Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

pack?”
    “I know you got more of them greens,” Mary Sue replied.
    “I don’t, and if I catch you in my backpack again, I’ll break your arm.” I forced her wrist toward her neck, emphasizing just how easy it would be to break her arm in this position. Mary Sue whimpered quietly.
    I let go of her wrist and rolled off her. Mary Sue crawled away. Ben and Alyssa hadn’t even woken up. Mary Sue’s enmity didn’t make any sense to me—I’d given her dandelion greens, kale seeds, and ammo. Maybe it was a case of mama tiger gone rogue. I lay awake for an hour or more, wondering if she would return and force me to make good on my threat. To my relief, she never did.
    • • •
    I woke with the dawn. It took us less than ten minutes to get packed. Eli offered to make us breakfast, but I declined. I didn’t want to spend any more time than I had to in close proximity to his wife. He and Brand said goodbye, clasping arms with me and Alyssa. Ben was already in the truck. Mary Sue wouldn’t even meet my eyes, and the girls were too shy to shake our hands or offer hugs.
    “Come back anytime,” Eli said as I climbed into the truck.
    “I will,” I lied. The scowl on Mary Sue’s face told me exactly how welcome I’d be if I ever showed up again.
    I slammed the door, pushed the starter, and stalled the truck. Not my proudest moment. But on the second try I found first gear, and we rolled away from the farmstead, headed east. I planned to turn north at the first opportunity and loop back to Anamosa. Hopefully there’d be enough gas for Alyssa and Ben to get to Worthington after I left them. Less than a quarter tank remained. Maybe it would be enough.
    I’d driven about a half hour when we approached a small town. A sign barely protruding from the snow bank read W ELCOME TO O LIN. I drove down the abandoned and burned-out main street. The highway ended in a T on the far side of town, and a short knoll rose in the field to the left of the road.
    I slowed as I neared the intersection, looking for street signs. Without warning, a telephone pole toppled in front of us. I stomped on the brakes, sliding to a stop well before the intersection. The pole had slammed into the snow berm just ahead of us, so it was perched about four feet above the road, completely blocking our passage. I struggled to throw the truck into reverse, but I was so freaked out that I stalled it again. It didn’t matter. In the rearview mirror, I saw another telephone pole topple behind us, boxing us in.
    The worst part: A line of nine or ten men appeared at the top of the knoll, bellies in the snow, aiming rifles right down at us.

Chapter 59
    “Get down!” I yelled as I ducked below the driver’s window.
    I figured they’d start shooting. But instead I heard a voice amplified through a bullhorn, “Turn off your vehicle. Place your hands on the dashboard. Resistance will be met with deadly force.”
    Well, duh. I’d stalled “the vehicle” already. Alyssa crouched in the passenger footwell and Ben bent over so he was mostly behind the dash. Alyssa looked scared. Ben looked about the same as he always looked—a bit detached.
    “You must comply or we will open fire!” the voice boomed. “Ten . . . nine . . .”
    “Can we get out the passenger side?” I whispered.
    “Their tactical position is excellent,” Ben replied. “We could take cover on the opposite side of the truck, but if we climb the snow pile or move down the road in either direction, we’ll enter their field of fire.”
    I thought about trying to restart the truck and using it to ram the telephone pole. But they were only thirty or forty feet away, and they were above us. Would the truck’s roof stop a rifle shot from that close? I didn’t think so. As the voice counted “three . . . two . . .” I got out of the footwell, leaned forward to lay my hands on the dashboard, and told Alyssa and Ben to do the same.
    Four of them detached from the troop, sliding down the knoll toward us. They wore white and gray military camo—the first people I’d seen who had the perfect camouflage to hide in the volcanic winter. When they reached me, the nearest one wrenched open the driver’s door while another guy trained his rifle on my head. One of them searched me, efficiently and none too gently, but he took only the knife and pistol off my belt. The patch on his chest read B LACK L AKE LLC. I stifled a groan. No way did I want to repeat my experience with Black Lake, locked