Mike Mullin - Ashen Winter

“Alyssa, I’m not-”

She blushed. “I know you’re not interested in me that way. But we’re friends, right? I’d rather stay close to you. I don’t know why, okay?”

“Okay.” Alyssa had seemed different-less confident-since that morning in the tent. But I’d be glad to have both her and Ben around. I put my hand over hers and squeezed.

Mom and Dad were looking at me. “What?” I said as I released Alyssa’s hand.

“Nothing.” Mom shook her head.

“I’m going to try to get some sleep,” I said.

I picked out a cot at random, lay down on my side, and rested my head on my forearm. We had missed dinner-my stomach was gnawing on a hard knot of nothing. I was exhausted and weak, but sleep refused to come.

My thoughts spun, revolving through the same worry over and over: Darla. I knew she was alive. She had to be. I’d know it if she were dead, right? Or was that total crap made up by movie writers and believed by overly optimistic morons like me? Was she still in Anamosa? When Black Lake attacked the prison, how could I be sure she wouldn’t be hurt?

Amid all these worries, a tiny but fierce flame burned: hope. Tomorrow I might find Darla. Finally.

It didn’t happen. The next day we were trapped in the infirmary. Black Lake employees came and went all day, setting up kerosene lanterns, bringing paper and pencils to Ben, and quizzing all of us about Anamosa and the Peckerwoods. They even brought food-some kind of wheat porridge-and more water.

Mostly they talked to Ben. I saw Colonel Levitov twice, but he didn’t acknowledge anyone but Ben. We bugged our guards, but no one would give us any information. We passed a frustrating day of enforced rest and nervous chatter.

That night, I was startled out of a troubled sleep by the light from a lantern. A Black Lake guard barked, “Get up. We move out in fifteen minutes.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Getting ready in fifteen minutes was not a problem-I had nothing but the clothes I was wearing and the seeds still secreted in my jacket. I rolled out of bed, stretched, and waited for the guards.

When they returned, they hustled us to the vehicle depot and loaded us into a big, boxy truck Ben called an FMTV. Bench seats lined the back. We were packed in with a dozen Black Lake guys in full gear. I eyed them uneasily and got nothing but glares in return. The four of us huddled at the end of one of the benches, and Dad made a point of sitting between me and the first Blake Lake guy. Our truck joined a convoy of four other vehicles full of mercenaries and their weapons.

The ride to Anamosa took longer than I expected-maybe two hours. From inside the truck, I couldn’t tell how fast we were traveling. I tried to peek out the back of the truck once, but one of the Black Lake guys stopped me before I could even reach the latch.

When we finally stopped, all but three Black Lake guys vaulted out. They moved without speaking, weapons cradled to their sides, in a deadly choreographed silence. I started to ask, “What-” but one of the remaining guards put his hand against my mouth.

When I tried to climb out of the truck, he stopped me with a palm on my chest, but that didn’t keep me from looking out the back.

It was nearly pitch black. All the trucks were shut down, their running lights off. I heard a pop and hiss, and suddenly a flare of light appeared about twenty feet ahead of me-so bright it felt as if it were burning the backs of my eyes.

The limestone bulk of the Anamosa prison loomed above me. We had pulled up near a heavy steel side door. The light source was a welding torch that one of the mercenaries was using to slice through the lock.

Something metallic clanked, and the guy using the torch dialed it down from white-hot to orange. Another guy jammed an oversized pry-bar between the frame and door, wrenching it open. Then all the Black Lake mercenaries sprinted into action, charging into the prison in a double file.

I heard the muffled pop-pop of gunfire. The echoes of screams escaped the open door. None sounded feminine, but I still felt the cold hand of terror clenching my gut. Was it a massacre? If Darla was in there, would they shoot her? I tried to leave the truck again, but one of the mercenaries shoved me back so hard I fell, crashing down on a bench. I heard a distant clang, and all the sounds blended into a cacophony of death, pain, and clashing metal.

It was over inside of twenty minutes. Colonel Levitov emerged from the prison door, barked an order, and the headlights of the truck behind ours snapped on, bathing us in light. He stepped up to our tailgate and addressed Ben. “The prison is under control. The last of the Peckerwoods here will be dead or in our custody shortly. Your intelligence was nearly perfect. Well done.” Levitov stuck out his hand.

Ben looked at his feet. Alyssa nudged him with her elbow, and he limply placed his hand in Levitov’s, still staring downward. “You committed to releasing Ben and his friends,” Ben said.

“I did.” Levitov released Ben’s hand and Ben balled it up, pulling it back against his chest. “You’re free to go,” Levitov continued. “Make trouble for my camp again, and I’ll see that you regret it.”

He didn’t deserve a handshake, salute, or thank you from me. I couldn’t give him what he did deserve, so I settled for glaring at him. Evidently Mom and Dad felt the same way-they didn’t say anything to him, either.

I jogged toward the prison door. Levitov yelled, “We haven’t finished mopping up in there.”

Dad sprinted up to me, catching my arm just before I reached the door. “We need to clear out of here. They might still be fighting in there.”

“Darla’s in there,” I said. “I’m going inside to look for her.”

“We’re going back to the farm,” Mom said. “Back to Rebecca.”

“After I find Darla.” I twisted my arm free of Dad’s grasp and ducked into the prison. Inside it was pitch black. It smelled terrible-filthy gas station bathroom blended with rank slaughterhouse. I heard Mom just outside the door, still arguing that we should return to the farm immediately.

Dad followed me into the prison, shake light in hand. He switched on the beam. And I ducked my head, fighting back vomit. Two corpses were sprawled inside the door. A dozen or more bullets had punctured their chests, and their blood had leaked in such prodigious quantity that it nearly covered the entry hall. I was standing in it.

I heard retching noises and looked back to see Alyssa vomiting in the corner. Ben was staring at the corpses, “These are 5.56 millimeter impact wounds,” he said, “from an AR-15 rifle. The U.S. military designation is M16. Sloppy groupings-they should do much better at short range.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Where’s the infirmary? Where they were keeping Darla.”

Dad said, “Alex-”

“I’m going after her. Now.”

“Third floor, toward the front. There is a staircase around the corner.” Ben sloshed along the hallway.

“Won’t it be locked down?” I asked as I hurried to catch up to Ben.

“Only the cellblocks will be locked down,” Ben replied.

As we reached the staircase, Dad pushed past us both. I caught his arm and tried to pass him again, but he blocked me, stopped, and shook his head. He pointed me to the rear, but when he started up the staircase I crowded his heels. Darla might be at the top of these stairs. If I could, I’d be in the front, taking them at a run. Maybe that was why Dad had wanted me to take rear guard.

The distant boom of a shotgun echoed through the stairwell. The squelching sounds our boots made ended before we reached the third floor, but the coppery stink of blood followed us.