By Mike Mullin

Tanglewood • Terre Haute, IN

Published by Tanglewood Publishing, Inc., 2012

Text © Mike Mullin 2012

All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover photograph by Ana Correal

Design by Amy Alick Perich

Tanglewood Publishing, Inc.

4400 Hulman Street

Terre Haute, IN 47803

www.tanglewoodbooks.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN-13: 978-1-933718-84-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mullin, Mike.

Ashen winter / Mike Mullin.

p. cm.

Summary: More than six months after the eruption of the Yellowstone supervolcano, Alex and Darla retrace their steps to Iowa hoping to find Alex’s parents and bring them to the tenuous safety of Illinois, but the journey is ever more perilous as the remaining communities fight to the death for food and power.

ISBN 978-1-933718-84-2

[1. Volcanoes--Fiction. 2. Survival--Fiction. 3. Science fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.M9196Arm 2012

[Fic]--dc23

2012010148

For Mom

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1

Ten months had passed since I’d last seen the sun. The rich blue of that final August sky was fading from my memory. Colors are slippery: If you cover your eyes and try to remember blue, you see black. Now we had a yellowish gray sky, dark as a heavily overcast day. Darla said Yellowstone’s eruption had hurled billions of tons of fine ash and sulfur dioxide into the stratosphere, and it might be years before the sky returned to normal. I said the dim light was depressing.

In April, we prayed for a break in the winter, a warm spell to melt the four-foot blanket of snow smothering my uncle’s farm. But April was colder than March, May colder still. In June, the mercury in the Farmall tractor thermometer hanging outside the kitchen window fell below zero and stayed there. Every day we watched the thin red line try to claw its way to zero. Every day it failed.

No more snow fell, but none melted, either. We’d run out of Chapstick months before. For a while we all wore my Aunt Caroline’s lipstick, but now that was gone, too, and our lips were cracked and bloody from the dry winter air. The storms that had followed the eruption had spent their fury, and drought clutched us in its dry fist. My world was frozen, desiccated, and dead.

I was always cold. Cold as I worked during the day—cutting wood, hauling snow to melt for water, or digging for the corn buried under the snow and ash. Cold when I went to bed. Cold when I got up in the morning despite Darla snuggled against my side.

Before the volcano, if you’d told me that I’d be sleeping every night beside a girl I loved, I’d have said you were crazy. Mom would’ve filleted me and served the choice bits as hors d’oeuvres if I’d ever so much as closed the door with a girl in my room. Not that any girls would’ve wanted to be alone with me. Before I met Darla, I’d had a total of one real girlfriend, and she dumped me before we’d done much more than make out.

I still didn’t think of myself as having a girlfriend. That word was too trivial for what Darla meant to me. When I met her on the road last year, I was bleeding, starving, and ready to give up. Ready to die. Without each other, we wouldn’t have escaped from Iowa, from the devastation and chaos Yellowstone had caused. Now I wouldn’t want to survive—to endure the desperate labor and daily frostbite—without Darla.

But if Mom showed up now, fillet knife in hand, to scold me for sleeping next to Darla, I’d hug her and savor every second of the scolding. She and Dad had left my uncle’s farm near Warren, Illinois, leaving my younger sister Rebecca there with my aunt and uncle. Darla and I had arrived at the farm in early October, five weeks after my parents had left to look for me. No one had seen or heard from them since.

And Mom wouldn’t find me sleeping alone with Darla, anyway. In April, the falling temperature had forced us to abandon the upstairs bedrooms at my uncle’s. Now Darla and I slept in a clump with my aunt, uncle, two cousins, and sister on the living room floor near the fire. A night spent spooning with your girlfriend isn’t nearly so exciting when your uncle is curled up against your other side.

We got the idea to sleep together from the ducks—they’d been doing it all winter. But a few days after we started imitating them, one of the ducks on the outside of their pile in the barn froze to death. So we cleared everything out of the main floor guest room, adjacent to the living room, and started keeping the ducks and goats inside at night. Our sleep was occasionally interrupted by quacks and bleats. And I never got used to the stench of the billies. Male goats stink worse than skunks.

“Earth to Alex,” Darla said, drawing my attention back to the barn where we were working. “Would the former planet known as Alex please come in?”

“Former planet?” I asked.

“Yeah. I demoted you.”

“Like Pluto? What am I now?”

“Um, a dwarf planet, I think?”

“Hey! I’m not that short.”

“Whatever. Hold this wedge.”

I took one of the wooden wedges we’d just cut and held it against the crack between the runner and bedstones of our grain mill. Darla softly tapped the wedge in my hand with a hammer, barely inserting its tip between the stones. I picked up another wedge, and we worked our way around the mill, trying to pry the runner stone free with careful, even pressure.