Ashen Winter (23 page)
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 my shoulders. I clambered out the back of the truck and onto the canvas roof to observe the center of the garage. Another cloth-topped deuce was pulled up alongside the stack of gas cans. One of the mechanics was gassing it up.
A hulking guy came around the corner of the truck. He might have been 6’4” if he had straightened up. But he walked with little mincing steps, hunched over as if he were cradling something to his chest. I couldn’t see his face or clothing; he was silhouetted in the light of the open garage doors.
I saw a flash of brown hair around him. A girl was walking beside him, shielded by his rectangular bulk. I crawled closer, sliding across the truck roof, trying to get a better look.
A pair of wiry guys strutted around the corner behind the hulk. They talked to each other in voices loud enough to be audible over the idling truck.
“Iowa City is going to be off the hook.”
“Them Dirty White Boys is scum, but they know how to party.”
All four of them had gathered in a knot at the back of the truck. One of the wiry guys let down the tailgate.
“What you waiting for?” the other guy slapped the hulk alongside his head. “Get in.”
The hulk hunched further over and moaned, an unnatural-sounding monotone noise that continued long past the point at which most people would have had to stop and breathe. The girl was saying something to him but too softly for me to hear her words.
Still moaning, the hulk took hold of the edge of the tailgate in both hands and hopped into the truck like a rabbit, both legs moving at once. There was a tinkling sound as he moved. Just before he vanished within the blackness of the truck, I saw why—his ankles and wrists were connected with lengths of heavy chain.
The girl heaved herself up onto the tailgate. I had a clear view of her back for a moment. My brain flooded with fierce light, and my heart leapt. Her height, her shape, the way her hair bunched around her shoulders—I’d recognize her anywhere. Darla.
That truck wasn’t going to leave the garage without me. Either I’d be on it, or I’d get killed trying to hitch a ride.
Darla disappeared into the blackness of the truck bed, following the hulking guy. One of the wiry guys closed the tailgate and tied down the flap. Then they strolled around the corner of the truck, heading toward the cab, out of my line of sight.
The only person I could see now was one of the mechanics. He was facing away from me, holding a five-gallon can above the truck’s gas cap.
Only about two feet separated me from the roof of the nearest truck. I crawled to the gap and reached across, eyeing the mechanic the whole time. Once my hands touched the other truck, I swung my legs across. The mechanic didn’t even glance up.
I scuttled over two more trucks in the same way until I was lined up roughly even with the one that held Darla, but three ranks back. The truck I was perched on had its hood open. The vehicles between me and the idling deuce were both pickups—there was no way I could keep hopping from roof to roof as I’d been doing.
I looked down the aisle on the left side of the truck. The two wiry guys were standing by the driver’s door of the idling truck. If I tried to sneak down that aisle, they’d spot me. But from the aisle on my right, I’d be in plain view of the mechanic. I couldn’t afford to wait—they were gassing up the truck for a reason. I had to get on it—and fast.
I slinked away from the aisle, stood, and jumped. I caught the metal girder overhead in both hands. My whole body screamed with pain—my tortured muscles being stretched by my weight. I gritted my teeth and started slowly working my way forward, hand over hand. Even with my taekwondo practice, I probably couldn’t have traversed the beam that way ten months before, swinging from my arms. But there was one advantage to being blasted back into nineteenth-century farming by the volcano: I was at least as strong as anyone I knew, except maybe Darla.
I couldn’t see the guys by the cab anymore, but I was in plain view of the mechanic. So long as he kept paying attention to the gas, I’d be okay.
I worked my way slowly along the beam. Twenty feet . . . ten . . . I hung over the bed of a pickup about ten feet below me. The mechanic pulled the spout of the gas can out of the truck and turned toward me. I froze, praying he wouldn’t look up. If I moved, he’d spot me for sure. But maybe, just maybe, it was dark enough that if I just hung there, I’d be unnoticed.
A drop of sweat rolled along the bridge of my nose. The mechanic set the gas can on a pallet loaded with empties and hefted a full can from another pallet. My arms burned from the strain of holding myself perfectly motionless, and the drop of sweat tickled my nose, threatening a sneeze.
The mechanic opened the gas can, pulled out the spout, and thrust it into the truck, turning his back to me. I breathed a silent sigh of relief and started hand-over-handing it toward Darla’s truck again.
How long would it take to empty the gas can? I didn’t know, so I moved as fast as I could. I was steadily getting closer to the mechanic. If he turned around and looked up now, there’d be no way he could miss me.
This beam didn’t pass directly over the truck. The closest I could get was about five feet from the back of it. I swung my legs, forward and back, gaining momentum and then letting go as I arced toward the truck.
I landed about in the center of the roof with a whump of compressing canvas. Instantly I fell flat, hoping the noise of the engine would cover the sound of my fall.
“What are you doing in there?” shouted one of the wiry guys.
The guy in the truck started moaning again. I heard Darla whisper, “Shh, shh.”
“Freaks,” another voice said, and they both laughed.
I pressed myself to the canvas. One of the struts supporting the roof dug into my belly.
To my right, the mechanic yelled, “Done! You only got a two-gallon reserve. You screw around at all, you won’t make it back.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the reply came.
Two doors slammed in quick succession, and the truck rolled forward. Clinging to the roof, I rode from the blackness of the garage into the thin, yellow light outside.
The truck picked up speed as we left the prison compound. It roared through a couple of turns, passing through the two-story brick buildings lining Main Street. Soon we were racing along a plowed road through the deserted and snow-smothered landscape outside of Anamosa. I figured we were going more or less south. The wind sliced viciously at my face, and I pulled my ski mask down over my eyes and mouth.
I watched as the collapsed strip mall and abandoned fast food restaurants outside Anamosa disappeared behind us. Then we passed an abandoned propane distributor, the tanks painted like giant ears of corn. I drew the knife from my belt and stabbed it into the canvas below me. The wind roared so loudly that I couldn’t hear the noise of the canvas ripping.
“Darla,” I hissed urgently through the slit in the canvas, “I’m here. Make some noise. Try to get the driver to stop.”
“What? Who—”
“Just do it! Yell, bang on the cab, whatever.” I removed my face from the slit in the canvas and crawled forward until I could see the top of the cab. I clung to the edge of the roof, poised, ready to attack when the truck stopped.
I heard some thumps below me and then Darla started to yell something. But her voice was barely loud enough to hear over the wind. I couldn’t even make out the words. Come on, Darla, I thought. I know you’ve got better pipes than that. You never had any trouble making yourself heard over the noise of the grain grinder when you thought I wasn’t pedaling fast enough.
The monotone moaning resumed. The moans were louder now—they threatened to drown out Darla’s feeble shouts. A series of thuds and thumps started a counterpoint, as if someone were beating their fists and feet against the bed of the truck. The guy’s voice broke, and the moaning was replaced by a frenzied, falsetto screaming. It was almost unbelievable that such a hulking guy could make noises like those—it sounded like a little girl throwing a full-throated temper tantrum.
That should work, I thought. It sounded like he was having a seizure. They’d have to stop and check on him.
But the truck didn’t stop. The screaming fit went on and on. I heard a snatch of laughter coming from the cab. If anything, we were speeding up. The two guys riding in the cab obviously didn’t care if one of their passengers was freaking out in back. I slumped to my belly on the roof of the truck, trying to figure out what to do. The noises from beneath me were just annoying now—it sounded more like an uncontrolled fit than an attempt to get the guards’ attention.
I had to stop the truck. If I waited until we reached our destination, there were sure to be more than two guards to deal with. I could try crawling onto the roof of the cab. There were two antennae that would make decent handholds—if I could make it to them without sliding off. And even if I did make it, then what? Try to kick in the windshield?
Maybe I could throw something from my pack. I had the extra ammunition from my lost guns. Could I get it to fire by heating it or something? Make the guards think they were being shot at? Would that make them stop or drive faster? Perhaps I could soak my extra T-shirt in lamp oil, tie it around a fistful of bullets, and light it?
Lamp oil. That was it! The primitive oil was thick, completely opaque. I inched back to the slit in the canvas.
“Darla!” I yelled. “Can you give me a hand?”
No response. Maybe she couldn’t hear me over the continued screams of the man-child with her.
I twisted my arms out of the straps of my backpack and unbuckled the hip belt. I took a firm grip on one of the straps and rolled over onto my back.
The truck bounced, and my heart lurched—for a moment I thought I was going to be bucked off. When my heart slowed a little, I scooted back, dragging my pack with me until I could jam one leg through the slit in the canvas roof. I got my leg in up to the knee and wedged my other foot against the curved rib supporting the canvas roof.