Authors: Mike Mullin

Tags: #Teen Fantasy Fiction

Ashen Winter (45 page)

BOOK: Ashen Winter

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We had a little party of hugs and smiles right there in the hallway. For a moment, I was able to forget the horrors of Iowa. The moment passed quickly. They looked tired and wan. After the joy of our reunion had passed, I saw something else in their faces. Fear.

“Rebecca. I’m sorry,” I whispered, “about Dad.”

She scowled at me for a moment before her face melted, and she started sobbing. I pulled her into a hug.

I started trying to explain. “I, he—”

“I know,” she choked out the words between her sobs. “Mom told me. How he saved your lives.”

We held each other like that for a bit, while everyone else shuffled uncomfortably around us. Eventually I tried changing the subject. “You going to the meeting tonight?”

“No.” She broke the hug, folded her arms, and scowled. “They say I’m not an adult.”

“That’s crazy! At fourteen you’re old enough to walk and chew bubble gum at the same time—of course you’re an adult!”

Rebecca punched my arm, hard enough to hurt. She’d gotten a
lot
stronger.

“Seriously, would you do me a huge favor? Keep an eye on Darla while I’m gone at the meeting—”

“You get to go? That’s so not fair.”

“I know. Look, Darla’s sick. Just make sure she stays in bed and rests and get her water and food if she’ll eat.”

“There
isn’t
any food, Alex.”

How could I explain to my little sister that I’d brought food and fully intended to make sure Darla ate even if everyone else in the camp starved? “Never mind the food.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She got shot. The wound is infected.”

“Got plenty of that around here. Yeah, I’ll watch her.”

“Thanks. Love you, sis.” I kissed her on the forehead and left.

Uncle Paul, Aunt Caroline, Mom, Alyssa, Ben, and I went to the meeting together. A huge bonfire had been lit between the edge of the camp and the woods. Everyone crowded in close enough to absorb the heat radiating from the fire.

The mayor of Warren, Bob Petty, stepped even closer, so that the fire illuminated his face as he spoke. Soon he was sweating, and the orange light glinting from his wet face gave him a demonic look.

His speech was long and convoluted, but basically it boiled down to this: Since Stockton invaded Warren, the mayor had assigned scouts to keep watch and look for an opportunity to fight back. Stockton had only moved a small amount of pork and kale out of Warren in the week they’d held it. But earlier today, eleven trucks had pulled into Warren. They were being loaded with pork, kale, and cornmeal, the food the people of Warren needed to survive. The mayor had decided that instead of waiting to starve on the farm, every able-bodied person with a weapon would try to retake Warren. He ended his speech with a bunch of meaningless rah-rah stuff and instructions to be ready at dawn.

When the applause and scattered cheers died down, Ben spoke into the silence. “That is a stupid plan,” he said in a loud voice. A few people booed, but Ben went on, “It does not make sense to attack where the enemy is expecting it or when he expects it. A better alternative—”

Ben kept talking, but the mayor shouted over him. “You’re not from Warren, son, and I don’t recall asking for your opinion. It’s decided.”

The crowd broke out into a babble of conversation. I sucked in a deep breath and bellowed, “He’s right! It’s like sparring. You never strike where your opponent expects you to.”

The mayor glared at me. “And what would you suggest?” His voice practically dripped with derision.

“Attack Stockton,” I said. “All their fighters will be in Warren. They won’t be expecting it.”

“Our food is in Warren, not Stockton!” someone yelled.

“Their homes, wives, and children are in Stockton,” I replied. “Once we control it, we can negotiate.”

“We’re not going to negotiate with the aggressors,” the mayor yelled. “Tomorrow we’re going to Warren to get our food back! This meeting is adjourned. Get a good night’s sleep—we leave at dawn.”

Dispirited, I turned away from the fire. We trudged back to the house in silence, except for Ben, who talked nonstop about famous military attacks that had failed because they were too predictable. Uncle Paul got an oil lamp off a hook in the entryway and lit it using a stick from the hearth in the living-room-cum-hospital.

Upstairs I paused at the door to the girls’ room. I wanted to talk to Darla but didn’t want to wake her. I heard voices through the door and knocked. “Come in,” Rebecca called.

It was pitch black inside. The light from Uncle Paul’s lamp receded down the hall. “You guys make a place for Alyssa to sleep?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Rebecca said. “Let me get some light.” I heard a thump, thump and then Rebecca pushed past me carrying a tiny oil lamp, like they used to put on tables at fancy restaurants. She lit it from Uncle Paul’s lamp and returned to the bedroom. Since when had she gotten so efficient? Amazing what a volcanic eruption can do to change a pesky little sister into an ally.

There were two beds in the small bedroom and two places to sleep on the floor, made up with extra blankets and pillows. Darla was snuggled into the far bed. Her face looked wan but more peaceful than I’d seen it since we’d rescued her.

“You okay?” I asked her.

She shrugged at me and told Rebecca and Anna, “I want to talk to Alex for a minute. Alone, okay?”

“Sure,” Rebecca said. “Yell when you’re done.” Anna got out of her bed. She was fully clothed—they all were. It was freezing in that room. They went into the hall, and I closed the door and sat beside Darla’s bed.

“You seem better,” I said.

“Maybe a little.”

“That’s good.”

We lapsed into silence for a moment.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

She reached out and grabbed my hand. “Dr. McCarthy says you might blame yourself for what happened to me.”

“I should never have stood up on that overpass. Never have dragged you back to Iowa with me.”

“You didn’t drag anyone. I insisted on going.”

“But I—”

“But nothing, Alex. Maybe standing up on that overpass was a mistake. Maybe not. But you came for me. You found me and saved me.” She crushed my hand in hers.

“I always will,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to help with the attack on Warren. It’s a stupid attack, at least that’s what Ben thinks, and he’s probably the smartest guy here. But whatever happens, I’m going to find a way to survive and come back to you. Because I love you. And I always will.”

“I . . . ” Darla’s eyes brimmed with tears, “I love you, too, Alex.”

Her words fell on me like rain in a desert, bringing the promise of a glorious field of new blossoms. “We’ll make a place for ourselves in this shitty world somehow. We’ll find a way to make the life we want, to get married and have a family. I swear we will.”

Darla reached out, pulling me down onto the bed alongside her. My father was dead, my mother crushed with grief. I couldn’t surrender my burdens—the life-and-death decisions we had to make on an almost daily basis in this new world. But together, Darla and I would carry them.

As we embraced, my spirit soared. I was seized by a fierce joy. I would survive. I would survive and do battle at Darla’s side. We would fight together to make a place in this disaster-hewn world—a place where we could live in peace.

Or die trying.

Author’s Note

The severity of the volcanic winter that would follow a supervolcano eruption is the subject of considerable debate in the scientific community. The most commonly held view is that a volcanic winter would lower the average global temperature by 5 – 9° F for a period of 6 to 10 years. Other scientists believe the temperature change would be much less drastic, on the order of 2° F. Yet another hypothesis, the controversial Toba Catastrophe Theory, holds that a such an eruption could trigger a volcanic winter so severe that it would lead to an ice age. As a novelist, I’ve chosen to depict the most severe—and dramatic—possibility.

Acknowledgments

The process of creating
Ashen Winter
led me to a host of subjects that I knew nothing about. I’m indebted to the following people for their technical help. Any errors that remain are probably the result of my bullheaded refusal to take their good advice:

• Carol Oates, Linda Poitevin, Nick Liwosz, Jill Robinson, and Zack Robinson for patiently answering my questions about autism and for suggesting numerous changes to
Ashen Winter
—I couldn’t have brought Ben to life without you.

• Joseph E. Boling for training with his extensive collection of pistols and shotguns.

• Terry Farley for teaching me the rudiments of operating an M4 carbine, Uzi submachine gun, and Remington 300 sniper rifle.

• Fred Ropkey of the Ropkey Armor Museum for allowing me to crawl all over and under his beautifully restored M35A2 and for loaning me its operation and repair manuals.

• Helen-Louise Boling and Josh Mugele for their help on medical questions.

• Ray Liwosz for his pharmaceutical expertise.

• Ken Bandy for training on shortwave radio operation and his wife Carol for putting up with me while I kept asking “just one more question” an hour after dinner was on the table.

• Aubrey Wesson for advice on the properties of propane, natural gas, and BLEVE explosions.

Thanks to my critique group, the YA Cannibals (Shannon Alexander, Lisa Fipps, Robert Kent, Jody Sparks, and Virginia Vought), for making
Ashen Winter
take months longer to write than I anticipated. The extra time was worth it.

Thanks to Karen Brissette and Kathrina Senft for their cheerleading of
Ashfall
and helpful comments on the
Ashen Winter
manuscript.

Thanks to everyone associated with Tanglewood Press and Publisher’s Group West for making my first publishing experience a wonderful one. I particularly appreciate Rebecca Grose for her superbly well-organized book tours and Erin Blacketer for making my life easier. Above all, thank you to Peggy Tierney. She never loses sight of why we do this—for our readers.

On that note, thanks to all my readers. Your enthusiasm buoys me when I begin to sink into the dark water of self-doubt.

Thank you to all the booksellers, librarians, and teachers who’ve helped
Ashfall
connect with its readership. I dedicated
Ashen Winter
to my mother partly in your honor: she was a teacher before I was born, a librarian while I grew up, and is now a bookseller.

Thank you to the people of Iowa and Northwest Illinois who have been so welcoming during my three research trips to the area. I’ll be back soon.

And most of all, as always, thank you Margaret: my wife, first reader, best friend, and true love.

About the Author

Photo by Larry Endircott

Mike Mullin’s first job was scraping the gum off the undersides of desks at his high school. From there, things went steadily downhill. He almost got fired by the owner of a bookstore due to his poor taste in earrings. He worked at a place that showed slides of poopy diapers during lunch (it did cut down on the cafeteria budget). The hazing process at the next company included eating live termites raised by the resident entomologist, so that didn’t last long either. For a while Mike juggled bottles at a wine shop, sometimes to disastrous effect. Oh, and then there was the job where swarms of wasps occasionally tried to chase him off ladders. So he’s really glad this writing thing seems to be working out.

Mike holds a black belt in Songahm Taekwondo. He lives in Indianapolis with his wife and her three cats.
Ashen Winter
is his second novel. His debut,
Ashfall
, was named one of the top five young adult novels of 2011 by National Public Radio, a Best Teen Book of 2011 by Kirkus Reviews, and a New Voices selection by the American Booksellers Association.

Connect with Mike at
www.mikemullinauthor.com
.

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