Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

Six by Tom Clancy. Good book.”
    “Can we trade for one?”
    “They’re usually made in brown-and-green camouflage. What we want is a white-and-gray version to blend in with the snow.”
    “Yeah. That’d be perfect.” I put down my backpack.
    “I’ll see if we can’t make something that’ll work.” Rita Mae dug through some cabinets, coming back with two old white bedsheets, a fat black Sharpie, and her sewing kit. We spent the rest of the evening tearing strips from the bedsheets, streaking them with the marker, and sewing them onto my coveralls, backpack, and ski mask.
    I tried on everything when we were done, posing in front of a full-length mirror in Rita Mae’s bedroom. I looked completely ridiculous, like a survivor of an explosion at a sheet-making factory. Still, the strips of fabric hid most of the bright colors of my clothing and pack. It wasn’t like I was a contestant in some postapocalyptic fashion show. It’d do.
    By the time we finished, we were working by lamplight. I still wanted to leave but knew Rita Mae was right about waiting for daylight. I might get lost wandering around in the black, postvolcanic night and never get close to wherever Darla was.
    We put away the sewing supplies and started dinner. I tore up dandelion leaves for a salad, while Rita Mae fried cornpone pancakes in soybean oil. The aroma of cooking brought my hunger back powerfully, despite the huge lunch I’d eaten. I ate everything, fueling my body for the coming fight. After dinner, Rita Mae made up a bed for me in the living room near the fire and said goodnight. I lay awake for a while, knowing I needed to sleep but unable to shut off my mind. Unable to stop thinking about Darla.
    • • •
    When I awoke, Rita Mae was already up. The dim yellow-gray light in the eastern windows told me it wasn’t much past dawn. We had leftover corn pone pancakes for breakfast—Rita Mae ate just one, but I wolfed six of them. I would need the energy.
    I double-checked my gear and finished packing. “You sure you want to head out there?” Rita Mae asked as I worked. “Seems like a good way to get killed.”
    “Yes,” I said and then hesitated. Was I answering yes, I wanted to go, or yes, it was a good way to get killed? Both, I decided. “If Darla’s alive, she needs me. If she’s dead, I need to know.”
    Rita Mae nodded and gently took hold of my left arm.
    “And if I get killed . . .” I shrugged, “at least I’ll have died trying to help the girl I love.”
    Rita Mae pulled me into a hug. “Guess I’ll see you as far as the gate.”
    I had to keep my pace slow to match Rita Mae’s, but I didn’t mind. I’d spent enough time with her last year and again over the last twenty-four hours that she was familiar and comfortable. I didn’t even feel the need to speak as we walked toward the south gate.
    Walking with Rita Mae brought my mother back to mind. I couldn’t remember ever just walking with Mom in comfortable silence like this. Sure, I usually hadn’t said much when we were together. But Mom always kept up a steady stream of chatter: plans, information, and admonitions that I got remarkably good at tuning out. I took Rita Mae’s hand and squeezed it once before letting it drop. She looked at me and smiled, maintaining the easy and precious silence between us.
    Perhaps I thought of my mom because it was too terrifying to think about Darla—that she might be dead or worse. Still, I had to focus. Darla first. If I survived looking for her, then I’d resume the search for my parents.
    We reached Worthington’s south gate, the one I’d entered through the day before. Two guards sat on stools beside it, four more arrayed at the top of the nearby walls. All of them were armed with rifles.
    “Open up,” Rita Mae called. “Crazy boy wants to leave our fine upstanding town.”
    One of the guards stood up. “No can do, Miz Rita.”

Chapter 33
    “What do you mean?” Rita Mae said. “Lift the bar and pull that gate open. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
    “Can’t do that. Mayor says he’s got to stay inside the city walls.”
    I strode toward the gate, figuring I’d just climb over it. One of the guards sidestepped, putting himself in my path. I butted chests with him—the top of my head barely reached his neck.
    “What right do you have to keep him here? Get out of his way and open the gate this instant, Roger Thornton!”
    “Orders are orders,” he replied. “I can open the