Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

couldn’t approach the sled without being seen.
    The four bandits grabbed a knotted rope and started hauling the toboggan away. Max’s blood drew an erratic pink streak in the snow. I couldn’t let them abduct my sister and cousins. Rebecca was the only family I had left. I’d rather die than lie there in the snow and watch her being taken. I had a black belt in taekwondo. I’d been forced to use it during my flight from Iowa last year. But trying to fight four of them at once? Suicide.
    Suddenly it struck me: All I had to do was slow them down until Darla came with help. If I could get them to talk . . . I stood up. “Stop!” I shouted.
    All four of them turned. Three gun barrels swiveled toward me. I sent fruitless orders to my knees to be still.
    “Leave the girls. Take me instead.” I was relieved my voice didn’t quaver. Much.
    Handgun stalked toward me until he was less than thirty feet away. His mouth twisted in a cruel leer, and he raised his gun, aiming at my head.

Chapter 2
    I was dead. He was too far away for me to rush him, too close for the bullet to miss. Trying to talk was a stupid idea—the last stupid decision I’d get to make.
    A gun barked. Handgun was thrown sideways, arms splayed, as blood bloomed at the side of his chest. I glanced left. Darla was about 100 feet off, kneeling in the snow, her eye sighting down the length of Uncle Paul’s hunting rifle.
    Shotgun raised his weapon, business end pointed at me. Max, whom I’d feared was dead, punched at the bandit, aiming for his groin. He missed, hitting Shotgun in the hip. The gun wavered and boomed. My side felt like it had been stung by a dozen angry hornets, though most of the pellets flew wide, peppering the snow beside me.
    Another rifle shot rang out. The bullet caught Shotgun square in the chest and threw him backward against the toboggan.
    I was running forward without ever having made a conscious decision to charge. I had to get to Machine Pistol before he started spraying bullets everywhere.
    Blue Scarf turned and ran. Machine Pistol hesitated, then stepped backward and raised his gun at me. Darla shot again but missed. I put everything I had into my insane charge, screaming at the top of my lungs. Maybe he’d just shoot me instead of spraying Max and the girls.
    Instead, he lowered his gun and fled.
    Darla fired again. Machine Pistol stumbled, but collected himself and kept running.
    I staggered to Max, my body trembling with fear and adrenaline. A bullet had carved a narrow trough along his temple. Blood soaked the side of his hat, scarves, and coat.
    “Get the hell out of my field of fire!” Darla screamed.
    I ducked, hoping she could fire past both of us. Bright red blood poured from Max’s head, gushing in time with his heartbeat. I hesitated a moment, unsure what to do. A year ago I would have screamed for help and called 911. Now nobody but Darla would hear me scream. The phone wouldn’t work, and even if it did, there was no one to answer it.
    I knew how to stop the bleeding—put a clean cloth over it and apply pressure. But what if his skull were cracked? Wouldn’t pushing on it make it worse, maybe kill him?
    I stripped off my gloves and started probing the wound as gently as I could with my fingertips. Max moaned. He was shaking and sweating despite the cold. My hands dripped blood.
    Darla was alongside the sled now, kneeling in the snow and firing at the fleeing bandits.
    Max’s temple was firm under my fingertips—which I hoped meant his skull wasn’t broken. I ripped off one of my scarves and pressed it against his head.
    “They’re in the south hollow, running like wild rabbits,” Darla said as she lifted the rifle and stood. She took the knife off her belt and started cutting Rebecca and Anna free.
    “This wound is going to have to be sewn up,” I told her.
    “I can do it,” Darla said—she’d stitched up a vicious wound in my side last year.
    “I think we should get Dr. McCarthy. What if he’s got a concussion or a break I didn’t find?”
    “Okay,” she replied.
    “Rebecca?” I asked. “You okay?” She didn’t look okay. She was trembling and rubbing her wrists.
    “Not really,” she said. “What should I do?”
    “Can you run to the woods and get Aunt Caroline and Uncle Paul?”
    She took a deep breath. “I’ll be right back.” She took two tentative steps toward the house, and then changed direction, sprinting for the woods.
    Max’s blood had already soaked through my