Mike Mullin - Ashfall

I was about to ask him what it was when Target said, “I’m getting a crew together. Some guys I know will join, if I can find them.”

“Crew?” I mumbled past the meat in my mouth.

“Yeah, get a few guys together-watch each other’s backs-we’ll own this messed up place.”

“I guess so.” I was trying to be polite, not agreeing to join. But he misunderstood me.

“Cool, you’re in.” He thrust out his hand and elbow like he wanted me to clasp arms with him.

“I’ve got to keep heading east. I’m trying to find my family.”

“You’re Target’s family now.”

Target’s family? “Thanks but-”

“Are you dissing me? Nobody disses Target. Ask anyone from Anamosa, if you’re in Target’s crew, you’re golden. You diss Target’s crew, there’s blood on the floor. That’s how it is.”

“Anamosa?” I crammed the rest of the meat in my mouth, chewing fast. He was sounding more and more like a lunatic.

“State prison. What’d you think it was, a ballet school?”

“I gotta get going.” I fumbled around behind me to find my staff, wondering how fast I could get clipped into my skis and get out of there.

“You know, I was going to make you first in my new crew, seeing as how I haven’t found my guys yet. But you’re too scrawny to be on Target’s crew anyway. Maybe I’ll just mess you up some.” He stood up, and I jumped to my feet, holding my staff ready between us. He had over a foot of height on me, not to mention at least one hundred pounds of muscled flesh.

“I’ve gotta go.” I tried to slow my overly rapid breathing and took a step backward.

“Aw, come on. Take it easy. I was just screwing with you.” He reached out his right hand as if to shake.

I started to take another step backward and his hand moved, quick as a snake, and grabbed my staff. I managed to hold onto it, but God, the guy was strong. He whipped the staff to the right, spinning me around. I continued the motion and managed to twist my staff free. The hand-ax appeared in his left hand. He swung it overhand, chopping at my neck. I threw my right arm up to block and caught him on the wrist. That saved my neck, but the momentum of his blow was such that it slid down off my elbow, and the blade thunked into my right side just below my armpit.

It didn’t hurt at all-not at first. There was a grinding vibration as the ax scraped my ribs. He raised it for another blow. The blade dripped red, and the coppery stink of my blood filled the air.

I stabbed the tip of my staff forward in a desperate strike. I’d practiced it thousands of times in forms and on Bob, the training dummy, but I had never figured I’d have to use it for real. I lunged, stepping with my right foot. I aimed for his eye, guiding the blow with my right hand, thrusting with my left.

The result was spectacularly disgusting. His eye pretty much exploded. Blood and some kind of fluid streamed down the side of his face. He staggered back a few steps, toward the fire.

“You mother-!” he screamed and started to step forward, raising the ax again. “I’ll chop your-”

I reversed the staff into a low strike that knocked his legs out from under him. He fell backward into the fire.

Target screamed and screamed in an eerie falsetto. He leaped out of the fire and ran about twenty feet, which only served to fan the flames licking his clothing. Then he got smart and dropped and rolled in the ash.

I thought about chasing him. But I’d either have to beat him to death, which didn’t appeal to me at all, or… do what? I didn’t even want to get close to him. Just the sight of the blood dripping from his eye made stomach acid rise in my throat. So I shouldered my backpack, causing a flash of pain to sear up my right side. Then I clipped into my skis and hauled ass.

During the fight, the wound hadn’t hurt at all. Now it throbbed, sending pulses of flaming agony across my chest. Every time I twisted my torso, I had to bite back a scream. Blood poured down my right side, trickled past my belt, and made hot streaks down my leg.

I glanced backward. Target pushed through the ash, following me, burst eye, fire-blackened clothing and all. He saw me looking at him and yelled something about what he planned to do to the stump of my neck once he’d removed my head.

The homestead had been built at the top of a large, gentle ridge. I pointed my skis down the slope toward a line of dead trees in the valley below.

The slope was just steep enough to allow my skis to slide over the ash. I picked up speed and quickly left Target in the dust. As I slipped into the trees at the bottom of the slope, I faintly heard him yelling behind me, “I’ll find you, Alex. I’ll roast your heart. I’ll crack your nuts and…” I found a stream amid the trees, and the noise of rushing water drowned his shouted threats.

Taking off my pack made my eyes water, it hurt so bad. I pulled my shirt up to look at the wound. A huge flap of flesh hung loose from the gouge. Blood welled from it, hot and wet along my side. I took a breathing rag out of my pack and pressed it against my side. Now I was crying. I couldn’t help it, it hurt that much. I tied a T-shirt over the breathing rag and around my torso as tightly as I could. It seemed to help-blood was still flowing from the wound, but more slowly.

I hung my pack off my left shoulder and squeezed my right arm through the strap, scrunching my eyes closed against the pain. Slowly, I worked my way across the stream, sliding my butt along a fallen log, and staggered up the bank on the far side. I had to put some distance between me and Target and find a place to hole up and rest. I wished I’d had the foresight to bring some Neosporin and an Ace bandage from home. If the wound got infected, I’d die for sure.

When I emerged from the trees on the other side of the stream, I glanced around. No particular direction suggested itself, so I struggled up the hill, keeping the brightest part of the sky to my back; heading east, I hoped.

Minutes blurred into hours in a long, gray nightmare. Slowly up one low hill: step, breathe, step, breathe. Resting as I slid down the back side. Another halting sidestep up the next hill. Each time I crested a hill, I looked around, hoping for a good place to stop. Each time, I saw nothing but ash-covered slopes and a few scraggly trees. I got more and more tired, until nothing but the flaming pain in my side kept me awake. I was thirsty, too; I drank all the water I had left, but five minutes later, I wanted more.

The ease of gliding downhill got me moving off the ridge-tops. The hope of finding shelter convinced me to push laboriously up from the valleys. Each uphill slog was slower than the last. As my legs dragged, my heart beat faster until I could feel it palpitating in my chest. My arms and legs were numb. After a while I was barely aware of them at all, as if they were merely mechanical attachments I could manipulate but not feel.

I traversed four, maybe five hills this way. As I approached the crest of the latest hill, I thought it impossible to continue for even one more slope. I’d have to find the best shelter I could, nestled against a tree in one of the valleys, perhaps. Once I found shelter, I’d rest and wait-to heal or die.

When I topped the ridge, I saw a farmstead ahead, only a mile or two off at the crest of another hill. I started the long, easy downhill glide toward it and tried to psych myself to battle one more uphill slope. I could make it. I would make it.

The homestead was small and simple, just a house and a steep-roofed barn. About half the trees around it were down, but both buildings were intact. I worried about being chased off by the owners. Maybe I could hide in their barn unnoticed for a while.

My breathing mask had been dry for hours now. The ashfall was light and thin, but every movement kicked more of the fine dust into the air. I had to stop every few steps to rest and cough, great hacking spasms that brought up nothing but flecks of blood-my throat was so dry.