Mike Mullin - Ashfall

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. The problem with adults is that they always see you in the crib you slept in as a baby. The one with the bars on the sides. I was hoping Uncle Paul might see things differently.”

“He will.”

“I’ve got half a mind to go back to Iowa to look for my parents.”

“I’m not sure how we’d find them.”

“I’d go back to Cedar Falls. Maybe they’ve been to the house.” Then I thought about what she’d said. “We…?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you go back to Iowa alone, did you?”

“Uh-”

“I’m not sure I trust you to walk from here to the barn without hurting yourself, let alone all the way to Cedar Falls.”

It sounded mean, but Darla was smiling as she said it, so I forgave her. “You’re right-we might not be able to find them. And the weather is probably going to get worse. The smart thing to do is to wait here.”

“Doing nothing is tough, even when it’s the right choice.”

“It’s more than that. During the trip, I was free. In Cedar Falls or here, I’m just somebody’s kid. In between, I was Alex. I decided where I slept and when, who I talked to and who I avoided. Sure, the ash and psychotic killers weren’t fun, but I’ve only been here one day, and already I miss that feeling of freedom, of being my own man.”

“Your uncle will figure out that you’re not a kid. Give him some time to stop remembering the old Alex and start seeing who you are now.”

“I hope you’re right. And thanks.”

I wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her. We stood in the hall and made out until Aunt Caroline’s voice wafted down the stairs, telling me my bed was ready. Darla said goodnight, and I clomped up to Max’s room.

The air mattress was comfortable, but still I slept poorly. I woke sometime in the wee hours of the morning, my mind roiling with images of people: Darla, Target, Mrs. Nance, Colonel Levitov, Darren and Joe, my mother…

I thrashed around in the bed for a while before giving up on further sleep. The clothing I’d worn at dinner yesterday was next to the mattress; I pulled it on, moving quietly so as not to wake Max. I slipped downstairs in my socks, thinking I’d get a glass of water.

Darla was in the living room adding a log to the fire. “Want a glass of water?” I asked.

“Sure. You couldn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Me, either.”

I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen to share. When we finished, I slouched into the corner of the couch, where the back met the arm. Darla leaned against me, and I wrapped an arm around her. We’d sat together comfortably for only a few minutes when I heard her breathing slow down and felt her body relax in my arms. Soon after, I followed her into sleep.

I woke to Darla shaking me. “I heard footsteps upstairs. You’d better get back to Max’s room.”

I stood up and stretched. “Okay, love you.”

“Love you, too.” She gave me a kiss. I kept my lips firmly sealed together; I was pretty sure I had vile morning breath. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she didn’t care.

I stole up the stairs to Max’s bedroom as quietly as I could. He was still asleep. I slid on my boots and left the room again, this time stomping all the way.

Breakfast was corn pone and kale fried in duck fat. When Darla finally got to the kitchen, she made a big show of rubbing sleep from her eyes and announcing “Good morning, Alex” as if we hadn’t just seen each other. I had to suppress the urge to laugh.

After breakfast, Aunt Caroline retrieved two crude mortars and pestles from the pantry. They were only slightly concave stones with a round rock for each to serve as the pestle. “Who’s going to grind corn this morning?”

“I will, I guess,” Rebecca said.

“Why do you grind it that way?” Darla asked.

Everyone looked at her a little funny, so I said, “Darla built a bicycle-powered grinder on her farm. It worked great.”

“I’ve been thinking about trying something like that,” Paul said. “But there hasn’t been time.”

“It didn’t really work all that well,” Darla said. “I made the grindstones out of concrete, so they threw a lot of dust and grit into the meal.”

“Bet it saved a lot of time, though,” Rebecca said wistfully.

“I think I could make a better one. I’d like to try making grindstones out of granite-that wouldn’t throw grit the way concrete does. I’d need some decent-sized chunks of granite.”

“I know where you can get some,” Max said. “Most of the gravestones at the cemetery are granite.”

“Max!” Aunt Caroline exclaimed. “That’s terribly disrespectful.”

“It’s a good idea,” Uncle Paul said. “I don’t think the dead will mind. I know I wouldn’t if it were my gravestone.” Aunt Caroline glared at him, and he said, “We can make rubbings and replace the stones when things get better.”

“It’d be a lot easier to cut gravestones than river rocks,” Darla added. “All I’d have to do is cut the flour channels in the face, maybe rough it up a little, and chip it round. Oh, I’d have to drill a feed hole in the runner stone, too.”

“It’s disrespectful,” Aunt Caroline repeated. “What would the neighbors think if they saw us robbing gravestones?”

“They’d probably forgive us in return for grinding their corn,” Uncle Paul said. “If we could build a gristmill, maybe we could charge to use it. Ten or twenty percent of the grain we grind? What else would you need to build it?”

“Tools for working stone,” Darla replied. “Cold-forged chisels, that sort of thing. A couple of bicycles. Parts off an old truck or car. A welding rig would help, but I can probably manage without it.”

“Our closest neighbor, Bill Jacobs, used to moonlight as a mason. I’ll ask if we can borrow his tools. A welding setup would be tougher to come by-try to make do. As for parts, there are four bikes in the garage. Use whatever you need. Car parts can come from the minivan-”

“The minivan?” Aunt Caroline protested. “It’s almost brand new.”

“It’s not like we have any gas. And if we get some, we’ll probably want to use it in the truck for hauling stuff.”

“But the kids can’t all ride in the truck.”

“I don’t think we’ll be driving them anywhere soon, honey.”

Aunt Caroline didn’t look happy, but she quit objecting.

“Okay, Max,” Uncle Paul said, “show Alex and Darla how to do your morning chores. After you’ve finished, take them down to the creek with the toboggan and a couple of pry-bars. If you can find any rocks in the creek bed that will work, great. Otherwise, take them to the cemetery and borrow two gravestones. If anyone’s around, come home and get me before you take the gravestones.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“I want to go, too,” Rebecca said.

“Get your morning chores done, and then you can help me build the third greenhouse,” Uncle Paul told Rebecca. Then he looked at Darla. “Work on your gristmill in the mornings. Let’s reserve the afternoon for other projects. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything that’s got to be done.”

Darla nodded.

“Oh, and while you’re at the creek, think about what it would take to build a scaled-up version of the mill. Maybe we could dam the creek and run it on water power.”

“Will there be enough demand to justify it?” Darla said. “Eventually the buried corn will spoil. It might be years before we can plant more. Will we still need a big mill then?”

“I don’t know. Think about it, anyway.”

The rocks at the creek were hopeless. Either they were too small, the wrong shape, or stuck so thoroughly that all three of us straining on our pry bars couldn’t budge them.