Текст книги "Ashen Winter"

Автор книги: Mike Mullin

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 47

The world spun around me, a jumble of yellow-gray sky, snow, and forest-green truck. Something slammed into my right shoulder, and I rolled down an icy hill. I plowed into fresh powder at the bottom, winding up splayed out and buried, with snow packed into my mouth and nose.

I rolled over. Spat snow from my mouth. Checked my shoulder. It felt like I’d slammed it in a car door six or eight times, but I could move it, so I figured it wasn’t broken or dislocated. I felt a trickle of warm blood seeping along my arm—I must have split open my gunshot wound.

The twin grain silos towered over me. Beside them slumped a burned out farmhouse and mostly collapsed barn. I couldn’t see the Peckerwood’s truck—the snow berm beside the road was in the way. A long, chaotic trail left by my thrashing limbs marked where I’d rolled down the side of the berm. It seemed far too quiet for the aftermath of a crash. Shouldn’t someone be screaming?

I tried to stand, but dizziness forced me back to my hands and knees. I slowly crawled up the snow berm, without using my bruised arm.

The truck had plowed into the berm and twisted so its back end was blocking the road. Its front wheels were stuck in the snow, raised three or four feet above the roadbed, so the entire truck was stuck at an angle. The front windshield was full of cracks, and a chunk about the size of a man’s head had been punched out of the passenger’s side. The windshield wipers had smeared the oil around, leaving long, half-moon streaks on what was left of the glass.

I crawled over the crest of the berm and slid down the far side. I grabbed the passenger door handle to pull myself upright, looked through the window, and recoiled in shock.

One of the guards was slumped against the passenger window, face pressed to the glass. Blood poured from his hairline, ran in rivers along his nose, sheeted over his sightless eyes, and dripped into his yawning mouth.

I took hold of the handle again. Turned it. The door opened easily. The guy fell out head first. The top of his skull was flattened and bloody.

Behind him, the driver held a pistol aimed at my head.

Chapter 48

The pistol wavered, dipping and bobbing as the driver struggled to hold it steady. His other hand was formed into a claw, clutching the center of his chest. His face twisted in agony. He squeezed the trigger. The shot whanged off the door trim a foot from my head.

I dropped flat, under his line of fire. If I crawled away from the truck, he might be able to get an angle on me. The blood-soaked face of the dead guard was inches from mine, contorted by a zombie grin. I had to move. I wormed around the guard’s corpse and under the truck. Its front wheels had been lifted partly onto the snow berm by the crash, so I could rise to a high crawl, although my pack bumped against the undercarriage.

Now what? If the driver got out and poked his gun under the truck, I’d be as easy to kill as a pig in a slaughterhouse chute. I scuttled to the far side of the truck under the driver’s door. I glanced around—the driver’s legs weren’t visible. Either he was still in the cab, or he was standing beside the tires.

I took a deep breath, trying to still my shaking arms. My hands were icy despite my gloves, either from the chill of the frozen road or fear—maybe both. I eased my head out from under the truck, hoping the last thing I saw wouldn’t be the barrel of the pistol.

No flash or sudden retort of gunfire met me. Everything was silent, in limbo. I rolled out from under the truck and crouched to look into the cab. The driver was facing away from me—he had scooted across the bench seat to the passenger’s side.

I turned and ran toward the back of the truck, avoiding the snow berm at the front. As I sprinted past the tailgate, I looked for Darla. I figured she’d be out by now, but the back flap of the truck was still tied shut. I couldn’t see or hear her.

I skidded to a stop at the corner of the truck and peeked around. The driver’s hand and gun protruded from the open passenger door, wavering above the guard’s corpse. I broke into a flat-out sprint toward the door.

The driver was slowly emerging from the passenger door. He got his entire right arm and head out of the door. He looked over his shoulder, saw me, and started to bring his pistol around to shoot me. I jumped, launching myself in a flying front kick when I was still two steps away. My kick connected with his forearm, slamming it against the open passenger door with a sickening crunch. The pistol dropped from his suddenly limp hand. I fell, landing splayed across the corpse.

When I looked up, the driver was clutching his right arm. Either he’d magically grown a bonus elbow, or I’d broken his forearm.

I grabbed his pistol and stood. The driver had a hunting knife in a sheath on his belt. He didn’t react when I took it from him—his breath rasped in his chest, and he was too busy hunching over in extreme pain. I glanced into the cab of the truck—a shotgun lay on the floorboards, so I picked up that, too.

“Darla!” I yelled. “I could use some help out here!”

“What’s going on out there?” Her voice was faint, muffled by the canvas.

What did she think was going on? “Nothing much. I crashed the truck, subdued the guards, and got their weapons.”

“Is it safe?”

That seemed like an even stranger question for her to ask. When had it ever been safe? Not since we had met. Not since the volcano had erupted. What was going on with her? “Yeah . . .” I said anyway.

“Coming.”

I kept my gaze fixed on the driver. I needn’t have bothered. His eyes were closed, and he rocked slightly back and forth, totally absorbed in his agony.

“What the hell is going on out here?”

I looked to my left at the girl who had just stepped out from behind the truck.

She wasn’t Darla.

Chapter 49

All the oxygen left my lungs, replaced by disbelief and pain. Like I’d taken a kick to the groin. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alyssa—I have no idea who this Darla you keep talking about is,” she said.

“I thought you were Darla.” She was the right height. Brown hair curled around her shoulders, exactly like Darla’s. But Darla had a rectangular, Midwestern face—beautiful, but tough and solid. This girl was elfin by contrast—her face almost diamond shaped, her features delicate, her tiny nose slightly upturned. I guessed she might be a year or two younger than Darla.

“Who’s Darla?” She hadn’t moved from the back of the truck.

“Where’s Darla?” I strode down the length of the truck toward her.

“How am I supposed to know? I just told you I don’t know who she is!”

“She’s a girl. Your height. Same hair. Peckerwoods took her to Anamosa.”

“Shot in her right shoulder?”

“Yes! That’s her. Where is she?”

“Clevis!” Her face twisted with rage, and she pointed behind me.

I spun. The driver had emerged from the truck and was scuttling down the road, hunched over and clutching his broken arm to his chest. As I stared, the girl grabbed the shotgun from under my arm. I turned back toward her, afraid she might try to shoot me, but she’d aimed it down the road at the driver. She tried to pull the trigger over and over again, but the gun was safetied.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” she screeched, turning back toward me and leveling the barrel at my chest.

“Whoa!” I swept the barrel aside with an inner forearm block, wincing from the pain the move triggered in my shoulder. “Don’t point that thing at me. You need to push the safety off. It’s the button on the right side,” I said automatically, instantly regretting my big mouth. Gunning down the driver as he fled seemed wrong, although letting him fetch his buddies in Anamosa wasn’t such a bright idea, either. And what if Alyssa decided to use the shotgun on me?

She snicked off the safety and pulled the trigger. Her shot was high and wide, and she hadn’t braced herself at all. The shotgun knocked her on her ass. “Piece of shit!” she screamed and threw the shotgun aside.

“Waste of a good shell,” I said wryly.

She sprang back to her feet and reached for the knife on my belt.

I caught her wrist as her fingers wrapped over the hilt. “What are you doing?” I yelled.

“Let go!” she screamed back.

The driver had picked up his pace and was more than one hundred feet down the road now.

“What are you going to do with my knife?” I asked again.

“Fine,” she said. “You win.” She released her grip on the knife hilt, and I turned and crouched to retrieve the shotgun. Something tugged at my waist, and I spun back just in time to see Alyssa running down the road toward the driver with my knife raised above her head, ready to stab.

She’d only taken a few steps when an eerie, monotone moan emanated from the truck’s load bed. She took one more step forward, then looked back, clearly undecided. Finally she pivoted and marched back to me.

“Now look what you’ve done. You’ve upset Ben.”

“What are you talking about?”

She pointed the knife at me, waving it as she spoke. “Do. Not. Mess. With. My. Brother.”

“Who do you think I am, other than the guy who just rescued both of you? Give me my knife back. Please.”

She thrust the knife into her belt and turned away, marching toward the truck bed.

I looked down the road at the driver for a while. He was already out of the shotgun’s range, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t double back. I didn’t relax until he was a solid quarter mile down the road.

I turned my attention to the corpse of the truck’s passenger. A ring of keys dangled limply from his belt. I took the keys and started searching his pockets. As I searched, the moaning coming from inside the truck ended. I put the pistol in my belt, stowed the shotgun in the passenger-side footwell, and trudged to the back of the truck.

I pulled aside the canvas flap. Alyssa was crouched in the back of the truck beside the big guy I’d last seen in the Anamosa garage. They sat on a jumbled pile of wooden crates. She had a glove balled up in one hand, and she was rubbing the guy’s back with it, running it repeatedly over his coat. He was blocky, but his flesh appeared to be hung on an oversized skeleton. Like he hadn’t eaten well recently. He looked maybe nineteen or twenty years old.

I let down the tailgate and climbed into the load bed. “Is he okay?”

Alyssa looked at me over her shoulder. She didn’t stop brushing the guy’s back. “He’ll be okay.”

“You didn’t get hurt during the crash?”

“Ben and I were thrown into the canvas wall. With the crates,” she said. “I’ve got some ugly bruises.”

“What about you?” I asked, addressing Ben. He was huge. Sitting with his ankles tucked under him, he was almost as tall as I was standing. He was shackled prison-style, wrists and ankles cuffed and linked with chains that severely restricted his movement.

He didn’t respond. He was gently rocking forward and back, back and forward.

“Doesn’t he talk?” I stretched, trying to work out the painful kinks in my side and shoulder.

“When he wants to.”

“Why are you rubbing his back?”

“I’m brushing, not rubbing. It helps. Why’d you crash the truck?”

“I thought you were Darla. She fell onto a Peckerwood truck during an ambush. I’ve been trying to find her. You’ve seen her? Did you talk to her?”

“No, I never talked to her. The only time I saw her, she was asleep. They had her in the infirmary at Anamosa. She didn’t look like she was hurt too bad.”

“What’ll they do to her?”

The girl shook her head slowly. “They won’t flense her, probably. They’re running out of girls. And we’re valuable. I think they only decided to trade me away because I come with an extra mouth to feed.” She glanced at Ben.

“I’ve got to get back to Anamosa.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“Maybe. What do you want to do? If you stay here, the Peckerwoods might come back and pick you up.”

“No!” She grabbed my arm and stared at me. A fierce light burned in her eyes. “Get us out of here. Anywhere. I don’t care. Worthington, if they’re still holding out.”

“I can’t waste that much time. I’ve got to find Darla. And if you don’t want to wait for the Peckerwoods, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Why didn’t you shoot Clevis? It might have been a couple days before the Peckerwoods sent anyone out to check on him.”

My face grew hot. “I don’t know. I couldn’t.”

“He would have shot you without a second thought. Or done something even worse.”

“I’m not like him.”

The girl shook her head. “What planet are you from? And what’s your name, anyway?”

“Alex.” I wasn’t sure what to say to the first question. I reached out to Ben, intending to check the lock on his wrist. The girl caught my hand and held it. “What?” I asked.

“Don’t. He doesn’t like to be touched.”

“You’re touching him.”

“Brushing. I told you.”

“I was just going to check the locks on his cuffs. I might have the key.” I dangled the key ring I’d snatched from the corpse.

She took the ring from me and used a tiny silver key to unlock Ben’s ankle and wrist cuffs. Then she tossed the chains away. “Thanks,” she said, handing the keys back to me.

“Why doesn’t he talk?”

“Like I said, he doesn’t want to. If he decides to talk to you, you won’t be able to shut him up.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing!”

“Sorry. Look, we need to get out of here before Clevis gets back to the prison and sends out the cavalry. We can loop around, drop me near Anamosa, and then you can take the truck wherever you want to go.” I started shuffling toward the tailgate. My body had stiffened as we talked—even walking hurt now.

“You should have shot him.” Alyssa followed me, Ben trailing behind.

“He might not make it to Anamosa,” I said as I climbed down from the tailgate. “I think he broke some ribs in the crash, and I shattered his right arm pretty good.”

“You did that?” Alyssa hurried to get alongside me as I limped toward the driver’s door.

“Yeah. He was trying to shoot me. Remember?”

“Hmm,” she said, looking thoughtful.

I pulled open the driver’s door, threw my pack on the bench seat, and climbed in after it. “I don’t know if I can drive this thing. I’ve never driven anything but an automatic.”

“Me, neither.”

I dug a spare shirt out of my pack and handed it to Alyssa. “Clean off the front windshield, would you?”

“Sure.” She took my shirt, climbed onto the front fender, and started wiping the oil off the windshield.

I took the keys out of my pocket and looked for the ignition. I couldn’t find it. There was no keyhole anywhere.

“Won’t it start?” Alyssa asked when she finished the windshield.

“I don’t know,” I said, staring at the gearshift. “The gears aren’t even marked on here. And there’s no place to put a key.”

If Darla were in the driver’s seat, we’d have been rolling down the road at top speed by now. The dashboard was confusing, covered in labels, symbols, signs, dials, and gauges. After a moment, a handle to the left of the steering wheel caught my eye—it was labeled Off and Ignition. I turned it, and the truck started making a low whine, but it didn’t start.

“What’s that?” Alyssa said.

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t sound good. Turn it off.”

I cranked the handle back to Off, and the whine died.

“Let Ben look at it. He’s into military stuff.”

Alyssa stepped off the running board and held the door open for Ben.

“What do you know about this truck?” Alyssa asked him.

“It’s an M35A2,” Ben replied. His voice was deep, which surprised me after his high-pitched moaning. But it still sounded odd, flat. “A multifuel model. That means you can drive it on gasoline, diesel, vegetable oil, heating oil, or jet—”

“Focus, Ben.” Alyssa interrupted. “I don’t need to know everything about it. How do you start it?”

“Turn on the ignition.” Ben pointed to the same handle I’d turned. “Then push the starter button.” He leaned into the cab, pointing at a button I’d missed to the right of the steering wheel.

I cranked the ignition handle over, starting the whine again. Then I mashed the starter button under my thumb. The truck roared to life.

Ben clapped his hands over his ears and stepped down from the running board.

I jammed the clutch to the floor under my left foot and fiddled with the shifter. I wasn’t sure if it was in gear, or if so, which gear it was in. There were no markings on the shifter. I started to ease up on the clutch, but realized I’d forgotten to buckle up.

I pulled over the lap belt and buckled it. I eased back on the clutch—my face felt hot, and I realized I was holding my breath. When my foot came clear off the clutch, nothing changed.

“I think it’s still in neutral,” Alyssa said.

“Yeah.” I grabbed the gear shift and shoved it upward. The truck made a horrible metallic grinding sound.

“You’ve got to push in the clutch first,” I muttered to myself.

I tried again, but the truck must have been in third. It lurched forward, buried its front wheels even deeper in the snowbank, and stalled.

“The New Guy should use the chart to the left of the steering wheel,” Ben yelled.

“Chart?” I said. Then I noticed it, exactly where Ben said it would be. It showed all the gear positions.

Despite the chart, I stalled the truck twice more before I found reverse. And even then, the truck didn’t pull free of the snowbank. The back wheels spun on the icy road, spitting snow and digging in a little. Ben showed me how to engage the all-wheel drive, but even that didn’t help. The deuce was stuck. And thanks to my infinite genius, we had a limited amount of time to get it unstuck before Clevis returned. With all his buddies.

Chapter 50

Ben wandered around the truck, muttering.

“What?” I asked.

He didn’t reply for a moment. “Was that intended to be a question?”

“Yes,” I said. “What are you muttering about?”

“This truck has been badly maintained. There is no winch. The tires show excessive wear.”

Lot of help that was. Alyssa and I traded places. As she got into the cab, she shuddered, staring at the blood smeared over the passenger side windshield and dash. I walked to the front of the truck and wedged myself against the bumper to push. The mountain of snow behind me reached above the cab of the truck. I heaved on the bumper with all my might while Alyssa spun the wheels. Nothing. I remembered how Darla had rocked the bulldozer free of the creek last year and tried pushing rhythmically to set up a rocking motion. That didn’t work, either.

Now Ben was standing partway up the snow berm, a little ways off, watching the proceedings. “I could use a little help here, you know!” I yelled at him.

He turned his back on me and started trudging toward the top of the snow berm. “Where are you going?” I shouted. He didn’t reply. Great. We didn’t have time to mess around. By truck we were less than fifteen minutes from Anamosa. I wanted to be long gone before Clevis got back to the prison and informed the Peckerwoods that I’d stolen their truck.

Alyssa shut off the engine and climbed out of the cab. I chased after Ben, moving as quickly as I could on the slippery berm.

I caught up with him just as he started down the far side of the berm, heading toward the crushed barn. Alyssa was nowhere in sight.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I need a lever,” he replied.

“What for?” I asked, but he talked over my question, ignoring it.

“Like Archimedes’ lever, but it does not have to be that strong. I do not need to move the world; I only need to move a truck.”

“Hey, that’s a good—” I started, but Ben kept talking over me.

“Archimedes was killed by a Roman soldier. General Marcellus had ordered that Archimedes not be harmed, but Archimedes refused to accompany the soldier. He was working on a mathematical problem involving seven circles. His last words were, ‘Do not disturb my circles.’ Then the Roman soldier killed Archimedes with his sword.”

“That’s int—”

“The lever-action rifle was invented in 1849 by Walter Hunt. The first important model was the Spencer Repeating Rifle. It had a seven-shot magazine capacity. It was used during the U.S. Civil War by Union forces only after Abraham Lincoln test fired one in 1863. But it was too late for the rifle to make a significant difference in the war.”

By this time we had reached the remnants of a crushed barn. Ben started rummaging through the rafters while he lectured me. I helped him shift the rubble, having some idea what he was looking for.

“The principle of the lever allowed E. M. Darque to invent a compact can opener used by American troops during World War II. The first military model was called the P-38, developed in 1942. Not long after, an additional model named the P-51 was introduced. Some people believe the can openers were named after the aircraft that share the same designation, but that is a coincidence. The can openers were named for their size; the P-38 was 38 millimeters in length, and the P-51 was 51 millimeters in length.”

We’d found a suitable board—a broken two-by-eight. It was fourteen or fifteen feet long. Ben pried scraps of roof decking off it while he talked. He made it seem effortless—clearly, he was as strong as his size suggested.

Alyssa huffed up and more or less pushed her way between us. “What’s wrong with him?” I whispered.

“Nothing!” she hissed back.

“Why’s he going on and on about levers?” He’d continued talking—now he was giving a long dissertation on the importance of levers to the landing gear and ailerons on F-14 fighter jets. I was pretty much tuning him out.

“It’s his special interest. Not levers, I mean. Anything to do with the military.”

“So he’s one of those, what do you call them? Idiot savants?”

“He’s not an idiot,” she whispered. “He’s smarter than you are. Or me. And he’s the kindest, most gentle—the best big brother anyone could have. Don’t hurt. . . . Just get us somewhere safe. . . . Please?”

“I’ve got to get to Anamosa. But I’ll give you the truck and all the supplies I can spare. You didn’t answer my question, though—what’s he got?”

“Dad called it Autism Spectrum Disorder,” she whispered. “Mom said it was his special blessing, not a disorder. I used to think she was crazy. Before. When Mom and Dad were still alive.”

We had the two-by-eight stripped of all the excess chunks of wood now. There were still about a zillion nails in it, but I didn’t think they’d get in our way. I picked up one end of the rafter and Ben grabbed the other. He was still talking—now it was something about the use of levers in airplane launch-and-retrieval systems aboard aircraft carriers. We trudged back toward the truck. Alyssa walked beside me.

“He wasn’t this bad before the volcano,” she whispered. “Stress makes it harder for him to cope. And there’s been tons.”

“Yeah.” I was quiet for a minute, paying attention to where I placed my feet as we crossed the snow berm. “How did you survive? With the Peckerwoods?”

Alyssa looked away. “I did what I had to. To keep us both safe.”

How could this slight girl protect her overgrown big brother? It should have been the other way around. I didn’t want to think too hard about it.

When we got back to the truck, Alyssa left me to get into the driver’s seat. Ben fed one end of the rafter under the front bumper of the truck and joined me at the other. It would’ve been easier if we could have used the snow berm as a fulcrum, but it was too tall. Ben kept talking about aircraft carriers. He didn’t seem to care or even realize that I wasn’t listening.

Alyssa fired up the truck. The wheels spun in reverse. Ben and I pushed up on the rafter, trying to use the lever to force the truck up and off the snow berm.

We moved the truck an inch . . . then two. The board bowed as we heaved upward on it. Suddenly the rafter snapped. The truck rocked back into place and Ben and I fell, sliding down the snow berm and coming to rest against the front bumper.

The rafter was broken in a jagged line right where it had pushed against the bumper. “I should have placed the lever vertically,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “It probably would have been stronger that way.”

We tried using the longer of the two remaining pieces of rafter, but we couldn’t get enough leverage to budge the truck at all. So we all trudged back to the wrecked barn.

We’d taken the easiest rafter the first time. It took twenty or thirty minutes to free another one of the right length and size from the tangled wreckage. I was starting to worry about how long we’d been there. Clevis had long since disappeared over the horizon.

Ben placed the rafter under the bumper—oriented correctly this time, and Alyssa got back in place behind the wheel. As soon as we pushed up on the rafter, we could feel the truck rolling backward. We started rocking it rhythmically. I slid up so my shoulder was jammed under the rafter, and I could use my legs to lift it. Ben and I heaved upward, Alyssa gunned the engine, and suddenly the truck was free. Ben and I fell forward, sliding down the snow berm again. The truck shot across the road, struck the snow berm on the opposite side, and stalled.

I sprinted across the road. “Don’t get it stuck again!” I yelled.

“I wasn’t trying to!” Alyssa retorted.

“I know. But let me drive, okay?”

“Gladly. Stupid truck.” Alyssa unbuckled her seat belt and scooted to the middle of the bench seat, straddling the gearshift. Ben got in the passenger side, smearing the blood on the seat into his pants. I passed him my backpack to stow under the passenger seat. A bulging daypack already rested under there, but I didn’t want to spend time investigating it at that moment. When I got in, Ben was pulling out the seat belt on his side. It stretched across both his lap and Alyssa’s. I fastened my own seat belt.

Ben put the shotgun in his lap with the barrel pointed toward the passenger door. He bent over it, minutely inspecting some aspect of its workings.

“Will he be okay with that?” I asked Alyssa. What I really needed to know was whether he was likely to accidentally shoot me.

“Safer than you or me. Knows so much about firearms he used to get email from adult collectors who read his blog. Before.”

“How many shells we got?” I said to Ben.

“This is a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. It is the most popular shotgun ever made. Law enforcement and military all over the world use this gun.” Ben tried to pump the shotgun, but the slide wouldn’t operate. “It is loaded.”

“So how many shots are in it?” I asked as I started the truck.

Ben clicked a lever on the side of the gun and started pumping the slide. Chunk-chunk. Chunk-chunk. Each time he pumped the gun a shell flew out, landing in the footwell. “None,” Ben said when he finished.

“None? Those shells are duds?”

“No. There are no shells in the shotgun now. There were five.”

I wanted to throttle him despite the fact that he was roughly twice my size. “Well, reload it, would you?”

“Yes, I would.” Ben started picking up shells off the floorboard.

“You want to test fire one out the window?” I forced the shifter left and down for first gear, lifted off the clutch, and promptly stalled the truck again.

Ben ignored my question, continuing to reload the shotgun.

“He doesn’t shoot guns,” Alyssa said while I restarted the truck. “We took him to a rifle range for his tenth birthday. He was already into all things military then. He fired a .22, put it down, and left the range. He doesn’t like the noise.”

“That’s . . . different.” I stalled the truck once more before I got it in first. Then I pulled out too fast and nearly ran over the corpse we’d left lying in the road.

At last we were rolling down the road away from Anamosa—south, I thought. We’d made it away before Clevis could send a search party from the prison—though if the Peckerwoods sent anyone after us, it would be more like a search-and-destroy party. Ben put the shotgun back in the footwell. He rolled down his window and peered out, twisting his head to look behind us.

“Is that shotgun safetied?” I asked.

Ben didn’t say anything. I glanced at Alyssa. “How should I know?” she said.

“Find out, would you?” I tried to shift into second gear and stalled the truck again. “God—”

“Don’t cuss around Ben,” Alyssa interrupted. “He doesn’t like it.” She turned back toward Ben while I restarted the truck. “You remember your social interactions class, Ben?”

He didn’t respond.

“What are you supposed to do when someone asks you a question?”

“I am supposed to choose an appropriate response.”

“And what did Alex just ask you?”

“Alex asked me whether I safetied the Remington 870 shotgun. I always check the safety before I handle any weapon. I always check the safety when I set a weapon down or pass it to someone else. I never disengage a weapon’s safety.”

“That’s good.” I’d gotten the truck restarted, even managed to put it into second gear. Ben was hanging his head out the window. “Would you close the window, please?” I asked. “I’m cold.”

Ben pulled in his head and started rolling up his window. “The deuce-and-a-half behind us is an A3, remanufactured under the extended service program between 1994 and 1999.”

“Wait, you mean our deuce-and-a-half, right?”

“No, the truck in which I am riding is an A2 with the multifuel feature and a manual transmission.”

I cranked my window down and adjusted the mirror. A truck was racing toward us, gaining far too fast.