Текст книги "Ashen Winter"

Автор книги: Mike Mullin

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I was still trying to sleep when Dad finally came in. “You’re awake,” he said.

“Yeah.”

He started to take off his boots. “Look, I—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I said, staring through him toward the sliver of light now blocked by his body.

“I was just doing what I had to.”

“Bullshit. You cut off a guy’s finger and tried to make him eat it, Dad.”

He turned his back toward me. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding.

“You remember what I did before the volcano,” Dad said.

“CAD/CAM drafting. So what?”

“I didn’t always do that. I’ve got a civil engineering degree. Got a great job right out of college. Just what I’d always wanted to do. Designing sewer systems might not sound like fun to most people, but I loved it. The flow dynamics, the treatment ponds—it all has to come together like the sections of symphony. Brown water comes in, and clean water comes out. There’s a beauty to it if you can see it.”

“You never talked about that.”

“No. I designed a huge job in El Mirage, outside Phoenix. Made a mistake calculating the load on a wall. Dropped a zero. Maybe the contractor should have caught it, but they didn’t. The cave-in buried three guys up to their necks. The other workers unburied them in less than an hour, but they still died. Crush syndrome.”

“I didn’t know.”

“After that, I didn’t have any passion for designing the systems anymore. The music of it was gone. I took a crappy job doing CAD/CAM renderings, and I’ve been doing that ever since.”

“I always thought that was what you wanted to do.”

“I guess it was what I wanted. After El Mirage, anyway.” Dad paused for a long time. He was sitting hunched in the front of the tent, facing away from me. “Those three guys who died. They had families. Wives and children. I was responsible. I could have prevented it. . . .”

I didn’t know what to say. I waited out the silence.

“If I made a mistake doing the CAD/CAM drawings, the architect was responsible for catching it. I wasn’t in charge. But I didn’t. Make mistakes. My drawings were perfect—the best. I’ve turned down three promotions in the last ten years. I didn’t want the responsibility.

“When I got here, I helped your mom with the school. Taught math. But I wasn’t really into it—it was just easier to do what Janice wanted instead of arguing with her. But there was one student—Karen. Sixteen. Energetic. Brilliant. I was teaching her what little integral calculus I could remember.

“She told me she was worried. She’d heard rumors about girls disappearing. I shrugged off her concerns.” Dad lowered his head. “She hasn’t been seen in four months.

“Responsibility’s a cruel bitch. She comes for you whether you want it or not. And people are dying here, regardless of what I do, Alex.” He swiveled at the hips toward me, his face silhouetted—all sharp black angles against the tent opening. “But it’s still my job to protect them. If I had to cut off my own finger and eat it, I’d do that. Whatever it takes. Whatever.”

“Some things are beyond our control,” I said. “No matter what we do.” I sat up and hugged him. I still couldn’t reconcile the placid, benignly neglectful father I’d known with this mercurial maniac I had wrapped in my arms. The disaster had warped the landscape of our minds—perhaps even more than it had altered the physical landscape.

When, after a long while, we broke the embrace and laid down side-by-side on our bedrolls, neither of us slept. Instead we stared silently at the tiny sliver of light still peeking from the outside world into the darkness within our tent.

Chapter 65

I found Ben in the breakfast line. “I need to talk to you,” I whispered.

“You are talking to me,” he replied in a normal voice.

“Talk about what?” Alyssa asked.

“Escaping,” I whispered back.

“Escaping is not a difficult problem,” Ben said. “There are vulnerabilities—”

“Ben,” Alyssa whispered urgently. Our neighbors in the line had turned almost in unison to stare at us. “Later. After breakfast.”

“The information is classified as need-to-know only?”

“Yes, only Alex needs to know.”

After breakfast, the three of us huddled behind a tent, out of the wind, while Ben explained his plan. The guards changed twice each night around midnight and four A.M. Ben had observed them congregating at the guard hut during their shift change—the perfect opportunity to escape at the other side of the camp. The only problem: How would we cross the fence?

A bolt cutter would be the obvious solution, but none of us had any idea where we’d get one of those. Ben’s other idea was to build a canvas sling about twenty feet long and two feet wide. The middle would be reinforced with a dozen layers of canvas. We’d toss it over the fence so that the reinforced part overlaid the razor wire. Then we’d tie both sides to the chain-link part of the fence and climb over via hand– and footholds sewn into the sling.

So we needed to dismantle a tent—one of the old types made of heavy-duty canvas. Dad was asleep so I went looking for Mom. I found her crouched in a tent feeding an older woman who was too sick to stand in the food line.

“You need any help?” I asked.

“Sure.” She handed me a bowl of boiled wheat. “See if Jane wants to eat anything.” She gestured at the other woman in the tent.

I took the bowl from her and crouched, shuffling deeper into the tent. “You think you can eat?” I said to Jane.

“Reckon’ so,” she replied in a low, rough voice. She started trying to push herself upright.

“Let me help you.” I put my hand behind her shoulders and lifted, jamming the bedding in behind her to keep her partly upright. I took a spoonful of gruel and held it to her lips.

“Mom,” I said, “I need a tent.”

“Your father snoring or something?” she replied.

“No, it’s not that. I need to . . .” How was I going to explain this? I didn’t really want to lie to her, not that she’d believe me, anyway. “I need to make something out of one of the tents, a heavy canvas one.”

“Make what?”

“A sling. To throw across the fence.”

Mom swiveled toward me, slopping some of the gruel across the cheek of her patient. “You just got here! We’re finally back together, and you—”

“So come with me,” I said. “That’s why Darla and I came back to Iowa in the first place. To find you and bring you home to Uncle Paul’s. To Rebecca.”

“We’ll try to escape as soon as we know the girls here are safe, and we’ll go back to Uncle Paul’s together. Not gallivanting off after some—”

“Without Darla, I wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t be alive. I’m going after her. With or without you.”

“You’re too young to—”

“I’m not a kid.”

“It’s hopeless—”

“It is not hopeless. I need a heavy canvas tent. And I’d like your help.”

“There are some things we just can’t do.”

“We decide what we can do. That’s the way it was before the volcano, and it’s still true.” I fought to keep my hand steady as I continued spooning gruel into Jane’s mouth. “Things are just a lot harder.”

“Things are different. We have to make hard choices now.”

“Which is exactly what I’m asking you to do. Make a hard choice. Help me go after Darla.”

“I . . . I can’t.”

“You done?” I asked Jane.

She nodded.

“Me, too.” I left the tent without looking back.

Chapter 66

I napped uneasily the rest of the day. Every time I woke up, I looked to where Dad slept alongside me, thinking about waking him and asking him to help me get a tent. Every time I waited, figuring I’d be better off if I asked him after he woke up on his own. I hoped he’d be more likely to say yes.

But when I got up for dinner, he was gone. I looked for him all evening but didn’t catch up to him until well after dark.

His answer was the same as my mother’s. Maybe she’d gotten to him first. They didn’t have any canvas tents to spare, didn’t want to try to escape yet, and weren’t going to go looking for Darla even if or when they did escape. We argued for what felt like at least an hour, but our positions were calcified. Any pair of statues facing off in a public park might have made more progress than we did.

Our argument ended suddenly when a distant scream pierced the air. No sooner had we started running toward it than two more screams, in different places, shattered the stillness of the night.

We glanced at each other. “Go wake up the day shift!” Dad ordered.

“Right.” I reversed course, sprinting for the tents where the prefects slept. By the time I got back with reinforcements, the whole camp was in an uproar. A flood of refugees was pouring into the center of the camp, fleeing the crescendoing screams and chaos. Dad was yelling to be heard over the noise, dispatching teams of prefects to search for whatever or whoever was causing the ruckus.

Dad grouped me with two others, Jones and Altemeier, and told us to sweep the perimeter of the camp along the fence. We set off at a run.

By the time we got to the fence, it seemed like the commotion had mostly moved deeper inside the camp. I scanned constantly back and forth as we ran, hyperalert for any movement.

As we passed the gate, I saw four Black Lake guys, double the usual contingent, leaning against the guard shack outside the fence. “Why don’t you do something?” I yelled. They laughed, and one of them pantomimed shooting me. I turned away, and we ran on.

A few hundred yards farther on, we heard a child screaming. Following the noise, we found a little girl, maybe four or five years old, sitting in the snow between two of the tents, screaming, “Mommyyyyy! Mommyyyyy! Mommyyyyy!” She paused just long enough between each scream to breathe.

We quickly scouted the adjacent tents. Nobody was there. I scooped up the girl in my arms, which only made her scream louder. “I’ll run her to the middle of camp, then catch up to you,” I yelled. Jones nodded, and she and Altemeier took off along the fence line.

I headed toward the center of the camp, slowing to a jog to conserve my strength. I had to detour once, to avoid a chaotic melee between three black-clad biker-types and five or six prefects. I would have been worse than useless in the middle of a fight with a squirming little girl in my arms.

It took more than ten minutes to find Mom in the chaos at the center of camp. She was organizing refugees who weren’t part of the prefect system into groups she designated runners or fighters. I guessed she was organizing for an attack, but I didn’t stop to ask her. Instead I thrust the little girl into her startled arms and took off again.

I couldn’t find Jones or Altemeier. I looked for a few minutes before I came across another fight. A group of three flensers armed with knives were fighting with a much larger cluster of refugees. I ran toward them, but by the time I arrived, the invaders had broken off, running toward the gate. Nobody chased them—two of the refugees involved in the fight had been stabbed and were bleeding badly. I stopped to help.

A few minutes later, it was over almost as suddenly as it had started. The cries of rage died, replaced by the wails of the wounded and moans of the dying.

It took more than twelve hours for Dad to get a clear picture of what had happened. We’d been attacked by members of the Dirty White Boys. Something between fifteen and thirty of them, working in groups of three or four, had swarmed through the camp searching tents and stabbing anything that moved.

We had eleven fresh corpses. Eight refugees and three Dirty White Boys. Dozens more were wounded, including a few that might soon join the dead. Dad decided to deliver all the corpses to the guard gate along with a protest—not that either of us really thought it would do any good. The guards had let the DWBs in. They knew what would happen.

The little girl I’d grabbed in the middle of the night turned out to be named Lisa. Her mother had gotten pulled away from her in the crush of fleeing people. The only good tears I saw that day were the ones when mother and daughter were reunited.

Hoping for Black Lake to take action seemed futile, so we spent an exhausting day preparing for the night to follow. We organized more fighters, distributed captured knives, and made plans for refugees to flee to the protected zone at the center of the camp if the DWBs came again. I had no time to do anything about my escape plan amid the rush to prepare for another attack.

Dad planned for everyone on defensive patrols to sleep in the late afternoon. We would need our sleep if the camp got attacked again. But organizing and getting cleaned up took far longer than it should have. By nightfall, neither Dad nor I had had so much as a nap. We were drunk with exhaustion. If the DWBs came again that night, we’d be useless.

So of course they did.

Chapter 67

One of the prefects Dad had assigned to watch the gate sprinted up to us. I was out of breath myself, having just returned from running orders to a patrol on the far side of the camp. What the scout said made further orders irrelevant.

“DWBs, sir.” The woman was gasping, out of breath. “Just came through the main gate.”

“How many?” Dad barked.

“Just two so far.”

The three of us ran back toward the gate.

Trey was there, carrying one dirty plastic WalMart bag in his left hand and two in his right. A guy I didn’t recognize was with him. They sauntered toward the center of the camp like they didn’t have a care in the world, but I could see two separate groups of prefects shadowing them at a distance. I caught Trey’s eyes darting sideways and realized the truth: That huge muscle-bound dude was scared out of his mind.

“Stop!” Dad ordered them.

They stopped.

“You brought our radio?”

Trey lifted one of the WalMart bags. “Shortwave transceiver.” He hefted the other two. “Batteries.”

Dad strode up to them, his eyes shifting warily from Trey to the other guy. I followed along. He took the bags from Trey.

“You going to flense us now?” Trey asked. His eyes darted from me to Dad.

“Why’d you decide to hand over a radio?” Dad asked.

“You kicked our asses yesterday. If it was up to me, we’d come back with shotguns and street sweepers and wipe this latrine pit off the map. But it’s not up to me.”

“You’re not allowed to bring in guns, are you?”

“Nope. Some kind of candy-ass deal between the guards and Wolfe.”

“Wolfe?”

“He’s the captain. Guy who told me to bring you this here radio.”

“I’m surprised the guards let the radio through.”

“You bribe the right guard, you can get almost anything in. Except guns. So you going to skin us? Or keep your bargain?”

“What bargain?” I said. “By attacking us last night, you broke whatever bargain there was.”

“Told Wolfe not to trust the cattle.” Trey shrugged, making an effort at being nonchalant, but his shoulders were trembling.

Dad said, “Let’s see if the radio works.” Then he called out to the prefects, “Hold these two here for now.”

I carried the radio to our tent. Dad got out the flashlight and started shaking it while I dumped the bags on my bedroll.

When the flashlight was charged, Dad held it on the radio. I grabbed the pair of wires coming out the back: one red, one black. They were greasy, as if they’d been installed in a car at some point. “Does it matter which one connects where?” I said, eyeing the terminals on the battery.

“It matters,” Dad replied. “If it’s like jumper cables, the red wire is positive and the black is negative. Hook up the positive side first.”

“I can’t tell which side of the battery is positive.”

“Should be printed on the casing.” Dad aimed the shake light at the battery.

The terminal labels were embossed into the plastic battery case. There was no obvious way to connect the wires to the battery. They terminated in a strip of bare copper wire—there were no alligator clips.

I held onto the insulated part of the red wire, pushing the copper lead against the positive battery terminal. When I pushed the black against the other terminal, sparks flew, searingly bright in the dim tent, and I dropped both wires.

“Least we know the battery’s good,” Dad said wryly.

“Is it supposed to do that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Try the other battery. And just hold them there a minute so I can see if the radio works.”

The black lead sparked again, but once I had it firmly against the terminal, it quit.

“Here goes nothing,” Dad said, pushing the power button. Nothing happened.

“Bum radio?”

“Don’t know.” Dad pushed down the button again, holding it a couple of seconds this time. The radio crackled to life, and a staticky hiss filled our little tent. He dialed through the channels quickly but picked up nothing.

He pulled the mic off the side of the radio and depressed the lever. “Any idea how to check if this thing works?”

“Not a clue,” I said. “Ben might know. It looks like some kind of military radio. He’s gaga over anything military.”

“That meltdown the other day didn’t inspire my confidence.”

“You got a better idea?”

Dad spoke into the mic, “Hello, hello, anyone there?” When he let up on the lever, the staticky hiss resumed. He shrugged. “Let’s get some sleep. I’ll take you off the patrol rotation tomorrow. You and Ben can try to raise someone on this thing. Might be more likely to reach someone during the day, anyway.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Jones!” Dad yelled. “Round up all the DWBs we’ve got and march them to the front gate. Let ’em go, and then keep a sharp watch to make sure nobody else comes in.”

“Yes, sir!” Jones yelled from outside the tent.

Dad started pulling off his boots. “G’night, son.”

“’Night, Dad.”

• • •

The next morning, I searched out Ben and told him about the radio. He practically ran back to the tent Dad and I shared. Alyssa and I trailed along behind him.

When we caught up to him, Ben had folded his arms and was giving the radio a dubious stare. “That’s not a military radio.”

“It says Yaesu FT-897,” I said, reading the label at the top of the transceiver.

“That is not a military designation.”

“Okay, Ben, but can we contact someone on it?”

“Maybe. It looks a little bit like an AN/PRC-70.”

“Can you run it?”

“Run it?”

“Operate it?” Alyssa said.

“Maybe. I read the operator’s manual for the AN/PRC-70 once. But this doesn’t look exactly the same.”

“Can you try?” I asked.

“I do not think I should,” Ben said.

“Why not?”

“An AN/PRC-70 will be damaged if the operator attempts to transmit without an antenna.”

“We ran it briefly last night. Is it wrecked?”

“I do not know. But an AN/PRC-70 will not operate without an antenna. This radio probably will not operate without an antenna, either. Where is the antenna?”

Chapter 68

I had to ask three different prefects for directions, and even then wound up running halfway around the camp to find Dad.

“What’s wrong?” he said as I huffed up.

“The DWBs,” I replied. “They ripped us off. That transceiver is no good without an antenna.”

Dad sighed heavily. “That’s as much fun as a failed backflow preventer. Nothing to be done for it, I guess.”

“Couldn’t we make an antenna?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. What does Ben say about it?”

“He doesn’t know how. But I was thinking, there are what, twenty thousand people in this camp?”

“Almost thirty thousand.”

“Someone’s got to know something about radios.”

“Yeah. A ham radio operator. Or electrical engineer. I’ll organize the prefects to ask everyone.”

I spent the rest of the morning going from tent to tent, asking everyone I could find if they knew anything about radios. All over camp, other prefects were doing the same thing. When we were asked why we wanted a radio expert, we told folks we were trying to turn some old cell phones into radios. We had two cell phones we could surrender to Black Lake if they got wind of the project. They were worthless—none of the cell transmission towers had worked since the first day of the eruption more than ten months ago.

Early in the afternoon, a prefect found me. “The Dean wants you. We found a ham radio guy.”

When I got back to the tent, Dad was standing outside with Jones, talking to an older guy with a salt-and-pepper beard peeking from under his scarves. He stood out because his beard was neatly trimmed—most guys let them run wild since personal grooming was a lot more challenging without safety razors, hot water, or electricity. Not that I had to worry about it. I grew just enough wispy facial hair to look stupid, but not enough to bother shaving.

“Oh hey, Alex,” Dad said. “This is Ken Bandy.”

We shook hands as Dad continued, “Alex doesn’t have a formal role in the prefects yet, so I’ll assign him to help you.” That “yet” was interesting. Not that I wanted a role. I wanted to get out of here already.

“Help me what?” Ken asked.

“I’ll show you. But first I want it understood that you can’t reveal what’s inside this tent to anyone, not even your wife.”

“Got it. But how long are you going to need me for?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

“I can’t leave Carol alone that long.”

“Jones,” Dad said. “Organize a three-person, twenty-four-hour guard detail for Mr. Bandy’s wife until he’s done here.”

“Roger,” she replied and left.

Dad ushered Ken and me into the tent.

“Is that? It is!” Ken knelt by the transceiver. “A Yaesu. Nice model, too. Probably would have set you back $800 before the eruption. I can’t imagine what it’d cost now. What kind of antenna do you have?”

“We don’t,” I replied.

“Nice boat anchor you’ve got, then.”

“Couldn’t we build an antenna?”

“You have an antenna tuner?”

“Um, no.”

“You don’t want much, do you?”

“Can you do it?”

Ken rubbed his fingers together. “Maybe. What frequency do you want to transmit on?”

I shrugged. “You tell me.”

“Well, how far do you want to transmit?”

“Can we reach Washington?”

“With a good antenna, sure, no problem. Twenty meters would probably work best. I might be able to make a dipole antenna, but without a tuner . . . I don’t know.”

“What do you need?”

Ken was silent for a moment. “Forty or fifty feet of copper wire, any gauge will do. Co-ax cable. Fifty feet should do. Two six-foot copper grounding rods. Enough posts to suspend the whole antenna thirty feet off the ground.”

I looked at Dad. “Where are we going to get all that stuff? And how are we going to put an antenna that high up without the guards noticing?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”