Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

heal okay.”
    “I want to go out to my uncle’s farm,” I said. “Can you keep him here until Darla and I get back?”
    “You mean, restrain him?” Dr. McCarthy said. “No, I won’t do that. You could talk to the sheriff about it, though.”
    “I guess we’ll stay here until he wakes up then?” I looked at Darla.
    She nodded. “Is there someplace to sleep around here?”
    “We have a cot in the other exam room—one of you can use the exam table.” Dr. McCarthy picked up the tray that held his instruments. “So long as you’re waiting for him to wake up, would you take the night shift for us? Belinda and I have been trading off for six months now—a couple of nights off would be great.”
    “You sure?” I said. “What if a patient comes?”
    “Yeah, you’ll be fine. I’ll show you where my house is. If you need me, one of you stay with the patients, the other run to get me.”
    Somehow I got stuck on the exam table that night while Darla got the cot. Well, I knew how it happened—I offered her the cot and she said, “Sure, thanks,” when I was hoping she’d say, “No, you take it.” Anyway, the metal table was uncomfortable despite the sleeping bag I spread over it.
    So I was awake to hear the moans emanating from the room next door when the bandit woke up. I rolled off the table and padded over there in my socks, trying not to wake Darla. In the hall we’d left a lantern, turned to its lowest possible setting, in case the guy woke up. I turned the lantern a little higher and carried it into his room.
    He was rolling around under his blankets, moaning “’a’er, ’a’er” in a breathy voice. I figured out what he wanted and poured some water from the jug on the counter into a plastic cup.
    His hands were shaking so badly, he couldn’t hold the cup. So I propped him up with one arm and poured the water slowly past his lips.
    After he drank about half the cup, he started coughing. That went on for a while—a series of dry, rasping coughs that had to be painful with his fresh stitches. When his coughing subsided, he motioned at the water cup, and I helped him drink the rest of it.
    As I turned to put the cup away, he said in a surprisingly clear voice, “Thank you.”
    I put the cup down and came back to his bedside. “What’s your name?”
    “Ralph.”
    “You know where Bill got that shotgun?”
    He grabbed my arm, clutching it tightly enough to hurt. “The bones, they’re burning. Burning. White ends turn brown and blacken in the fire.” He levered himself partway upright and stared into my eyes. “The flame eats, but it’s never satisfied. It eats all night, every night, but there aren’t enough bones.”
    “What about the shotgun?” I pried his hand off my arm.
    He moaned, then whispered, “There are too many bones.” Then, abruptly, he fell back to sleep.

Chapter 9
    Dr. McCarthy returned to the office early the next morning. He poked his head into the exam room, letting in a sliver of light. “You guys up?”
    I groaned. I’d barely slept. “I am now.”
    “Bring your breakfast into the office so we don’t have to light another lantern, would you?”
    “Sure.” I rolled out from under the blankets and groped for my coat. Darla was already up.
    Dr. McCarthy stepped into the room and raised the lantern. Darla grabbed a couple packages of ham from our pack, and I picked up our toothbrushes and the pail of washwater. A crust of ice had formed on it overnight. All three of us trooped into the hall.
    “I’ve got to check on the patient,” Dr. McCarthy said.
    Darla and I waited in the dark hallway while the doctor checked on Ralph. It took less than five minutes. “How is he?” I asked as Dr. McCarthy emerged.
    “Unconscious. Pulse and breathing are okay, but he’s running a fever.”
    “You think he’ll wake up today?”
    “No way to tell.”
    As we were eating breakfast, the mayor of Warren, Bob Petty, joined us. He was the only person I knew who’d retained his pre-volcano roundness—in his face, belly, and stentorian baritone voice. “Heard you’ve got a bandit here, Jim.”
    “They brought him in.” Dr. McCarthy tilted his head at Darla and me.
    “You catch him out at your uncle’s farm?”
    “Sort of,” Darla said. “We killed two of them. One got away.”
    “We can’t have his type here. I’ll send the sheriff to escort him out.”
    “You will not ,” Dr. McCarthy said emphatically. “Bandit or not, he’s a patient. And he’s