Mike Mullin - Ashfall

“You know anyone in town who might have an extra set of cross-country skis for sale?” Darla asked.

“Might be. I’ve got a pair gathering dust in the basement. What are you offering?”

Rita Mae haggled with Darla over those skis for more than half an hour. Darla wound up giving her both rabbit haunches and another bag of cornmeal on top of the bag we’d already given her as a “donation” to support her “free” public library. I had to throw in my candle stub and matches to seal the deal.

Rita Mae snuffed out the oil lamp and hung a Back Soon sign on the library door. The three of us walked to her house to pick up the skis-apparently the rumor that she was sleeping on a cot in the library was unfounded.

Along the way, we passed St. Paul’s school. Rita Mae said, “You know, if things get tight out on your farm, you can come stay at the school. Mrs. Nance, the principal, is taking in anyone from the area who needs a place to stay. Everyone has to work if they’re able, but that’s only fair.”

“Thanks,” Darla said. “Looks like we’ll be fine on the farm, though.”

The ski boots didn’t fit Darla very well-too tight. Darla said they’d stretch out, but I doubted it; Gore-Tex and plastic don’t stretch much.

We said goodbye to Rita Mae as quickly as we could. I was getting worried about making it back to the farm before nightfall.

We made a lot better time with both of us on skis. Not long after we left Worthington, I felt a vibration under my feet. It picked up force, and in a few seconds the ground was rolling and heaving.

“More of this crap?” Darla said.

I shrugged and spread my skis wider, trying to stay upright.

The earthquake passed in less than a minute. It wasn’t strong enough to knock us over, but it did raise a fine haze of ash that clung to the ground like early-morning fog.

Almost two hours later, a series of low booms rumbled out of the West. It was nothing like the explosions-Darla and I could, and did, talk over it, even though it continued for more than five minutes. I hoped it was the volcano’s dying gasp and not a harbinger of more trouble to come.

When we got back to the farm, the yellow daylight was just starting to fade to gray. The barn door was partway open. I pointed it out to Darla, and she said maybe her mom was feeding the rabbits. We headed for the house regardless. We both wanted to get washed up and rest a little. Skiing through the ash had been hard work.

I froze as I stepped into the kitchen, shocked to immobility by the scene within. My right foot hovered over the threshold. My face felt suddenly cold.

Darla’s mom wasn’t in the barn. She was lying halfway on the kitchen table, face down. A small, wiry guy, filthy with ash, bent over her. He had a baseball bat pressed against the back of her neck, holding her down. Her face was turned toward us. Both her eyes were blackened, and a thin trail of blood leaked from her nose onto the table. His legs were between her knees.

Darla screamed. The guy took a step backward and pulled his sweatpants up.

I didn’t think, couldn’t think. There was nothing in my head but searing white rage. No room for anything else. My icy immobility shattered. I charged the guy.

He lifted the baseball bat, but I was on him before he could swing it. Left knife-hand to the wrist holding the bat. I didn’t feel the edge of my hand connect, but I heard something pop and then the clatter as the bat hit the floor.

His fist hit my right ear. A glancing blow I barely noticed. I cocked my right hand up by my ear and let it loose, spinning into the strike, my hips, shoulders, and arm all turning for maximum power. My knife-hand crunched into the side of his neck.

He slumped to the floor, twisting bonelessly on his way down. I’d hit him perfectly.

Darla quit screaming and ran to the table. “Mom?”

“Uh,” she moaned, as I pulled her skirt down. Darla took one of her hands and leaned close over her.

It occurred to me to check on the guy to make sure he wasn’t going to get back up. He lay on the floor, unmoving. There was a large, crude tattoo on the inside of his forearm-a rat or weasel or something. I bent and put my finger against the left side of his neck. A huge red welt marred his neck. Nothing. No pulse. I yanked my hand back in shock. I checked again, feeling his wrist this time. Same result: nothing. The room swam around me as I turned to Darla. “I think I killed this guy.”

“Good,” Darla pretty much spat the word. “Mom? Can I get you some water?”

“I… I didn’t mean to kill him. I wasn’t thinking.” The spinning room made my stomach heave uncertainly. My hand shook as I drew it back from the guy’s wrist.

Someone else spoke then, from the direction of the kitchen door. “Aren’t you that little snitchface from the campfire? Alex?”

I glanced up. Target filled the doorway. A filthy gray rag was wrapped around his head, covering his left eye. Part of his face and one arm were crosshatched with ropy scabs and partly healed burns. He held a double-barreled shotgun in one hand and a rabbit in the other. The rabbit’s head and shoulders looked like he’d started it through a meat grinder. He dropped the rabbit and lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, sighting down the barrels at me.

I thought about charging him, but he was ten or twelve feet away. He’d kill me before I got close. So I just stood there, staring at him. I felt numb, whipsawed by adrenaline and shock.

“Oh, this is rich-better than getting bunked with a fresh punk. I’ve been looking for you, you know. So you killed Ferret, huh? I knew you had potential.”

I glanced at the dead guy by my feet and shrugged. “Guess so.”

“I owe you big time. My goddamn eye isn’t healing right. I’ve been dreaming about you-dreaming about digging your eyes out of your skull with a knife and-”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t want to shoot you. Too fast-”

“Fine. Let Darla and her mom go. Then you can take your time with me.” I shrugged, trying to suppress the trembling in my shoulders.

“Darla, is it?” He smiled, a twisted thing that crawled across the bottom of his face. Then he swiveled the shotgun toward Darla, who was cradling her mother’s head in her arms.

“Darla!” I screamed and jumped. I hit her at about shoulder height in a flying tackle. I heard the boom of the shotgun and felt a sudden pain stab my ankle.

When I turned my head to look up, Target was standing over me, pointing the shotgun at my back. I swallowed bile and struggled to keep Darla underneath me, hoping my body would block the blast. My stomach was a leaden ball, weighting me down. Darla squirmed beneath me.

Target pulled the trigger. There was a soft metallic click.

I opened my eyes. I hadn’t remembered closing them. I’d never heard any noise quite so welcome as the click that shotgun made when it wasn’t killing me.

Target pulled the trigger three more times. Click, click, click.

I guessed what had happened. Target, the dumbass, had killed a rabbit by shooting it and hadn’t reloaded, so one of his barrels was empty. Why he didn’t wring the rabbit’s neck was beyond me. Criminals are stupid as a general rule, I figured.

I reached up and grabbed the gun barrel. It felt warm. Target tried to yank it away from me. I took advantage of his motion, letting him pull me to my feet. I launched a sidekick, using the gun for leverage and balance. I kicked him perfectly, right in the kidney. He grunted and sagged away from my foot-but only a little. Damn, but he was big and strong. That kick should have laid out a horse.

He held onto the gunstock with his left hand and stepped toward me. His right fist crashed into my side, hitting the spot where he’d cut me almost three weeks ago. I screamed and danced away, still holding onto the barrel with my right hand. I was afraid if I let go he’d use the gun to club me to death.