I crawled to the edge of my hidey-hole and peeked out. Someone was rummaging through the front part of the gas station, picking up chunks of debris and tossing them aside. I slunk backward into the wreckage and packed up quickly, wincing every time I made a sound.
When I emerged from the hole, I crouched behind a twisted metal roof panel, hoping to watch for a while without being seen. A man and a woman were going through the rubble at the front of the store, sifting ash and moving bits of the wreckage. Behind them two kids, one maybe four or five, the other a bit older, sat on a warped piece of plywood. A rope was tied to the upturned edge of the board, turning it into an improvised sled. A pair of duffel bags rested on the board beside the kids.
I tried to clip into my skis and get ready to move without exposing myself. But it was almost impossible to put skis on while crouching.
“Hello?” the guy called. “Someone there?”
I stood up. “Hi.”
The guy looked at me. Then I saw his eyes scan right and left. “You alone?”
“Yeah.” I said, although the question made me wonder why he wanted to know. The woman kept poking through the rubble, ignoring us.
“You find any food here?”
“Only a handful of candy.”
“You got any food?”
“No.”
“You don’t look hungry,” he said, starting to slog through the ash toward me.
My heart drooped in my chest. I was hungry, tired, and sore from all the skiing. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation with this guy. I sidestepped on my skis, making sure I had a clear path to push forward or back. I stared at the guy, but said nothing.
“My family and I, we were on our way to Nebraska when it hit. We only had some snacks with us. We’ve had barely any food for a week.”
“That’s rough.” I tried to sound sympathetic, but I kept my eyes wide and took a stronger grip on my staff. He was coming on strong, moving toward me as fast as the ash and wreckage would allow.
“That’s a full backpack you’re wearing. There’s food in there. I can smell it.”
“I don’t have any food.”
“Leave him alone, Darryl. He’s only a kid!” the woman yelled.
I wished people would quit calling me a kid, although if it convinced Darryl to back off, I’d take it.
“Shut up, Mabel. We need food.”
I thought about trying to run. I wasn’t sure I could get my skis turned and get moving fast enough to get away. Then I considered the mechanics of fighting on skis while holding a staff and ski pole. Not good. I jammed the ski pole upward through my belt and hoped it would stay put.
Darryl was getting close-too close. I took the staff in a two-handed grip, like a six-foot baseball bat, and started whirling it over my head. Master Parker would have scolded me if she’d seen my form-you’re supposed to step into each swing, so your body spins with the staff-but I’d like to see her do it right while wearing skis.
Darryl was either dumb, desperate, or both. He kept coming. The end of the staff was probably going a hundred miles an hour. If I hit him with it square, he wouldn’t get up-ever. One of the kids on the makeshift sled started crying.
I swung the staff into the piece of corrugated roofing I’d been hiding behind. Smack! The metal made an echoey, booming sound, like reverb on an electric guitar.
Darryl stopped.
“I don’t have any food,” I bellowed. “Leave me alone!”
“Darryl T. Jenkins, get your butt back here right this instant and help me search,” Mabel screeched.
I slid slowly backward on the skis and whirled the staff over my head again.
Darryl glared at me, a hateful stare. Then he slowly turned toward Mabel. I spun and pushed off, skiing as fast as I could to put some distance between us. When I looked back at the family, Darryl and Mabel were bickering as they searched the rubble. Both kids were crying.