Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

into the apartment building, but there was no way to break in that wouldn’t make my presence obvious. Finally, at dusk, they abandoned the garage, trooping back into the apartment building beneath me.
    I crawled off the roof and stalked across the field between the apartment building and maintenance shed. The snow here had all been packed down by something—I couldn’t see well enough to tell what had done it—boots, truck tires, or snowmobile tracks, most likely. The surface was slippery, but at least my footprints wouldn’t show.
    When I got closer to the shed, I could see part of the reason the fire looked smaller than it had during the daytime—the big sliding doors were mostly closed. I crept toward the opening. I could faintly hear the crackle of the fire and something else underneath that sound: a low, regular rumbling I couldn’t quite identify. It sounded a bit like the purr of a well-tuned engine. I was so close that the heat of the fire warmed my side, but I still couldn’t figure out exactly what I was hearing.
    After about five minutes of this, I decided that whatever was making the noise probably wasn’t a threat and leaned sideways to peer into the shed.
    A snoring man in a filthy orange sleeping bag lay on the far side of the fire, facing directly toward me.

Chapter 35
    Most of the guy’s body was hidden by the sleeping bag, but judging by the way it bulged, he was huge—fat, heavily muscled, or both. His eyes were closed, and he was snoring gently. Why couldn’t Darla snore like that instead of her grizzly bear roar?
    Thinking about Darla brought a wave of sadness so intense I had to bite my lower lip to hold in a sob. I pulled my head back, trying to get my feelings under control. If I found Darla, I’d gladly stay up all night just to listen to her beautiful garbage-disposal snore.
    When I’d calmed down a bit, I thought about the guy by the fire. There had to be a reason he was there. He was guarding something. The snowmobiles and the trucks maybe. Maybe something else. Maybe Darla.
    I looked back through the opening. The guard was still snoring rhythmically. I measured the space between the sliding doors with my eyes. I’d fit sideways, but not with my pack on, and I didn’t want to go anywhere without my pack.
    I slipped it off my shoulders and held it out to my side. Slowly I took a step sideways, sliding my pack through the opening, careful not to touch the metal doors lest they make noise. I stared at the guard, looking for any sign of wakefulness. The fire was so close to the doors, I was almost standing in it when I got inside. I held my pack as high as I could, but my arm was still hot from the flames. If the nylon on my pack melted, the smell alone might wake him. I stepped to the side, pulling my arm and backpack away from the fire.
    The pickup truck was parked to one side of the fire. On the other side was an open space big enough for another truck. Beyond that I saw a row of snowmobiles—four intact and one in pieces. I didn’t see any sign of the cloth-topped deuce that had carried Darla away from me. I slipped behind the pickup truck, out of sight of the sleeping guard, and crouched to catch my breath.
    It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim light on the shadowed side of the pickup. When they did, I saw a workbench loaded with tools. Next to it stood a dozen or more tall cylindrical tanks. Beyond that, in one corner there was an old minivan resting on blocks. The other corner had been walled off. Corrugated steel formed an interior room of some kind, its metal door directly ahead of me.
    Judging by the snoring, the guard was still sleeping soundly. I slipped my pack back over my shoulders and slunk toward the door.
    There were two handles—one affixed to the door and another to the frame. Someone had jammed the broken arm of a large ratchet through both of them, holding the door closed. Why would they bar the door from the outside? To keep someone in?
    Trembling with excitement, I slipped the ratchet out of the handles. It made a scraping sound that seemed impossibly loud in my ears. I turned to look toward the fire, but the pickup blocked my view of the guard, so I couldn’t tell if I’d woken him. A creaking noise sounded behind me. I spun back; the door was slowly opening inward of its own accord.
    I looked inside, half expecting to see Darla in the dim light. But nobody was there—the door was falling open because of some quirk in the building.