Ashen Winter (Ashfall)

Then she grinned. “Wicked. Let’s do it again.”
    I vetoed that idea. But that meant I had to listen to Darla grumble for the next fifteen minutes while we struggled to drag Bikezilla across the berm. The snow was so deep that some of it got under my jacket and into the legs of my coveralls. I checked the load bed—everything was secure, but the guns were wet, so we spent some time cleaning them. By the time we started out again, I was chilled through.
    We’d made good time across the fields, but on the packed snow of the road, we flew. Within moments I was shivering. The wind didn’t help. I thought about stopping to change clothes but figured the exertion of pedaling would keep me warm enough until I dried.
    Every few hundred feet, we passed another spot of blood. The bandits were moving faster, too.
    We raced past two abandoned farmsteads. Plowed snow completely blocked both their driveways. Most of their outbuildings and barns had collapsed under the weight of the ash and snow.
    The third farmstead we came to was different. Enough people had trudged across the berm to make a path where the driveway used to be. And someone had brushed against the snowbank, leaving a pink streak.
    Darla pulled Bikezilla up beside the snowbank, where it would be hidden from the house. She slid the shotgun out from under the ropes and tried to pass it to me.
    “No, you take it,” I whispered. I took my staff and the pistol instead, tucking the gun into my belt. “You ready?”
    Darla nodded.
    I crawled into the driveway, moving slowly and dragging my staff along. As soon as I had a clear view of the house and yard, I stopped. The path continued to the front door of the small ranch-style home. Two grain silos, a barn, and two other outbuildings were arrayed in a rough semicircle behind the house. Except for the tracks leading to the front door, the farm looked abandoned.
    I whispered to Darla. “Come up to the edge of the snowbank and cover me from there. I’ll run to the house. If I make it, you follow.”
    I waited until Darla squeezed in beside me with the shotgun. Then I took the pistol in one hand and my staff in the other and scuttled toward the house in a walking crouch.
    The silence was eerie. My breath roared in my ears. I made it to the corner of the house and glanced around. Nothing moved. I waited . . . thirty seconds, a minute . . . then beckoned for Darla to follow.
    We crept around the house, peeking in every window. Nothing stirred. The living room and kitchen were empty, but we couldn’t see into the bedrooms—the windows were blocked by miniblinds and curtains. We stopped by the side door, where we had a clear view of the driveway.
    Darla planted herself beside the door, the butt of the shotgun tucked against her side. I stood to one side, staying out of her field of fire. The door jamb was splintered. A smear of blood stained the knob. With one hand I gently pushed open the door. It groaned hideously, revealing a small mudroom attached to the kitchen.
    I stepped through the doorway and pressed myself against the wall while Darla scouted the kitchen with the shotgun. The kitchen connected to the living room and a pitch-black interior hallway. The carpet was covered with clumps of snow and ash, some of which held crumbling boot prints. It smelled stale and musty, despite the frozen air.
    “We aren’t going to be able to see anything in that hall,” I whispered.
    “You think anyone is here?” Darla whispered.
    “Might be asleep. They could have walked all night.”
    “Maybe. Get the lantern?”
    “Yeah. Cover the door for me.”
    We left the house, and Darla stepped to one side of the door so she could shoot anyone coming out. I jogged back to Bikezilla to retrieve the lantern. Lighting it was a laborious and somewhat noisy process, so I did it beside the bike. I had to strike a spark into some of the oak bark using my knife and the flint, use that to light a candle, and then, finally, fire up the lantern with the candle. Before the volcano, I never would have guessed that matches and lighters would be among the things I’d miss the most if civilization collapsed.
    With the pistol on my belt, lantern in one hand, and staff in the other, I jogged back, careful to zigzag, just in case. We stalked back into the house. The hallway was empty, and all three doors at the far end of it were closed. We moved as quietly as we could, but even the whisper of my feet against the carpet sounded loud in my