Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

over my shoulder.
    “Hand over the wheat,” I ordered.
    “Well why don’t you ram a barrel brush up my ass while you’re at it! That’s a whole week’s pay.”
    “Black Lake pays you in wheat?” Darla asked.
    “Only idiots take cash. There’s nowhere to spend it.”
    He had a radio on his belt and a couple of leather pouches. The first one I unsnapped had an extra magazine for the rifle, which I took. In the second, I found what I really wanted: three sets of plastic zip-tie cuffs. “I’d buy the wheat from you if you promised not to report us.”
    “Alex,” Darla said, complaint clear in her voice.
    “Buy it with what?”
    “Kale seeds. You could say you broke the window leaning back in your chair too far or something.”
    “I wouldn’t know kale seeds from bird droppings. How would I know you weren’t cheating me?”
    “It’s not like you have a choice,” Darla snapped.
    “Hands behind your back,” I ordered. He lowered his hands behind the chair back, and I slipped the plastic cuffs over his wrists, cinching them tight. Then I used the other two sets of cuffs to affix his legs to the chair.
    “I broke the window by accident and cuffed myself to the chair by accident, too?” The guard snorted.
    I checked his belt and found the knife I expected on the other side. I pulled it off his belt and tossed it into the corner. I threw his radio into the corner, too. “Cut yourself free after we’re gone.”
    I reached into my jacket, carefully extracting one envelope of seeds from the cloth bag. I laid it on the table in front of the guard.
    “Christ,” Darla said. “Those things don’t grow on trees.”
    “Sure they do.” I grinned at her. “Haven’t you ever heard of a kale tree?”
    She shook her head and glared at me, but I saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Then she tensed up. “Shit! Somebody’s coming.” She glanced around wildly. Then she dove through the open window into the shack with me. I heard the rumble of a diesel engine and a grinding noise as the driver shifted gears.
    “It’s a dump truck,” Darla said, popping up once to glance out the window. “Tall one.”
    The truck pulled up alongside the guard shack. The driver’s window was so high off the ground that there was no way he could see us. An arm reached down from the truck holding a clipboard and tapped it against the glass four times.
    The guard we’d cuffed started to yell, “Hey—”
    Darla wrapped her hand around his mouth. “Shut. Up.” she whispered.
    I took a step toward the window. But Darla had just come in through there to avoid being seen. I froze, unsure what to do.
    The radio in the corner crackled to life. “Hey, Benson, quit foolin’ around. We’ve got a schedule to keep. D.C. ain’t getting any closer while you jack off.”
    I had to do something. Now. I ripped the watch cap off the guard’s head and jammed it on my own. I stepped up to the window, looking down so that only the top of my head would be visible to the driver—hopefully. I slid the window open and took the clipboard. I cleared my throat and grunted, “Sorry,” like I had a cold or something.
    The clipboard held a manifest for a truckload of grain—600 bushels—to go to someplace called the Interim Quartermaster and Food Services Authority in Washington, D.C. There was a space for a signature marked G ATE C HECKPOINT —O RIGINATING S TATION , so I grabbed the pen dangling on a string by the window and scrawled an unreadable signature and date.
    I passed the clipboard to the driver, praying I’d get away with it, praying he wouldn’t notice my shaking hands—or the sweat dripping from my wrist.
    He took the clipboard, and there was a long pause. I balanced on the balls of my feet, ready to run.
    “Benson, you dickwad! How long are you going to make me wait to countersign, anyway? It’s already gonna be after dark when I make Atterbury.”
    I glanced around in a panic. Countersign . . . countersign what? A clipboard rested on a little table near the window. I grabbed it. A whole stack of papers was clamped in its jaw. I flipped through them—there were two types, one labeled P ERSONNEL T RANSIT R ECORD , the other labeled F REIGHT T RANSIT R ECORD. I moved a blank copy of each to the top of the stack and passed the clipboard to the driver, keeping my head low and my face out of sight.
    “You couldn’t even fill out the basic shit for me? Well, get the gate open while I do your damn job for