Mike Mullin - Ashen Winter

“Thank you,” I said, but he was already reading another list.

We shut off the radio to save the batteries. Ben went to find Dad and tell him about our success. I started counting off an hour, one boring Mississippi at a time.

Dad joined us just as I hit 3,600 Mississippi. I turned on the radio and double-checked the frequency selector dial-it was still set to 18,160, where Ken had left it. I picked up the mic and offered it to Dad.

“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll just listen in.”

I mashed the push-to-talk switch under my sweaty palm. “Alex at Camp Maquoketa, calling the sector coordinator.”

“Say ‘CQ, CQ from KJOB,’” Ken said. “It’s proper radio etiquette.”

I was tempted to say “Thank You, Miss Manners.” I mean, who cares about radio etiquette when people are getting killed? But it was easier just to do it his way. “CQ, CQ from KJOB.” Nothing but static answered my call. I repeated it, over and over, at about one-minute intervals for what seemed like an hour. Had they forgotten? Or worse, was the guy I’d talked to just trying to get me off the frequency by lying about connecting me with the sector coordinator? Dad drummed his fingers on his knee and shifted his weight incessantly.

Finally someone responded. “KJOB here is N7OVF. This is George Mason with the CBO’s FERROA Oversight Committee.”

“What’s the CBO?” I said.

“Congressional Budget Office. I was told you wished to file a complaint?”

“I thought I’d be speaking to the sector coordinator?”

“She’s busy. And anyway, we control their appropriations. What’s your complaint?”

“So what does that mean? That you control their appropriations?”

“It means that if we don’t give the say-so, they don’t get paid. Well, next year, anyway.”

Dad was making a rolling motion with his arm. “Get on with it,” he mouthed. So I launched into the story-how people had been disappearing from the camp, especially young women. How we’d captured some of the Dirty White Boys. I glossed over the way Dad had gotten Shawn to talk and didn’t explain what had ultimately happened to Shawn.

Talking on a shortwave radio had a huge advantage. The CBO guy couldn’t interrupt me. So long as I kept the transmit lever depressed, there was no way he could break in.

Finally though, I’d said everything I needed to and lifted the transmit lever.

“Those are serious allegations. Can you substantiate them?”

“There are dozens of witnesses.”

“Physical evidence?”

I looked at Dad, not sure what to say. “Blood stains,” he whispered, “captured knives and other gear. Black Lake buried the people who died in the attacks. They could be dug up.”

I passed on that information to the CBO guy. “Very serious allegations,” he added. “Monitor this frequency for instructions. N7OVF.”

I wiped my forehead. I was sweating despite the cold. Dad clapped his hand against my shoulder. “You did good, son.”

“Thanks. So that guy was from Washington?”

“The location code in his call sign was zero,” Ken said. “That’s the code for Iowa, Minnesota, and some of the states west of here. If he were out of Washington, his location code would be three.”

“Hmm. Maybe he’s a field agent or something?”

Ken shrugged.

We had a long wait by the radio. More than an hour, I guessed. The light was starting to dim when the radio crackled back to life, “CQ, CQ, this is N7OVF to Maquoketa inmate station.”

“This is Alex. Inmate?”

Ken was cringing, and I realized I’d messed up the radio etiquette again. But it didn’t seem to matter.

“Sorry. Just jargon. Fortunately there’s an inspector not far from you. Congressional Liaison Orley. He’s in Rock Island. I’ve issued orders for him to move to Maquoketa tomorrow.”

“Great. When will he be here?”

“When the other inmates, um, refugees gather for dinner, Orley will meet you at the gate. Be sure to bring absolutely everyone who can provide a statement related to Black Lake’s corruption. We’ll need all the corroborating evidence we can get. Okay?”

“Got it.”

“Good. N7OVF.”

We spent much of the next day debating who should meet with Congressional Liaison Orley. If the corrupt Black Lake personnel discovered that we were reporting them, anyone who came along might be at risk. Mom was adamant that we all go despite the danger. Any chance to stop the kidnappings was worth it, she argued. In the end, we decided to keep the group to a minimum. Dad and I, because we’d heard Shawn confess; Ben and Alyssa, because they both had firsthand experience with the flensers’ slave trade; and Mom, because she kept the lists and knew exactly who had disappeared.

At dinnertime we gathered in a knot near the gate. The two guards on duty glared at us. Usually this part of the camp was deserted at dinnertime-everyone was in the food lines.

We waited quietly for fifteen or twenty minutes. We were all tense-nobody seemed to feel like talking. A Black Lake guard in camo BDUs strode up to the gate guards and said something to them I couldn’t hear. They stepped away from the gate. The new guard called out, “You here to see Orley? He’s waiting for you in the vehicle depot.”

I glanced at Mom and Dad. They were trying to keep their faces impassive, but I could tell they were worried. Maybe as worried as I was. But if there was any chance at all of keeping the DWBs out of the camp, we had to take it. If we solved that problem, maybe Mom and Dad would try to escape with me. I marched slowly through the gate with Alyssa, Ben, Mom, and Dad right behind me.

The guard led us to a huge tent directly adjacent to the highway. Inside, the front part of the tent was clear; the back was packed with vehicles: bulldozers, snowplows, Humvees, and modern military trucks Ben said were FMTVs.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light coming through the open tent flaps behind us, a figure stepped out from among the parked trucks. “Orley?” I said.

Then I saw his face. It was the bastard who had run Camp Galena when Darla and I were imprisoned there last year: Colonel Levitov.

I stepped back and shouted. But a dozen more guys in camo were already emerging from amid the trucks. They carried jagged-looking black assault rifles.

Dad sighed heavily, burying a word I’d never heard him use before under his breath. Five of the Black Lake guys detached from the rest, moving behind us. If we turned to run, they had clear shots. If we fought, some of us were going to get killed.

A guy about a foot taller than me forced my arms behind my back. I knew resisting would only make it worse. I felt thin plastic bands brush my wrists between my gloves and coat, and then the ties bit into my flesh. He kicked the back of my knee, and I fell to the ground, landing with a painful thud.

Within moments, all five of us were handcuffed and sitting on the unforgiving, frozen ground. Ben rocked back and forth, but he wasn’t moaning. Maybe getting cuffed had become so common that it felt like part of his routine now.

“Now,” Levitov said, “you’ll tell me everything you were going to report to Orley.”

“Does Orley even exist?” I doubted it-what a sucker I’d been.

“That’s immaterial. Talk,” Levitov ordered. An even worse thought occurred to me: What if Orley did exist and was working for Mason’s FERROA oversight committee but had reported me to Levitov instead of investigating? Had the U.S. government been completely co-opted by Black Lake?

Dad shrugged, wincing as the cuffs cut into his wrists. “Might as well talk.”

I was fuming. “This guy ran the camp outside Galena-the one where everyone was starving to death,” I said to Dad. “How’d you wind up here, anyway?” I shot an impaler’s glare at Levitov.