Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

futile, hopeless gesture—like flying a flag on a sinking ship. I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with stale, oily air and my heart with renewed determination. So long as any light remained, I would struggle to survive and to find Darla.
    The clanging crescendoed, like a series of hammer blows, and there was a sharp crack.
    “Throw my ever-lovin’ tie rods!” someone yelled, almost in my ear.
    “What’s wrong now?” The other voice was as rough as a dry, gravel-filled creek bed.
    “Blasted bolt sheared. I cain’t work in these conditions.” He’d switched to a fake Cajun accent— zhees condishawns .
    “If I had a gallon of gas for every time you said that—”
    “Yeah, yeah, you’d be the richest punk in Iowa. Come on, I think there’s another M35 in the far corner.”
    I listened until the sound of their boots striking the concrete floor faded. Then I let out the breath I’d been holding and relaxed, slumping to the floor of the truck.
    I was stiff, sore, ravenously hungry, and to top it all off, I desperately needed to pee. I crept to the back of the truck, stuck my head through the flap, and looked around. This corner of the garage was dark and quiet, although I could hear the rough noises of men working and talking nearby.
    I slipped out of the back of the truck and stood on the bumper, peering around. The garage doors were open, letting in the weak, postvolcanic morning light. The inside of the office was dark—its windows as opaque as sunglasses. At the far corner of the garage, a torch spread a separate pool of light, but the intervening trucks blocked my line of sight to whoever carried it.
    It seemed safe enough where I was, at least for now. I turned my attention to more pressing problems—pressing on my bladder, that was. I could pee in the corner of the garage, just a few steps away. But if anyone came back here, the smell would be unmistakable. I spent a few minutes searching for a gas can, bottle, or some other container. I found nothing. Then the obvious solution to my problem hit me.
    I found what I was looking for on the passenger’s side of the truck I’d slept in. I unscrewed the gas cap, but I wasn’t tall enough. I had to crouch on the running board to relieve myself into the tank. When I closed the tank, I couldn’t smell anything except the grease and smoke odor of the garage and my own sweat. Problem solved—although the Peckerwoods were going to have a rude surprise if they ever tried to start that truck again.
    For breakfast, I had three strips of beef jerky, a handful of wilted dandelion leaves, and a bottle of water. I had at least ten pounds of cornmeal in my pack but no good way to cook it.
    After breakfast, I crept back out to explore. The rest and food had refreshed and revived me. I would discover a way out of this garage today. If Darla was alive, I would find her.
    Two guys were working by torchlight in one corner, struggling to remove something they called an alternator bracket from a dilapidated truck. I hid behind a nearby pickup and listened to their conversation until I’d heard, “I cain’t work in zhees condishawns ” so often that I was tempted to stuff a sock down the guy’s fake Cajun throat.
    Instead, I watched the office from the safety of the shadows under a parked pickup. For a long time, everything was still. I wondered if I might simply be able to saunter out into the light.
    Then I caught a flicker of movement from inside the guardroom. As I continued watching, I saw more motion—dark shadows of arms or heads floating, appearing disembodied within the darkness of the room. I thought about it a minute—the outside of the guardroom was brighter than the inside, so I couldn’t see in, but the guards could see out, no problem. If I tried to waltz through the garage doors, I’d be painfully obvious, and probably painfully dead shortly thereafter.
    I watched and waited, growing more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by, turning steadily to hours. When my stomach reminded me to eat, I retreated to the truck I’d slept in. As I ate a lunch of beef jerky, I thought about the situation. I couldn’t keep waiting and watching. But getting killed wouldn’t help, either. Maybe I could put a truck into neutral and push it into the guard shack? Or attack the two mechanics—they might be carrying keys.
    The sputter of an engine growling to life interrupted my thoughts. I stuffed the remains of my lunch into my pack and slung it over