Mike Mullin - Ashfall

There were footprints leading from a tiny, steep-roofed outbuilding to the back door of the farmhouse. The prints had to be fresh because they were already filling with ash and would soon be completely covered. Somebody had shoveled off the back porch. There were mounds of ash around it, but only a light dusting on the floor.

I unclipped my skis and hobbled across the porch with an awkward, sliding gait. My legs had frozen in ski mode. I pushed the doorbell and then rolled my eyes in irritation at myself-of course the doorbell wouldn’t work. I rapped my knuckles against the door trim instead.

Nobody came. Maybe they couldn’t hear my tapping over the thunder. I opened the screen door and beat on the entry door. Nothing. I tried again, whaling on it this time.

The door pulled inward in a rush, and I saw the long, black, double barrel of a shotgun pointing right at my nuts. My nuts knew where that shotgun was pointing, too; I could feel them trying to climb up into my body for protection. All my muscles tensed and my eyes widened, adrenaline coursing through my system.

The shotgun was held by a tall, rail-thin guy with a scraggly white beard, weathered face, and short white hair. The most amazing thing about him, though, was how clean he was. His face, hands, and bare feet were scrubbed. The jeans and flannel shirt he wore had not a speck of ash on them. Water-there had to be water here. Nobody could be that clean without it.

My first impulse on seeing the gun was to run and hope he didn’t feel like wasting a shell on my puny back. But now I knew there was water here. I’d certainly die if I didn’t find water somewhere, and soon. Was it more painful to die of thirst or a shotgun blast? I wasn’t sure. I stood my ground.

He gestured at me with the shotgun. “Move along, boy.” His voice growled like an engine that rarely saw oil.

I lifted my hands in front of me, palms outward, and backed up a step. A bad move if I had to fight; it took me out of range for a crescent kick. But kicking a gun is a stupid move, only worth trying if there’s no other option. It takes a lot less time to pull a trigger than to launch a kick. “I’m only looking for water, sir.”

“No water for you here. Move along.”

A woman appeared in the doorway behind him. She pulled a dishrag out of her apron strings and whapped the man upside the head with it. “Elroy! We’ve got plenty of water. Can’t you see this is just a poor waif of a boy?”

“Don’t know him. Don’t know who might be with him.”

“Anyone with you, child?” she asked in a kindly tone.

“No, ma’am.”

“Come on in then.” She bustled around Elroy, pushing the barrel of the shotgun aside with her body. I was relieved to see it pointing at the wall, instead of at me. Maybe I could have fought then. But the woman seemed friendly enough; perhaps she’d fill my empty water bottles. She herded Elroy backward through the mudroom and toward the kitchen beyond. She turned toward me. “Well, come on.”

I stepped slowly through the doorway, my hands still raised. Inside there was a small entryway that held a huge freezer, a boot scraper, and a neat row of shoes and boots.

“My, but you’re filthy with that ash.” She handed me a whisk broom. “Brush yourself off with this, son. Now how do you like your steak?”

“My steak?”

“Why, yes. You get cleaned up, and I’m going to throw another steak on the fire for you. We were fixing to eat.”

“No, I couldn’t impose. If you’d fill my water bottles, I’ll get out of your-”

“Nonsense. Why, if either of my sons were out in this, I’d sure want someone to take them in and give them a good meal. Not that they’d be out wandering alone, mind, they’re grown men and have families to look after. So how do you like your steak?”

“Medium rare please, ma’am.” My mouth tried to water at the mere thought of a steak, but it was too parched. Just then I remembered the last time I’d had steak, at Darren and Joe’s house, and felt vaguely sick.

“I’ll do my best. I haven’t had to cook over a wood fire since I was a girl, and then we had a proper stove. I do wish we still had one, instead of that useless electric range. This business of squatting by the fireplace is hard on my old knees. Oh, where are my manners? My name’s Edna. Edna Barslow.”

“Alex.” I started to reach my hand out, saw how filthy it was, and thought better of it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barslow.”

“Edna is fine, dear. Now leave your pack and boots in the mudroom and brush off as much of that ash as you can. I don’t hold with ash in my kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have some clean clothes in my pack, too.”

“I’ll close the kitchen door then, to give you some privacy to change. Come on through when you’re ready.”

I stripped off everything and left it in as neat a pile as I could manage on the mudroom floor. I kept an eye on the door while I changed. Mrs. Barslow seemed nice enough, but I was keenly aware that there was also a guy with a shotgun on the far side of that door.

The clothes in my pack weren’t exactly clean, since the dust had seemed to find its way everywhere, but they were a huge improvement over the stiff, ash-caked clothing I’d removed. I attacked my hair and face with the whisk broom, which hurt some but brought a satisfying cloud of ash cascading off my head.

When I stepped into the kitchen, Elroy was sitting at the head of the table with the shotgun across his knees. Behind him I could see into a large living room with a fireplace. Edna was crouched by the fire. The aroma was so lovely, it made me dizzy.

“Edna put a pail of water in the bathroom for you to wash up, boy. It’s behind you.”

“Thank you.” I glanced behind me and saw another door next to the one I’d come through. I sidled through it, keeping a wary eye on Elroy. In the bathroom, a sink held a sponge and galvanized metal pail. I picked up the pail and sniffed the water. It smelled fine, so I drank about half of it straight from the pail and used the rest to wash.

When I returned to the kitchen, Edna was setting a platter of steaks and a Dutch oven loaded with carrots and potatoes on the table. As we sat down, she asked, “Are you going to put that ridiculous gun away, Elroy?”

“Nope.”

She stared at him a moment. “Will you bless this food then?”

“Yep.” They folded their hands and bowed their heads. I noticed Elroy was still looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Suspicious bastard-although I was watching him, too. I imitated Elroy’s pose as he said, “Dear Lord, bless this food to the use of our bodies that we may persevere in this time of trial and emerge stronger and wiser. Amen.”

“Amen,” Edna said, so I threw in one, too.

Edna talked during dinner. Elroy mumbled “yep” and “nope” now and then but otherwise didn’t say much. Me, I just ate. I wasn’t going to ask for seconds, but I sure didn’t turn them down when Edna offered. I didn’t turn down thirds or fourths, either. She offered coffee, but I convinced her I’d prefer water. I ate and drank until I was stuffed and sleepy and on the edge of getting sick.

I shook my head when Edna offered fifths and pushed my plate away. I felt a little woozy, so I laid my head on the table to rest, just for a minute.

I woke to Edna shaking my shoulder. She helped me to my feet and led me to the couch in the living room. It was hot in there, the remnants of the cooking fire glowing in the hearth. I sank into the couch, and Edna draped an afghan over me. I fell back to sleep instantly.

It was still fully dark when I woke again. Someone was shaking me. Elroy-I could see his face in the light of the candle he carried. I sat up on the couch and stretched.