Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

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.

Chapter 14
    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