The road was deserted. I knew the airport was somewhere north of me, but I couldn’t see it. On a normal day, I might hear a plane passing overhead or taxiing on the runway. That day, there was no sign of activity. The only noise was occasional thunder.
After a couple hours, the commercial buildings petered out, so I knew I was in the boonies. The corn was also a big clue. Cedar Falls and Waterloo form an island amid a sea of corn. In early September, it stands higher than my head. Now, though, the ash had flattened it. The only way I could tell I was passing a cornfield was the few hardy stalks still standing upright, coated in gray ash, leaves broken under the weight. Every now and then a metal seed sign protruded a foot or so above the ash bed. I passed an occasional field completely covered in ash, an unremittingly flat, gray expanse. Soybeans, maybe.
I might have been skiing on the surface of the moon for all the activity there was. I passed four or five farmhouses but saw nothing moving. Everything I normally saw in the Iowa countryside was missing: There were no people, no cars, no cows—not even a solitary turkey vulture circling in the sky.
The weird, rainless thunder and lightning continued. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so every time a series of lightning bolts lit up the landscape, it hurt. The thunder seemed strangely muted. Maybe the falling ash muffled it somehow, or maybe my ears hadn’t fully recovered from the first enormous explosions.
Despite the ash, the road was easy to follow. It was raised, with deep ditches on each side. I skied along the crown of the road, where the centerline was buried under its blanket of ash.
I’d been skiing for four or five hours when I saw a thin line of trees looming in the dark about thirty feet ahead. They’d been beaten down by the ash. Most of the leaves were gone, and there were scars on the trunks where entire branches had ripped away. What was left was coated with gray-white ash. A small creek, only three or four feet wide, coursed along the line of trees. It had cut a channel through the ash, forming little cliffs almost two feet high on either side of the creek bed.
I unclipped my skis, slid my pack off my back, and leaned against a tree to eat. Lunch was a can of Dinty Moore beef stew, cold of course. Disgusting, normally, but I was so hungry I barely noticed. I drank a bottle of water with my stew.
The creek was so choked with ash that I couldn’t see any water. But the ash was flowing, so there must have been water there, and I was worried about running out. I worked my way down to the water’s edge, slipped in the ash and nearly went swimming. I found a sapling and held onto its trunk while I dipped my bottle into the sludge.
In my bottle, the water was grey-brown and opaque. It looked utterly undrinkable. I sniffed—it reeked of sulfur. I touched my tongue to it experimentally and immediately spit it out. The rotten-egg taste was overpowering, plus the water left a grainy texture on my tongue. I dumped out the sludge, packed the empty bottle, and resolved to drink less.
By late afternoon, the ash had pretty much dried out. Pushing the skis through it got tougher—they ground against the ash instead of sliding. I unclipped my boots and tried walking. In some places, the ash had dried into a fairly compact surface that wasn’t too bad to hike on. In others, ash was blowing and collecting in drifts. There, my feet sank quickly in the fine, dusty ash, and pulling them free was difficult. I put the skis back on.
The scrap of T-shirt tied around my mouth and nose kept drying out. When it got dry, the tiny ash particles came through it, coating the inside of my mouth with nasty-tasting sludge and bringing on coughing fits. I remembered coughing blood at my house after breathing ash, and so I used more of my precious water to keep my breathing rag damp.
When the dark day started to fade to full night, I began looking for a place to sleep. Before the eruption, when I’d driven around Iowa with my parents, there was almost always a farmhouse in sight. Skiing through the darkness of the ashfall, I felt as if it were as deserted as Death Valley. I grew more and more worried about finding a place to sleep that night.
At full dark, I gave up looking for shelter and skied off the road into a cornfield. I don’t know why I left the road; there hadn’t been any traffic. I could have slept safely on the centerline. I shrugged off my pack.
A solitary stalk of corn coated in ash stood next to me. I broke off an ear, peeled back the husk, and tried to bite it. The kernels were small and hard. I almost broke a tooth gnawing a couple off the cob. I couldn’t chew them, so I swallowed them whole instead. I tossed the rest of the ear away. I guessed this corn wasn’t the kind meant for people. Growing up in Iowa, maybe I should have known more about corn. But while there was a lot of corn in Iowa, there were also lots of people who didn’t know anything about it, like me.
For dinner, I ate chicken soup, cold and straight from the can. Tendrils of grease floated in the soup. They felt slimy sliding down my throat, but I was hungry enough that I didn’t care. I drank another bottle of water, too. At this rate, I’d run out in the morning. At least my pack was getting lighter.
I slept wrapped in my plastic tarp with my pack as a pillow. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable bed, but the day of skiing had worn me out, and I fell asleep quickly.
I dreamed about Laura. The first dream was just weird, not particularly embarrassing. (The embarrassing one was stupid. Black lace under that long denim skirt? I doubted it.)
In the first dream, some guy was hauling Laura up into the sky by one hand, through the ashfall. He was nobody I’d ever seen before: a short black guy with a strange expression on his face. Looking at him in my dream, I felt calm and peaceful for the first time in days.
So he was towing Laura up into the sky, and she reached into her purse and started pulling out Snickers bars and tossing them down to me. She was throwing them gently, like she was tossing me a gift, but I couldn’t catch them and they kept hitting me: little missiles raining down and thwacking me on the head. Actually, thinking about them again, the first dream totally sucked. The second one was much better.
Chapter 13
I felt awful the next morning. My breathing cloth had dried out in the night, so I woke with a nasty cough. The inside of my mouth was caked with ash. I pulled the rag off my face and inspected it for blood. I didn’t see any, which was a huge relief, although it was really too dark to be sure. I rewet my breathing rag and used a little more water to rinse my mouth. I drank the rest of the bottle. One bottle left. I had to find water today.
A thin layer of ash had settled on everything overnight. Ash had worked its way into my eyelids, armpits, and even my crotch. It rubbed as I moved, abrasive and gritty. I itched in at least a dozen places, because of dry skin or maybe something to do with the ash itself. I thought about changing clothes—I hadn’t worn the fresh shirt and underwear in my pack. But changing my clothing in an ash-covered field during an ashfall probably wouldn’t help much.
The ashfall seemed less intense than the day before. Lightning regularly cracked the sky, but the intervals were longer, and judging by the thunder, it was usually farther off.
I’d been skiing an hour or so when the road came to a T. I turned right, figuring if I went south I’d hit Highway 20 sooner or later. But I didn’t see 20, and mostly I needed to go east, so I turned left as soon as I reached another intersection.
By lunchtime, I was getting desperate to find water. I’d crossed two tiny creeks, but the water was fouled with ash. I wet my breathing rag again, using the tiniest amount of water I could, and then drank two swigs. I had half a bottle left.
A couple hours after lunch, I saw a farmstead alongside the road on my left and turned toward it. The farm consisted of three buildings: a two-story white house with a steep roof, a large barn with a little red paint visible under its coating of ash, and a low, flat-roofed shed that had mostly collapsed.
The place looked deserted. But that was true of every farm I’d seen so far. The only hint of a driveway was a mailbox sticking out of the ash about a foot and a half. There was a chain-link fence around the house
, but the ash was so deep that only a foot of it protruded. I sidestepped over the fence and slid to the door.
Ash had drifted across the small front porch and lay deep enough against the screen door that I couldn’t pull it open. I banged on it and yelled. No answer. I skied around the house to a side door. It was locked. More banging and yelling accomplished nothing. I left the yard, stepping over the chain-link fence and skied to the barn. Its doors were padlocked shut.
Perhaps I should have broken into that house—there might have been water there. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. For one thing, it didn’t feel right to mess up someone’s house even though I needed the water. For another, I was worried about what I might find inside. There must have been a reason that place was vacant—what if the owners were inside the house, dead or something?
A few hours later, I was cussing myself as an idiot for not breaking into that house. My water was gone. I’d used the last bit of it to wet my breathing rag over an hour before. It was starting to dry, letting nasty dust through the weave and into my mouth and lungs. If that farmhouse had reappeared in front of me at that moment, I would have rammed my staff through a window and climbed right in.
Not long after I’d had that thought, I saw another farmstead to my right, looming in the darkness. I picked up my pace and headed straight for it.
As I approached, I could tell that this farm was occupied or had been recently. The first clue was a smell—wood smoke and a hint of meat under the omnipresent stench of sulfur. The farmstead consisted of five buildings: a house and barn nearly identical to the last place and three outbuildings, two of them collapsed.
There were footprints leading from a tiny, steep-roofed outbuilding to the back door of the farmhouse. The prints had to be fresh because they were already filling with ash and would soon be completely covered. Somebody had shoveled off the back porch. There were mounds of ash around it, but only a light dusting on the floor.
I unclipped my skis and hobbled across the porch with an awkward, sliding gait. My legs had frozen in ski mode. I pushed the doorbell and then rolled my eyes in irritation at myself—of course the doorbell wouldn’t work. I rapped my knuckles against the door trim instead.
Nobody came. Maybe they couldn’t hear my tapping over the thunder. I opened the screen door and beat on the entry door. Nothing. I tried again, whaling on it this time.
The door pulled inward in a rush, and I saw the long, black, double barrel of a shotgun pointing right at my nuts. My nuts knew where that shotgun was pointing, too; I could feel them trying to climb up into my body for protection. All my muscles tensed and my eyes widened, adrenaline coursing through my system.
The shotgun was held by a tall, rail-thin guy with a scraggly white beard, weathered face, and short white hair. The most amazing thing about him, though, was how clean he was. His face, hands, and bare feet were scrubbed. The jeans and flannel shirt he wore had not a speck of ash on them. Water—there had to be water here. Nobody could be that clean without it.
My first impulse on seeing the gun was to run and hope he didn’t feel like wasting a shell on my puny back. But now I knew there was water here. I’d certainly die if I didn’t find water somewhere, and soon. Was it more painful to die of thirst or a shotgun blast? I wasn’t sure. I stood my ground.
He gestured at me with the shotgun. “Move along, boy.” His voice growled like an engine that rarely saw oil.
I lifted my hands in front of me, palms outward, and backed up a step. A bad move if I had to fight; it took me out of range for a crescent kick. But kicking a gun is a stupid move, only worth trying if there’s no other option. It takes a lot less time to pull a trigger than to launch a kick. “I’m only looking for water, sir.”
“No water for you here. Move along.”
A woman appeared in the doorway behind him. She pulled a dishrag out of her apron strings and whapped the man upside the head with it. “Elroy! We’ve got plenty of water. Can’t you see this is just a poor waif of a boy?”
“Don’t know him. Don’t know who might be with him.”
“Anyone with you, child?” she asked in a kindly tone.
“No, ma’am.”
“Come on in then.” She bustled around Elroy, pushing the barrel of the shotgun aside with her body. I was relieved to see it pointing at the wall, instead of at me. Maybe I could have fought then. But the woman seemed friendly enough; perhaps she’d fill my empty water bottles. She herded Elroy backward through the mudroom and toward the kitchen beyond. She turned toward me. “Well, come on.”
I stepped slowly through the doorway, my hands still raised. Inside there was a small entryway that held a huge freezer, a boot scraper, and a neat row of shoes and boots.
“My, but you’re filthy with that ash.” She handed me a whisk broom. “Brush yourself off with this, son. Now how do you like your steak?”
“My steak?”
“Why, yes. You get cleaned up, and I’m going to throw another steak on the fire for you. We were fixing to eat.”
“No, I couldn’t impose. If you’d fill my water bottles, I’ll get out of your—”
“Nonsense. Why, if either of my sons were out in this, I’d sure want someone to take them in and give them a good meal. Not that they’d be out wandering alone, mind, they’re grown men and have families to look after. So how do you like your steak?”
“Medium rare please, ma’am.” My mouth tried to water at the mere thought of a steak, but it was too parched. Just then I remembered the last time I’d had steak, at Darren and Joe’s house, and felt vaguely sick.
“I’ll do my best. I haven’t had to cook over a wood fire since I was a girl, and then we had a proper stove. I do wish we still had one, instead of that useless electric range. This business of squatting by the fireplace is hard on my old knees. Oh, where are my manners? My name’s Edna. Edna Barslow.”
“Alex.” I started to reach my hand out, saw how filthy it was, and thought better of it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barslow.”
“Edna is fine, dear. Now leave your pack and boots in the mudroom and brush off as much of that ash as you can. I don’t hold with ash in my kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am. I have some clean clothes in my pack, too.”
“I’ll close the kitchen door then, to give you some privacy to change. Come on through when you’re ready.”
I stripped off everything and left it in as neat a pile as I could manage on the mudroom floor. I kept an eye on the door while I changed. Mrs. Barslow seemed nice enough, but I was keenly aware that there was also a guy with a shotgun on the far side of that door.
The clothes in my pack weren’t exactly clean, since the dust had seemed to find its way everywhere, but they were a huge improvement over the stiff, ash-caked clothing I’d removed. I attacked my hair and face with the whisk broom, which hurt some but brought a satisfying cloud of ash cascading off my head.
When I stepped into the kitchen, Elroy was sitting at the head of the table with the shotgun across his knees. Behind him I could see into a large living room with a fireplace. Edna was crouched by the fire. The aroma was so lovely, it made me dizzy.
“Edna put a pail of water in the bathroom for you to wash up, boy. It’s behind you.”
“Thank you.” I glanced behind me and saw another door next to the one I’d come through. I sidled through it, keeping a wary eye on Elroy. In the bathroom, a sink held a sponge and galvanized metal pail. I picked up the pail and sniffed the water. It smelled fine, so I drank about half of it straight from the pail and used the rest to wash.
When I returned to the kitchen, Edna was setting a platter of steaks and a Dutch oven loaded with carrots and potatoes on the table. As we sat down, she asked, “Are you going to put that ridiculous gun away, Elroy?”
“Nope.”
She stared at him a moment. “Will you bless this food then?”
“Yep.” They folded their hands and bowed their heads. I noticed Elroy was still looking at me out of
the corner of his eye. Suspicious bastard—although I was watching him, too. I imitated Elroy’s pose as he said, “Dear Lord, bless this food to the use of our bodies that we may persevere in this time of trial and emerge stronger and wiser. Amen.”
“Amen,” Edna said, so I threw in one, too.
Edna talked during dinner. Elroy mumbled “yep” and “nope” now and then but otherwise didn’t say much. Me, I just ate. I wasn’t going to ask for seconds, but I sure didn’t turn them down when Edna offered. I didn’t turn down thirds or fourths, either. She offered coffee, but I convinced her I’d prefer water. I ate and drank until I was stuffed and sleepy and on the edge of getting sick.
I shook my head when Edna offered fifths and pushed my plate away. I felt a little woozy, so I laid my head on the table to rest, just for a minute.
I woke to Edna shaking my shoulder. She helped me to my feet and led me to the couch in the living room. It was hot in there, the remnants of the cooking fire glowing in the hearth. I sank into the couch, and Edna draped an afghan over me. I fell back to sleep instantly.
* * *
It was still fully dark when I woke again. Someone was shaking me. Elroy—I could see his face in the light of the candle he carried. I sat up on the couch and stretched.
Elroy spoke in a hushed voice. “Kid, I’m sorry about this.”
I came more fully awake. “Sorry about what?”
“Edna’s convinced we’ve got to keep you here, take care of you—”
“No, I can’t stay—I’ve got to find my folks.”
“That’s a relief, then. Get up and let’s get you on out of here.”
I stood and followed Elroy to the fireplace. A line had been strung in front of it, and all the clothes I’d been wearing yesterday were hanging there. “What—”
“Edna, she stayed up last night and washed your things in the bathtub. They dry enough to pack?”