“So it’s breathing the ash that’s making my rabbits sick?”

“Yes.”

“How do I treat it?”

“You can’t. Clean air will keep it from getting worse, but there’s no cure.”

“Crap,” Darla said. “Sure hate to lose all of them—if I could keep five or six to breed I could—”

“What about us?” I said. “Can we get this . . . silicosis, too?”

“Yep. Don’t go outside without a mask, or at least a damp cloth over your mouth and nose. Stay in clean air, and try not to stir up the ash.”

I remembered our ash-throwing fight on the way to Worthington. Brilliant. My thoughts were turning positively grim, so I changed the subject. “We got a bit of a radio broadcast at the farm, but nothing about what’s going on east of here. You heard anything here?”

“Everyone with a working radio’s been listening for news. Mayor organized info sharing at City Hall next door. If anyone hears anything, they write it down and post it on the wall over there.”

“Anything about Illinois? Warren? It’s not far from Galena.”

“There’s a refugee camp outside Galena. Government says they’re focusing triage efforts on Illinois and setting up camps there for any Iowans who can make it across the Mississippi. Fools in Washington think Iowa’s a lost cause. Guess we’ll show them.” Rita Mae looked like she was sucking on a sourball.

I didn’t say anything, but I was relieved to find out people were getting help in Illinois. Maybe my family would be okay.

“You know anyone in town who might have an extra set of cross-country skis for sale?” Darla asked.

“Might be. I’ve got a pair gathering dust in the basement. What are you offering?”

Rita Mae haggled with Darla over those skis for more than half an hour. Darla wound up giving her both rabbit haunches and another bag of cornmeal on top of the bag we’d already given her as a “donation” to support her “free” public library. I had to throw in my candle stub and matches to seal the deal.

Rita Mae snuffed out the oil lamp and hung a Back Soon sign on the library door. The three of us walked to her house to pick up the skis—apparently the rumor that she was sleeping on a cot in the library was unfounded.

Along the way, we passed St. Paul’s school. Rita Mae said, “You know, if things get tight out on your farm, you can come stay at the school. Mrs. Nance, the principal, is taking in anyone from the area who needs a place to stay. Everyone has to work if they’re able, but that’s only fair.”

“Thanks,” Darla said. “Looks like we’ll be fine on the farm, though.”

The ski boots didn’t fit Darla very well—too tight. Darla said they’d stretch out, but I doubted it; Gore-Tex and plastic don’t stretch much.

We said goodbye to Rita Mae as quickly as we could. I was getting worried about making it back to the farm before nightfall.

We made a lot better time with both of us on skis. Not long after we left Worthington, I felt a vibration under my feet. It picked up force, and in a few seconds the ground was rolling and heaving.

“More of this crap?” Darla said.

I shrugged and spread my skis wider, trying to stay upright.

The earthquake passed in less than a minute. It wasn’t strong enough to knock us over, but it did raise a fine haze of ash that clung to the ground like early-morning fog.

Almost two hours later, a series of low booms rumbled out of the West. It was nothing like the explosions—Darla and I could, and did, talk over it, even though it continued for more than five minutes. I hoped it was the volcano’s dying gasp and not a harbinger of more trouble to come.

Chapter 27

When we got back to the farm, the yellow daylight was just starting to fade to gray. The barn door was partway open. I pointed it out to Darla, and she said maybe her mom was feeding the rabbits. We headed for the house regardless. We both wanted to get washed up and rest a little. Skiing through the ash had been hard work.

I froze as I stepped into the kitchen, shocked to immobility by the scene within. My right foot hovered over the threshold. My face felt suddenly cold.

Darla’s mom wasn’t in the barn. She was lying halfway on the kitchen table, face down. A small, wiry guy, filthy with ash, bent over her. He had a baseball bat pressed against the back of her neck, holding her down. Her face was turned toward us. Both her eyes were blackened, and a thin trail of blood leaked from her nose onto the table. His legs were between her knees.

Darla screamed. The guy took a step backward and pulled his sweatpants up.

I didn’t think, couldn’t think. There was nothing in my head but searing white rage. No room for anything else. My icy immobility shattered. I charged the guy.

He lifted the baseball bat, but I was on him before he could swing it. Left knife-hand to the wrist holding the bat. I didn’t feel the edge of my hand connect, but I heard something pop and then the clatter as the bat hit the floor.

His fist hit my right ear. A glancing blow I barely noticed. I cocked my right hand up by my ear and let it loose, spinning into the strike, my hips, shoulders, and arm all turning for maximum power. My knife-hand crunched into the side of his neck.

He slumped to the floor, twisting bonelessly on his way down. I’d hit him perfectly.

Darla quit screaming and ran to the table. “Mom?”

“Uh,” she moaned, as I pulled her skirt down. Darla took one of her hands and leaned close over her.

It occurred to me to check on the guy to make sure he wasn’t going to get back up. He lay on the floor, unmoving. There was a large, crude tattoo on the inside of his forearm—a rat or weasel or something. I bent and put my finger against the left side of his neck. A huge red welt marred his neck. Nothing. No pulse. I yanked my hand back in shock. I checked again, feeling his wrist this time. Same result: nothing. The room swam around me as I turned to Darla. “I think I killed this guy.”

“Good,” Darla pretty much spat the word. “Mom? Can I get you some water?”

“I . . . I didn’t mean to kill him. I wasn’t thinking.” The spinning room made my stomach heave uncertainly. My hand shook as I drew it back from the guy’s wrist.

Someone else spoke then, from the direction of the kitchen door. “Aren’t you that little snitchface from the campfire? Alex?”

I glanced up. Target filled the doorway. A filthy gray rag was wrapped around his head, covering his left eye. Part of his face and one arm were crosshatched with ropy scabs and partly healed burns. He held a double-barreled shotgun in one hand and a rabbit in the other. The rabbit’s head and shoulders looked like he’d started it through a meat grinder. He dropped the rabbit and lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, sighting down the barrels at me.

I thought about charging him, but he was ten or twelve feet away. He’d kill me before I got close. So I just stood there, staring at him. I felt numb, whipsawed by adrenaline and shock.

“Oh, this is rich—better than getting bunked with a fresh punk. I’ve been looking for you, you know. So you killed Ferret, huh? I knew you had potential.”

I glanced at the dead guy by my feet and shrugged. “Guess so.”

“I owe you big time. My goddamn eye isn’t healing right. I’ve been dreaming about you—dreaming about digging your eyes out of your skull with a knife and—”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t want to shoot you. Too fast—”

“Fine. Let Darla and her mom go. Then you can take your time with me.” I shrugged, trying to suppress the trembling in my shoulders.

“Darla, is it?” He smiled, a twisted thing that crawled across the bottom of his face. Then he swiveled the shotgun toward Darla, who was cradling her mother’s head in her arms.

“Darla!” I screamed and jumped. I hit her at about shoulder height in a flying tackle. I heard the boom of the shotgun and felt a sudden pain stab my ankle.