—just painted it with antiseptic and affixed a bandage over it. I was relieved not to have to help: My head swam in a way that suggested I might be following Darla to la-la land shortly. I stumbled to my feet and