Mike Mullin - Ashen Winter

Dad’s only reply was a scowl.

We moved our ambush spot that night. I was so sick of chanting “This Little Piggy” that I thought I might puke. I tried “Hickory Dickory Dock” for a while, then switched to counting one Mississippi, two Mississippi. . five hundred Mississippi. . one thousand Mississipi. I figured it was taking me a second just to say the numbers at that point, so I dropped the Mississippis, too.

Sometime after 4 A.M.-I’d just reached 21,300 in my count-everything changed. A group of shadows slipped out from between the tents behind Alyssa. Then a hand reached around her face, clamping over her mouth.

I burst from under the tent in an explosive lunge, reaching the closest of the attackers in seconds. Four black-clad shapes had surrounded Alyssa. One of them was turning my way. I swept his legs from under him with a round kick and hit him in the side of the head with a right backfist as he fell. Even as my backfist connected, I was reaching toward the next one with a left uppercut to the stomach and launching a sidekick at a third attacker.

Suddenly it was all over. Dad and his four prefects swarmed over the attackers. There were six of us and four of them, and we’d taken them by surprise from behind. They all went down. Someone produced a hank of rope and started tying their hands behind their backs.

“You okay?” I asked Alyssa.

“Y-y-yeah.” She was shaking.

I hugged her. “You did good,” I whispered.

“You, too.” Her cheeks were wet as she cried soundlessly.

The prefects had hauled all the bandits to their feet. Everyone seemed to be okay, other than some bruises.

“What will you do with them?” Alyssa asked Dad.

“Find out who they are. How they got into the camp. Figure out how to stop them-if we can.” We’d started walking back toward the center of camp, the tied bandits in tow.

“You think it’d be okay if I went to lie down?” Alyssa asked.

“Yeah, I think that’d be fine,” Dad replied.

I caught her hand and squeezed it. “You did good. You were brave.”

“I don’t feel brave. But thanks.”

Dad directed that each of the bandits be held separately. I followed him as he pushed one of the guys into a tent big enough to stand up in. After a moment we were joined by one of the prefects, Amy Jones, who took the shake light from Dad.

Dad stood behind the bandit, holding his bound arms. “Search him,” Dad ordered. It was strange to hear him giving orders-as if he’d been replaced by a different man who looked like my father. Amy was holding the flashlight, so it fell to me to do the search. I started at his neck, working my way down. When I patted the guy’s right ankle, I felt a long, slender shape under his pant leg.

He kicked without warning, aiming for my face. I got my hand between his foot and my head, but the force of the kick still knocked me backward. Dad hauled up on his arms so hard I heard his shoulders crack. The guy moaned, and Dad said, “Kick my son again, and I’ll break your arms off and ram them down your throat.”

The guy fell quiet, and I rolled back to my feet. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said.

“Get on with it,” Dad snapped.

I pulled up the bandit’s pant leg and extracted a wicked knife from its sheath. It was at least six inches long, with a blood gutter and evil-looking serrations along its spine.

Dad ripped off the bandit’s black ski mask. He was dirtier than we were, his unkempt black beard caked with filth, and his face streaked with dirt and ash. Up until then, I’d thought maybe the bandits were guards, up to some kind of mischief in their off time, but all the guards I’d seen were far cleaner than he was.

“All you got is a knife?” Dad asked.

The guy was silent.

“Which one of you is in charge?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you shee-it,” he replied with a cocky smile.

“Make sure he can’t kick you again,” Dad said to me.

I moved to the side, out of kicking range. Dad seized the guy’s pinkie in his fist and bent it sharply upward. It made a sickening snap as it broke, and the bandit screamed. I turned away. This was my father, the same guy who had never wanted to watch “CSI” on TV because it was too gory?

I heard a slap and looked back in time to see Dad pull his hand away from the side of the guy’s head. “Now quit screaming! What’s your name?”

“Shawn,” he gasped.

“You have any other weapons?”

“Ain’t allowed to bring no others.”

“Not allowed by who? Why? Who’s in charge?”

“I can’t-”

Dad grabbed his ring finger. This time he had to work to peel it away from Shawn’s fist. But it snapped as easily as the pinkie. Shawn screamed again. My chest heaved, and I tasted bile. “You’ve got eight more chances to tell me,” Dad stated. The calmness of his voice terrified me, and I wasn’t the one having my fingers broken.

“Cody. . Cody’s in charge.” Shawn was panting. “Can’t bring guns in, case this happens and you get ’em.”

“Where are you all from?”

“I was in Anamosa when the volcano blew.”

“And now?”

Shawn hesitated, and Dad started peeling his middle finger off his fist. “Quit!” he yelled. “Iowa City!”

“So you’re in one of the prison gangs?”

“Yeah.” Tears were streaking the dirt on Shawn’s face.

“Which one?” There was a long pause.

“Ah, fu-” He screamed as Dad snapped his middle finger, interrupting whatever he was going to say. “You could have just looked at my tats.”

“Where?” Dad asked.

“Over my heart.”

Dad looked at me, and I pulled the guy’s coat and shirts up. Tattooed across his chest in an ugly blue color in fancy script were the letters DWB inside an outline of the state of Iowa.

“What’s it mean?” Dad asked.

“Dirty White Boys,” Shawn managed to say with a strut in his voice that was strange, given the tears streaking his face.

“You sure qualify on the dirty part,” I said. He stunk.

“How’d you get into the camp?” Dad asked.

“Just kill me now. Cody’ll flense me if he finds out I answered that.”

Dad peeled his index finger back, and Shawn groaned. It snapped with a sound like a branch breaking, and Shawn’s groan morphed into a scream. “Cody’s not here. I am,” Dad said. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know. Either now or after I’ve broken your other six fingers.”

Shawn was sobbing now. “Just. . break them all, then.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not playing!” Dad yelled. “Give me that knife, Alex.”

I couldn’t believe what was happening. My teeth clicked as I closed my mouth. “W-why? What’re you going to do with it?”

“Now!” Dad ordered, his rage barely contained.

I flipped the knife and handed it to him butt first. He grasped the hilt in his right hand and seized the tip of Shawn’s pinkie in his left. The knife flashed as he lowered it, sawing into Shawn’s finger. The icy ground under my feet reached up through my body, freezing me in place.

Dad was still sawing at the finger as Shawn screamed. The knife found the break in the pinkie and sliced through. Blood poured out the stump, splattering Dad’s trousers. He stepped around Shawn, got right in his tear-stained face, and hollered, “You like that, you goddamn cannibal? You want to eat people, start with yourself.” Dad jammed the bloody finger against Shawn’s lips, trying to force it down his throat. “I’ll feed you all ten of your bloody fingers-”

My icy immobility shattered, and I lashed out, striking Dad’s wrist. The finger went flying, hitting the side of the tent with a thump. “What the hell!” I shouted. “This isn’t us! This isn’t you! Stop it!”