Free Ashen Winter by Mike Mullin

a-hole at the FEMA camp near Galena, Captain Jameson, said Black Lake had a contract to guard the barges,” Darla said. “Either the wheat’s all gone by now, or those barges will be crawling with idiots in camouflage. They’re not just going to let us ride up and help ourselves, you know.”
    “The lock is pretty much on the way, though,” I said.
    Uncle Paul fixed a stare on Darla. “Bringing back even a few pounds of wheat kernels would be a godsend if you can manage it. Might make the difference between surviving and starving if the winter weather doesn’t break. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t worth the risk.”
    “We’ll take a look.” I glanced at Darla. “Okay?”
    Her lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything, which I took as enthusiastic agreement. Right. So we spent some time mapping out a path to the lock that avoided Stockton and the FEMA camp near Galena.
    “When do you plan to leave?” Uncle Paul asked.
    “Tomorrow morning,” I said.
    “You sure you’re up to it?” Darla took hold of my wrist. “Maybe we should wait and make sure your infection is under control.”
    “An infected wound is no joke,” Uncle Paul said. “Kill you if you don’t take care of it.”
    “No.” I pulled my wrist free. “I want to get moving.”
    “How are you planning to break your parents out of the camp, anyway?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to wait.”
    “Be nice to have a bolt cutter and hacksaw for the camp fence,” Darla said.
    “Take them out of my shop,” Uncle Paul replied. “I’ll try to buy replacements in Warren.”
    We spent the rest of the day helping to fortify the house. Uncle Paul, Aunt Caroline, and Anna worked on boarding up windows. Max slept most of the day—his head was healing okay, but the wound had left him weak. Darla, Rebecca, and I built and installed pairs of brackets on the inside of all three exterior doors. Then we cut heavy logs to fit into the brackets, barring the doors from the inside.
    It felt a little futile to me. Ed had started out as a normal guy, a bookkeeper. Would we all wind up like him; slowly forgetting our humanity in the daily struggle to survive? And when the world filled with people like Ed—bandits, murderers, rapists, arsonists—what good would a few bars on the doors do?

Chapter 12
    By bedtime I was exhausted and sore. Everyone else started to bed down on the living room floor, but Darla grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stairs. “It’s freezing up there,” I complained.
    “I’ll make sure you’re warm enough,” Darla whispered, grinning at me.
    My resistance evaporated. I’m sure Uncle Paul and Aunt Caroline noticed us leaving, but they didn’t say anything. Before we’d started all sleeping in the same room for warmth in April, Darla and I had shared the guest room. At first my aunt and uncle had balked, but when they discovered we were sneaking out of our separate rooms every night anyway, they relented.
    We got extra blankets and comforters out of the linen closet and heaped them on Max’s old bed. I took off my boots, coat, and coveralls. Even with three layers of shirts still on, I was freezing. I turned down the oil lamp to its lowest setting, and we dove under the covers, pulling them up over our heads.
    Darla pushed her back up against me, spooning for warmth. I wrapped my right arm over her and cupped my hand over her left breast. She moved my hand down to her stomach and held it there—which sort of sucked—but holding hands was nice.
    “I don’t know how to say this right.” Darla hesitated. “But you do realize that your parents might already be dead?”
    I swallowed hard on the first reply that occurred to me: She was probably right.
    She went on, “If they are dead, we’re taking a big risk going into Iowa looking for them. We could get killed or trapped in another FEMA camp for nothing.”
    “Yeah.” I fell silent for a moment. “But I’ve gotta know for sure.”
    “We