Mike Mullin - Ashen Winter

Four of them detached from the troop, sliding down the knoll toward us. They wore white and gray military camo-the first people I’d seen who had the perfect camouflage to hide in the volcanic winter. When they reached me, the nearest one wrenched open the driver’s door while another guy trained his rifle on my head. One of them searched me, efficiently and none too gently, but he took only the knife and pistol off my belt. The patch on his chest read BLACK LAKE LLC. I stifled a groan. No way did I want to repeat my experience with Black Lake, locked in one of the camps they ran as a subcontractor for FEMA. But it wasn’t like I had much choice.

On the other side of the truck, two guys were dealing with Alyssa and Ben the same way. Ben started moaning, and Alyssa tried to comfort him, but there wasn’t much she could do.

“Hands behind your back,” the guy ordered. When I complied, he slipped plastic ties around my wrists and cinched them tight. My right arm didn’t like being held behind my back and wasn’t shy about telling me so. I quickly had spasms of pain shooting toward my neck. I grunted as they pulled me out of the truck.

Alyssa, Ben, and I stood together, watching a short, pudgy Black Lake guy work his way around the edge of the knoll toward us. He was the only one not carrying an assault rifle, although he had a pistol on his belt. “What do we got? Flensers?” he asked as he approached. He unsnapped the leather strap that held his pistol in its holster, and the other four Black Lake guys took a step back, away from us.

“We’re not flensers,” I said.

“Looks like a flenser truck. One of the old-model deuces we were using ’til the flensers raided our Dubuque depot.”

One of the guys with the assault rifles snorted, and Pudge silenced him with a glare.

“I took the truck from the Peckerwoods. Crashed it. See the windshield?” It would have been hard to miss, with the hole punched in the passenger side and long spiderweb cracks radiating out across the glass. I hadn’t cleaned the blood off the inside of it, either.

“Yeah,” Pudge turned to one of the grunts. “You search it yet? Any flesh on board?”

“No, sir.”

“Do it now.”

“Yes, sir.” Two of the grunts trotted to the back of the truck. I stood with Alyssa and Ben, shifting my weight from foot to foot, waiting. Nails screeched from within the truck as they forced the wooden crates open. Pudge stared at me and fingered his pistol, a greedy look in his eye. The other Black Lake guys had left the crest of the knoll. They were using a hand winch to crank one of the telephone poles back into place. It was affixed to its base with a huge hinge and held up by guy wires. Obviously they’d prepared this spot as a trap long ago-and planned to use it again.

“Ammo and manacles,” one of the grunts reported when they returned from inside our truck.

A disappointed look passed across Pudge’s face. He snapped his holster strap shut. “Davis, Roberts: Follow us in the captured vehicle. Phelps, Miner: Load the prisoners.

I guessed that meant us. Two of the guys led us to the far side of the knoll where a cargo truck was parked. It was tall and armored, looking something like an oversized elephant with stubby legs. The Black Lake grunts lifted us into the enclosed cargo bed.

The door closed behind us with a resounding clang.

A sparse light filtered through the small grate at the top of the cargo hold. When my eyes adjusted, I saw the area was bare except for a metal bench on either side. The truck roared to life, and I sat down with a lurch.

Ben was moaning, rocking back and forth. Alyssa talked to him, her voice inhumanly calm considering that we’d just been tossed into the back of a cargo truck. I wanted to yell in frustration, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

After about ten minutes, Ben quieted. I tried to explain to Alyssa and Ben what I thought was happening. We were being taken to a camp, I figured, like the one Darla and I had done time in last year. Black Lake got paid by FEMA according to the number of “refugees” they housed, so they scoured the countryside looking for people to capture and move into their camps.

I wondered how Black Lake got paid. Dollars were worthless in Iowa and Illinois now-we had to trade for anything we needed. What would a big corporation want in trade? I couldn’t guess.

Alyssa seemed to take it in stride. I suppose after you’ve been enslaved by a cannibal gang, anything seems okay by comparison. I roamed around the truck’s cargo hold looking for a way out. The hold was solid and made of metal, and the doors were securely locked.

We were only on the road for half an hour. Then we were herded into a dingy makeshift room built inside an abandoned WalMart. A battered metal desk sat directly under a skylight, which let in what little light there was. Two guards lounged in cheap plastic lawn chairs, and a bored-looking guy-Captain Alverman, according to the cloth strip sewn on his fatigues-wrote on old sheets of copy paper.

One of the guards searched us. I had a brief moment of panic when he patted my chest, feeling the pockets that held my kale and wheat, but the packages must have been soft enough not to arouse suspicion-he didn’t investigate further. Other than that, we had nothing to take. My backpack was still in the truck we’d taken from the Peckerwoods. As far as I knew, Alyssa and Ben had only the clothes on their backs.

Captain Alverman interviewed us in a bored monotone voice, jotting our names in tiny handwriting on a sheet of copy paper already packed with names. I remembered the printed list of refugees’ names Rita Mae had shown me. Now there were no computers or printers visible. Evidently things were getting worse-even for Black Lake.

When Alverman finished, his guards escorted us out the front of the WalMart. On the far side of the road there was a huge enclosure built from chain-link fence-it stretched so far in either direction that I couldn’t see the whole thing. It was easily as big as Camp Galena had been, and that place had held almost fifty thousand people. The fence was twelve feet high, not counting the coil of razor wire topping it. It looked identical to the fence Black Lake had built at Camp Galena-the one Darla had pretty much destroyed with a bulldozer as we escaped. I would never have escaped that camp by myself. But this time I was on my own.

As we got closer, I saw a pair of guards patrolling a well-worn path in the snow around the outside of the fence. Each of them carried an assault rifle.

We approached a tiny guard shack just outside a gate. One of our guards got a key from the guy in the shack and unlocked the gate. Another cut the plastic handcuffs off us and pushed us through. I rubbed my right arm, trying to work the painful kinks out of my shoulder.

Uneven rows of tents stretched out across the camp before us. Some were canvas tents like the ones in Camp Galena last year, but these seemed dirtier, more ragged. Many of them bore makeshift patches made with scraps of plastic. None of them rested on platforms-and I knew from experience how cold the frozen ground would be.

And not everyone had a real tent. Some of the shelters were just chunks of plastic propped up on sticks. I saw a few that weren’t even plastic-instead made of old bedspreads. I guessed they’d at least keep the wind out. Hundreds of people were visible, talking in small groups or milling around. Thousands more must have been huddled in their tents, trying to escape the bitter wind.

Before we could figure out what to do, an Asian kid who looked to be about twelve broke away from a group nearby and strode up to us. Well, up to Alyssa. He raked his eyes up and down her. Not that there was much to see-she was bundled in winter clothes like everyone else. But the clothing and dirt somehow didn’t dim her beauty, just cloaked it.