Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

bundles. Darla untied the ropes holding down the load and started poking through it.
    “I packed everything you’ll need,” Uncle Paul said.
    “Doesn’t hurt to check,” Darla replied.
    The pistol and the shotgun, Blue Betsy, were there along with a box of shells. I was a little surprised. That gun, with the extra ammo, was worth a fortune. People everywhere were hoarding weapons, so their value had skyrocketed since the eruption. By now, the shotgun and shells were probably worth as much as a small herd of goats or a flock of egg-laying ducks.
    The shotgun wasn’t the most valuable thing Uncle Paul had given us, though. Twenty small envelopes made from pages of an old Dan Brown novel were tucked into a cloth pouch. Each envelope contained two hundred carefully counted kale seeds. One packet like these had been enough to buy the snowmobile, tandem bike, and a welding rig in Warren. If, before the eruption, someone had handed me a briefcase stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, it would have been about this valuable.
    I stared at the bundle, shocked into silence.
    Darla tilted her head toward Uncle Paul. “You sure?”
    He nodded. “I saved enough for a safety margin. And we’ll let a third of the next crop go to seed. We’ll be okay.”
    “I don’t know what to say,” Darla said.
    “You and Alex may not be married, and he may not be my son, but we’re all family—you, too. We take care of our own.”
    Darla’s eyes shone in the dawn light as she turned away.
    Uncle Paul pulled her into a rough hug. “You come back. Find my brother and his wife, if they’re alive. And bring that boy home, too.”
    “I will,” she said. “I will.”
    “I’m right here,” I said. “I’ll bring myself home.”
    Darla and Uncle Paul looked at me in the exact same way. Yeah, right, their faces said.
    I decided to change the subject. The pistol the bandit had used to shoot Max lay amid the bundles on Bikezilla’s bed. I picked it up. “How’s this work?”
    “I’m amazed it works at all,” Uncle Paul said. “I stripped it down and oiled it, but it’s a piece of junk—a Saturday-night special.”
    “You test fire it?” Darla asked.
    “Nope. There’s only one magazine with four bullets. I could get more .22 pistol ammo in Warren, maybe, but I don’t have any here.”
    “We should try it anyway,” Darla said. “Better to have three bullets we know work than four we’re not sure of.”
    “It worked on Max’s head yesterday. Wish it hadn’t. But go ahead if you want.”
    “I’ve never fired anything but a rifle or shotgun,” Darla said as she took the pistol from me.
    “It’s a semi-automatic,” Uncle Paul said. “Safety’s on the side. Rack the slide to chamber a round.”
    Darla clicked the safety to “Fire,” pulled the slide on top of the weapon toward her, and released it. She held the pistol in a two-handed grip and aimed at a patch of snow about ten yards off. She squeezed the trigger and I put my hands over my ears, expecting a bang. But the gun just clicked. Darla looked at Uncle Paul.
    “Misfire,” he said. “I was afraid of that. The ammo looked old.”
    Darla tried to squeeze the trigger again, but nothing happened.
    “Rack the slide to eject the dud.”
    Darla ejected the bullet, aimed, and squeezed the trigger again. Pop! It wasn’t much of a noise, even for such a small gun. A spray of snow kicked into the air where the bullet struck.
    “Well, two bullets left. Which might or might not actually fire. You may as well keep it.” She thumbed the safety on and handed it butt first to Uncle Paul.
    “No, you keep it. Maybe you’ll be able to trade it for something. Or buy some decent ammo.”
    Darla started repacking. In addition to the guns, Uncle Paul had given us a huge supply of cornmeal and dried pork, a tent, a large sleeping bag, extra blankets, extra clothing, a coil of rope, two pots, four water jugs, two spoons, a medical kit, old road maps of Illinois and Iowa, a small pair of binoculars, a lamp with an extra bottle of oil, a couple of homemade candles, and a fire-starting kit with a chunk of flint and a mess of dry, shredded oak bark.
    I had a hatchet and a five-inch Bowie knife on my belt. I carried the jahng bong , or staff, I’d made not long after I’d reached the farm eight months ago. The staff had always been one of my favorite taekwondo weapons. I snagged the package of kale seeds and tucked it into the inside pocket of my coat, against my chest.