“I. . I never killed anyone before.”
“I know.” I stroked her back.
“It’s not like killing a rabbit or pig.”
“No.”
“Does it get better?”
I thought about Ferret and Target-bandits I’d killed during our escape from Iowa last year. They still occasionally starred in my own nightmares. “No.”
Darla snuggled against my shoulder. I couldn’t hear her crying, but I felt the tears washing my neck. It was a long time before she fell asleep.
My side ached and my thoughts raced. I stared into the darkness, thinking about my trip from Cedar Falls last year, about all the people who’d helped me during my journey.
My thoughts turned to Mom and Dad. I couldn’t call up a clear picture of either of them. I mean, I knew what they looked like, but the images were blurry. I lay awake, struggling to remember my parents’ faces until Uncle Paul called to me in the grayness just before dawn.
Chapter 4
We ate a huge breakfast. Duck eggs scrambled with kale from our farm and ham we’d gotten in trade from Warren. Everyone was silent, like they had so much to say, they couldn’t decide where to start. It made me uncomfortable, so I wolfed my food and excused myself.
Bikezilla’s load bed was packed with bags and 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,
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
Then we said our goodbyes. I hugged everyone in turn-my aunt, uncle, and sister. I’d said goodbye to my cousins Max and Anna earlier. Max was still too woozy to get up, and Anna was keeping an eye on him.
By this time, I was itching to get moving. I straddled the bike’s back seat. I figured Darla should be in front, because she’d be better at spotting the trail than I would. Plus the view was better from the back seat of Bikezilla. Not that there was much to look at-Darla was wearing heavy winter coveralls, and her luscious dark hair was wrapped in hats and scarves. But still.
The biggest problem with Bikezilla was getting it started. Darla and I had to stand on the pedals, straining against our handlebars, just to get it inching forward. Once we got it going, though, we sailed across the snow.
I glanced back. My family had receded to tiny figures, indistinguishable from each other. They were already dispersing to start their morning chores. The land around us was low, rolling hills suffocated under the never-ending burden of ash and snow. Occasionally the sad remnant of a tree protruded from the snow, its branches broken and leafless.
Darla clicked into a higher gear and we sat down, settling into a ground-eating pace. My side hurt, but I ignored the pain as best I could, and soon it dwindled to a numb ache.
I thought we’d have to move slowly to track the bandits, but if anything, Darla was speeding up. I craned my neck to peer around her and figured out why. The bandits had left a trail of trampled snow heading roughly south across the fields. Every thirty or forty feet, a few drops of blood stained the snow-easy to see against the nearly
