Mike Mullin - Sunrise

“No. I have to go.” I kissed Darla’s forehead and left the room, stepping around Anna, Aunt Caroline, and Uncle Paul to continue searching for my mother.

I found Ben, Alyssa’s older brother, in the second upstairs bedroom. He sat under the window, wrapped in a blanket, reading a book. “You seen my mom?”

Ben didn’t reply. When he was interested in something, he had an amazing ability to block out all distractions— including me. It had something to do with his autism. I couldn’t imagine what book had drawn him in that deeply—he was gaga over all things military, and as far as I knew, there were no books on that subject in the farmhouse. I drew the door closed and moved on to the master bedroom. Yesterday Anna had asked Mom to share the girls’ room, but she’d refused, and Aunt Caroline had invited her to sleep in the master bedroom instead.

At first the master bedroom looked empty, but a noise from behind the bed prompted me to investigate further. Mom sat on the floor with her back wedged into the corner of the room. Empty picture frames were scattered to her left. She was sorting pictures of me, Rebecca, herself, and Dad, creating some kind of impromptu collage. As I watched, she swept all the photos up off the floor and started dealing them into a new pattern, as if they were cards in a bizarre game of solitaire.

Mom wore only jeans and a light sweater despite the subzero temperature in the house. Her face was flushed, and she trembled as though her muscles were composed of seething colonies of ants rather than flesh. She was sweating so profusely that droplets fell from her nose and chin, splatting onto the photographs. A rifle lay on the floor near the foot of the bed.

“Mom. You okay?” A stupid question. She most certainly was not okay. She looked terrible.

“Mom,” I said a little more urgently. She still didn’t answer. Her eyes were bloodshot. I waved my hand in front of her face, and she kept sorting photos. But when I went to put my hand on her shoulder, she grabbed my hand, clutching it with surprising strength.

“Mom,” I shouted, “what’s wrong?”

“We’ll stay here,” she hissed through her clenched jaw. “You’ll be safe here.” She tried to pull me down beside her.

I resisted. “We’ve got to go, Mom,” I said as gently as I could.

“What’s wrong? I heard a shout.” Darla was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

Mom raised a hand, her tense and crooked finger pointing at Darla. “Get away,” she hissed.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” It made no sense—she’d been fine yesterday. “Leave!” Mom screeched.

I twisted my arm free, turned, and ran from the room. My aunt and uncle were moving down the hall toward the commotion. I ran past them and leaped down the stairs three at a time. I stepped into the living room, where Dr. McCarthy was chatting with a patient.

“Dr. McCarthy,” I said, “something’s wrong with Mom.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said to his patient before he stood and followed me back up the stairs.

I hung back at the doorway with Darla when we reached the master bedroom. Dr. McCarthy knelt beside Mom, talking too quietly for me to hear. He placed his hand against her forehead.

Darla had slumped down, sitting on the floor with her back against the jamb. “What’s wrong with your mom?” she asked.

I knelt next to her. “You should get back to bed.”

“Whatever. You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t know.” I draped her arm over my shoulder and helped her up. As soon as we stood, Mom started screaming—high-pitched, unintelligible squawks like a parakeet on meth.

I wavered, unsure what to do. Uncle Paul and Aunt Caroline crossed the room toward Mom and Dr. McCarthy. As they reached my mother, a trumpet sounded outside— the call to move out.

“We have to go,” Aunt Caroline said.

“Take Darla back to bed, Alex,” Dr. McCarthy said. “Send your sister in, would you?”

“Is Mom okay?” I asked.

“I think so. Give us some space.”

I hefted the rifle Mom had left on the floor in my free hand and left the room behind Uncle Paul and Aunt Caroline. As I helped Darla get settled back into bed in the girls’ room, I told Rebecca, “Dr. McCarthy needs help. Something’s wrong with Mom. They’re in the master bedroom.”

Rebecca shot a worried look at me as she disentangled herself from the blankets. “Is she okay?” Rebecca was only fourteen, but with everything that had happened in the last eleven months, she’d gotten a lot less childish.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”

Rebecca nodded and rushed past me. I kissed Darla goodbye again and turned the other way, following Uncle Paul and Aunt Caroline down the stairs and out of the house.

When I caught up with them, Aunt Caroline turned toward me. “Alex, you can’t come.”

I clenched the rifle more tightly. “I’m going.”

“Just because your mother can’t come doesn’t mean—”

“I’m going.” If Aunt Caroline thought I was going to give up the rifle, she was as crazy as my mother.

Uncle Paul stared at me for a moment, his face stony. “You know how to use that gun?”

“Sort of.”

“Let me give you a refresher.”

Aunt Caroline sighed and turned away.

As we marched away from the farm, Uncle Paul coached me on the crucial parts of the AR-15: the charging handle, selector lever, magazine release button, rear sight, and front sight. I focused on each rifle part, blocking everything else out of my mind, walking mechanically, and listening with single-minded intensity. I had to learn everything Uncle Paul was teaching me. In a few hours, my life would depend on it.

The night before, Ben had told me there were two good ways to attack Warren: an overwhelming show of force or a sneak attack. So, of course, Mayor Petty chose a third.

We were strung out in a bedraggled line, trudging along Stagecoach Trail toward Warren. Almost three hundred refugees had volunteered, hoping to retake their homes and reclaim the stockpiled pork, corn, and kale that were all that stood between us and starvation. Most of the ragtag army had guns, but a few had come along with nothing more than knives or sharpened poles.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Uncle Paul and broke into a trot, headed for the front of the column. Stagecoach Trail was a paved, two-lane highway, not a trail, although it was now covered in packed snow and ice. FEMA had plowed it not long after the blizzards that had followed Yellowstone’s eruption, leaving ten-foot snow berms lining both sides of the road. We were slogging down an ice-walled half-pipe: a perfect kill zone. Anyone firing from the tops of the berms could slaughter us.

I caught up to Mayor Petty at the front of the column. He wore a ski mask, but despite the frigid air, sweat was beading at the corners of his eyes. “We need to get off the road,” I told him.

He shot me an annoyed glare. “We will, we will.” Gasping breaths interspersed his words. “No sense wearing ourselves out in the deep snow before we’re close.”

“What if they’re ready for us? They could have scouts out. We’d be sitting—”

“We’ll move off the road after we pass the cemetery.”

“What if—”

“That’s enough,” Mayor Petty shouted.

“At least put some scouts out.” I waved at the towering snow berms blocking the flanks of our column.

“Be my guest.” The mayor turned away.

I stopped in the road, and people flowed around me as I thought about the problem. I could scout one of our flanks, sure, but without skis or snowshoes, I’d quickly fall behind. What we really needed was a small group on each flank on skis. Or better yet, a plan that didn’t involve approaching Warren by the most obvious route.