Ben wandered around the truck, muttering.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t reply for a moment. “Was that intended to be a question?”
“Yes,” I said. “What are you muttering about?”
“This truck has been badly maintained. There is no winch. The tires show excessive wear.”
Lot of help that was. Alyssa and I traded places. As she got into the cab, she shuddered, staring at the blood smeared over the passenger side windshield and dash. I walked to the front of the truck and wedged myself against the bumper to push. The mountain of snow behind me reached above the cab of the truck. I heaved on the bumper with all my might while Alyssa spun the wheels. Nothing. I remembered how Darla had rocked the bulldozer free of the creek last year and tried pushing rhythmically to set up a rocking motion. That didn’t work, either.
Now Ben was standing partway up the snow berm, a little ways off, watching the proceedings. “I could use a little help here, you know!” I yelled at him.
He turned his back on me and started trudging toward the top of the snow berm. “Where are you going?” I shouted. He didn’t reply. Great. We didn’t have time to mess around. By truck we were less than fifteen minutes from Anamosa. I wanted to be long gone before Clevis got back to the prison and informed the Peckerwoods that I’d stolen their truck.
Alyssa shut off the engine and climbed out of the cab. I chased after Ben, moving as quickly as I could on the slippery berm.
I caught up with him just as he started down the far side of the berm, heading toward the crushed barn. Alyssa was nowhere in sight.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I need a lever,” he replied.
“What for?” I asked, but he talked over my question, ignoring it.
“Like Archimedes’ lever, but it does not have to be that strong. I do not need to move the world; I only need to move a truck.”
“Hey, that’s a good-” I started, but Ben kept talking over me.
“Archimedes was killed by a Roman soldier. General Marcellus had ordered that Archimedes not be harmed, but Archimedes refused to accompany the soldier. He was working on a mathematical problem involving seven circles. His last words were, ‘Do not disturb my circles.’ Then the Roman soldier killed Archimedes with his sword.”
“That’s int-”
“The lever-action rifle was invented in 1849 by Walter Hunt. The first important model was the Spencer Repeating Rifle. It had a seven-shot magazine capacity. It was used during the U.S. Civil War by Union forces only after Abraham Lincoln test fired one in 1863. But it was too late for the rifle to make a significant difference in the war.”
By this time we had reached the remnants of a crushed barn. Ben started rummaging through the rafters while he lectured me. I helped him shift the rubble, having some idea what he was looking for.
“The principle of the lever allowed E. M. Darque to invent a compact can opener used by American troops during World War II. The first military model was called the P-38, developed in 1942. Not long after, an additional model named the P-51 was introduced. Some people believe the can openers were named after the aircraft that share the same designation, but that is a coincidence. The can openers were named for their size; the P-38 was 38 millimeters in length, and the P-51 was 51 millimeters in length.”
We’d found a suitable board-a broken two-by-eight. It was fourteen or fifteen feet long. Ben pried scraps of roof decking off it while he talked. He made it seem effortless-clearly, he was as strong as his size suggested.
Alyssa huffed up and more or less pushed her way between us. “What’s wrong with him?” I whispered.
“Nothing!” she hissed back.
“Why’s he going on and on about levers?” He’d continued talking-now he was giving a long dissertation on the importance of levers to the landing gear and ailerons on F-14 fighter jets. I was pretty much tuning him out.
“It’s his special interest. Not levers, I mean. Anything to do with the military.”
“So he’s one of those, what do you call them? Idiot savants?”
“He’s not an idiot,” she whispered. “He’s smarter than you are. Or me. And he’s the kindest, most gentle-the best big brother anyone could have. Don’t hurt. . Just get us somewhere safe. . Please?”
“I’ve got to get to Anamosa. But I’ll give you the truck and all the supplies I can spare. You didn’t answer my question, though-what’s he got?”
“Dad called it Autism Spectrum Disorder,” she whispered. “Mom said it was his special blessing, not a disorder. I used to think she was crazy. Before. When Mom and Dad were still alive.”
We had the two-by-eight stripped of all the excess chunks of wood now. There were still about a zillion nails in it, but I didn’t think they’d get in our way. I picked up one end of the rafter and Ben grabbed the other. He was still talking-now it was something about the use of levers in airplane launch-and-retrieval systems aboard aircraft carriers. We trudged back toward the truck. Alyssa walked beside me.
“He wasn’t this bad before the volcano,” she whispered. “Stress makes it harder for him to cope. And there’s been tons.”
“Yeah.” I was quiet for a minute, paying attention to where I placed my feet as we crossed the snow berm. “How did you survive? With the Peckerwoods?”
Alyssa looked away. “I did what I had to. To keep us both safe.”
How could this slight girl protect her overgrown big brother? It should have been the other way around. I didn’t want to think too hard about it.
When we got back to the truck, Alyssa left me to get into the driver’s seat. Ben fed one end of the rafter under the front bumper of the truck and joined me at the other. It would’ve been easier if we could have used the snow berm as a fulcrum, but it was too tall. Ben kept talking about aircraft carriers. He didn’t seem to care or even realize that I wasn’t listening.
Alyssa fired up the truck. The wheels spun in reverse. Ben and I pushed up on the rafter, trying to use the lever to force the truck up and off the snow berm.
We moved the truck an inch. . then two. The board bowed as we heaved upward on it. Suddenly the rafter snapped. The truck rocked back into place and Ben and I fell, sliding down the snow berm and coming to rest against the front bumper.
The rafter was broken in a jagged line right where it had pushed against the bumper. “I should have placed the lever vertically,” Ben said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It probably would have been stronger that way.”
We tried using the longer of the two remaining pieces of rafter, but we couldn’t get enough leverage to budge the truck at all. So we all trudged back to the wrecked barn.
We’d taken the easiest rafter the first time. It took twenty or thirty minutes to free another one of the right length and size from the tangled wreckage. I was starting to worry about how long we’d been there. Clevis had long since disappeared over the horizon.
Ben placed the rafter under the bumper-oriented correctly this time, and Alyssa got back in place behind the wheel. As soon as we pushed up on the rafter, we could feel the truck rolling backward. We started rocking it rhythmically. I slid up so my shoulder was jammed under the rafter, and I could use my legs to lift it. Ben and I heaved upward, Alyssa gunned the engine, and suddenly the truck was free. Ben and I fell forward, sliding down the snow berm again. The truck shot across the road, struck the snow berm on the opposite side, and stalled.
I sprinted across the road. “Don’t get it stuck again!” I yelled.
“I wasn’t trying to!” Alyssa retorted.
“I know. But let me drive, okay?”
“Gladly. Stupid truck.” Alyssa unbuckled her seat belt and scooted to the middle of the bench seat, straddling the gearshift. Ben got in the passenger side, smearing the blood on the seat into his pants. I passed him my backpack to stow under the passenger seat. A bulging daypack already rested under there, but I didn’t want to spend time investigating it at that moment. When I got in, Ben was pulling out the seat belt on his side. It stretched across both his lap and Alyssa’s. I fastened my own seat belt.
Ben put the shotgun in his lap with the barrel pointed toward the passenger door. He bent over it, minutely inspecting some aspect of its workings.
“Will he be okay with that?” I asked Alyssa. What I really needed to know was whether he was likely to accidentally shoot me.
“Safer than you or me. Knows so much about firearms he used to get email from adult collectors who read his blog. Before.”
“How many shells we got?” I said to Ben.
“This is a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. It is the most popular shotgun ever made. Law enforcement and military all over the world use this gun.” Ben tried to pump the shotgun, but the slide wouldn’t operate. “It is loaded.”
“So how many shots are in it?” I asked as I started the truck.
Ben clicked a lever on the side of the gun and started pumping the slide. Chunk-chunk. Chunk-chunk. Each time he pumped the gun a shell flew out, landing in the footwell. “None,” Ben said when he finished.
“None? Those shells are duds?”
“No. There are no shells in the shotgun now. There were five.”
I wanted to throttle him despite the fact that he was roughly twice my size. “Well, reload it, would you?”
“Yes, I would.” Ben started picking up shells off the floorboard.
“You want to test fire one out the window?” I forced the shifter left and down for first gear, lifted off the clutch, and promptly stalled the truck again.
Ben ignored my question, continuing to reload the shotgun.
“He doesn’t shoot guns,” Alyssa said while I restarted the truck. “We took him to a rifle range for his tenth birthday. He was already into all things military then. He fired a.22, put it down, and left the range. He doesn’t like the noise.”
“That’s. . different.” I stalled the truck once more before I got it in first. Then I pulled out too fast and nearly ran over the corpse we’d left lying in the road.
At last we were rolling down the road away from Anamosa-south, I thought. We’d made it away before Clevis could send a search party from the prison-though if the Peckerwoods sent anyone after us, it would be more like a search-and-destroy party. Ben put the shotgun back in the footwell. He rolled down his window and peered out, twisting his head to look behind us.
“Is that shotgun safetied?” I asked.
Ben didn’t say anything. I glanced at Alyssa. “How should I know?” she said.
“Find out, would you?” I tried to shift into second gear and stalled the truck again. “God-”
“Don’t cuss around Ben,” Alyssa interrupted. “He doesn’t like it.” She turned back toward Ben while I restarted the truck. “You remember your social interactions class, Ben?”
He didn’t respond.
“What are you supposed to do when someone asks you a question?”
“I am supposed to choose an appropriate response.”
“And what did Alex just ask you?”
“Alex asked me whether I safetied the Remington 870 shotgun. I always check the safety before I handle any weapon. I always check the safety when I set a weapon down or pass it to someone else. I never disengage a weapon’s safety.”
“That’s good.” I’d gotten the truck restarted, even managed to put it into second gear. Ben was hanging his head out the window. “Would you close the window, please?” I asked. “I’m cold.”
Ben pulled in his head and started rolling up his window. “The deuce-and-a-half behind us is an A3, remanufactured under the extended service program between 1994 and 1999.”
“Wait, you mean our deuce-and-a-half, right?”
“No, the truck in which I am riding is an A2 with the multifuel feature and a manual transmission.”
I cranked my window down and adjusted the mirror. A truck was racing toward us, gaining far too fast.