(eng) Mike Mullin - Ashfall 0.5 by Darlas Story

Author:Darlas Story [Story, Darlas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Mom tried to shake our guest awake—we thought she’d be more comfortable if she got cleaned up before she slept—but she moaned, batted at Mom’s hand feebly, and went right back to sleep. She was lying on her backpack with her head askew. Mom levered her up, and I worked the straps off her shoulders. Mom checked her legs over, making sure nothing was broken, while I set the backpack beside the couch and unwrapped the scarves she’d been using as breathing cloths. She was older than I’d thought, her mouth and corners of her eyes creased with laugh lines. She looked pleasant and friendly, like everyone’s favorite grandmother.

“You recognize her?” I asked Mom.

“No.”

“She’s not from around here, is she?”

“Probably not.”

Mom arranged a pillow under her head, and we let her sleep. And sleep. And sleep. She woke once late that evening, and I gave her more water and helped her stumble to the bathroom. I asked who she was, but she wasn’t coherent enough to give me her name. Other than that, she slept solidly through the night, too.

Mom made pancakes for breakfast the next morning. Well, actually they were more like tortillas—we were out of eggs and milk, so we couldn’t make real pancakes—but they tasted okay.

Not long after the first pancake hit the skillet, the old lady appeared in the kitchen doorway. Ash still clung to her clothes and to the narrow band around her eyes that had been uncovered, making her look ethereal: a masked ghost ready for some netherworld ball.

“You sleep well?” Mom asked.

“Where am I?” She leaned into the doorway, as if the jamb were holding her upright.

“You’re safe,” Mom replied. “I’m Gloria. This is my daughter, Darla.”

“Where am I? Where’s the bathroom?”

“You don’t remember? Waking up last night?” I replied.

Mom started to bustle over to her, but I jumped up to show her the bathroom. I didn’t want to get stuck cooking.

In the bathroom, I had to explain the squat tube again, and when I put a pail of clean wash water in the sink, she drank from it. I offered to get her a cup, but she shook her head between gulps of water.

Mom had me fetch some clean clothes for her—jeans and a blouse, not a ridiculous dress. By the time she’d changed and cleaned up, there was ash all over the bathroom. I groaned inwardly; ashfall or not, Mom would insist on cleaning the bathroom until it was spotless.

Finally, we were all seated at the kitchen table, a plate of steaming tortilla cakes sitting between us. Mom blessed and served the food, and then the interrogation began.

“We didn’t get your name,” Mom said.

“Ruth,” she answered between mouthfuls.

“Where are you from, Ruth?” Mom asked.

“Champaign.”

“Illinois? You’re a ways from home.”

“I’m not exactly sure where I am.”

“About five miles north of Worthington.” Ruth’s face looked blank, so Mom went on. “Iowa. Southwest of Dubuque.”

“A long ways from Omaha?”

“Omaha?” I said. “You’re not even close. All the way on the wrong side of the state.

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