Ashen Winter by Mike Mullin

quit pedaling and I couldn’t twist back far enough to reach both hands into the load bed. I snatched the pistol instead.
    I aimed at the Humvee closing fast behind us. The passenger’s head, covered by a black ski mask, was out the window now. He withdrew into the vehicle as I pointed the pistol at him. Two bullets. I waited. We were less than halfway across the lake, and the Humvee was closing in fast, seeming to swell in size even as I watched it approach.
    The rifle barrel appeared again in the window. I pulled the pistol trigger. Nothing happened. It wouldn’t even depress. The safety—I’d forgotten the safety. I poked it with my thumb, trying to snick it off without dropping the pistol as a new fusillade tore up the ice around us.
    I pulled the trigger again. Click. Nothing happened. I’d forgotten to rack the slide. I brought the pistol back in front of me, took both hands off the handlebars for a second, and jerked back the slide.
    The truck was right behind us and a little to our left now, still accelerating—preparing to turn us into a hood ornament. The passenger was hanging his head out the window again. I took aim and fired.
    My shot whanged off metal. The passenger and rifle withdrew. The truck was almost on top of us. “Darla!” I screamed.
    She cranked Bikezilla into such a tight right turn that half of the rear track lifted off the ice. I leaned into it, hoping to keep us upright. Our pursuers tried to mimic our turn but spun out, quickly turning three full circles as they slid south, away from us.
    Darla straightened the bike and the back end thumped onto the ice. Now we were headed roughly northwest, in the middle of the lake, and the closest bank was probably ahead of us.
    We flew several hundred yards before the Humvee came out of its spin and started accelerating toward us again. My neck worked overtime twisting backward every few seconds. I couldn’t figure out what they were doing—they were way out to our left and behind us, not on a direct route to intercept us.
    When the Humvee pulled even with us, about one hundred yards to our left, it became clear what the driver was doing. He drifted into a long turn designed to intersect our course and splatter us all over the ice. There was no way we’d make it to the trees at the edge of the lake. The passenger leaned out his window and started firing at us again.
    “Darla!” I yelled again.
    “I’m on it!” she gasped, but she kept us on the same course, still pedaling like mad.
    I aimed the pistol again. Click. Nothing happened when I pulled the trigger. I pulled it again, but the trigger wouldn’t even depress. Did I need to rack the slide again? I tried it, and a bullet flew out—a dud, I guessed.
    We raced toward a deadly crash. Sixty yards . . . forty yards. The passenger aimed his rifle at me. I was out of bullets. I pointed the pistol at him anyway, and he flinched. Twenty yards . . . ten. I threw the pistol at him, catching him right in the eye. His shots flew wild. Every one of my muscles tensed for the impact.
    “Darlaaaa!”
    “Stop! Now!” She slammed on the brakes and jammed the pedals to a stop so abruptly that it hurt my ankles and knees. We skidded along the ice. The Humvee shot by in front of us. Our front ski missed their rear tire by inches.
    “Go! Go!” Darla yelled as she turned Bikezilla directly toward the Humvee. It was braking—the tires carving two shallow troughs in the ice. We picked up speed, heading directly toward the truck’s back bumper.
    I thought I understood what Darla was doing. The Humvee would have to turn in a wide arc to get lined up to try to run us down again. By then, maybe we could make it into the woods.
    But the driver wasn’t cooperating. He skidded to a complete stop, almost putting the nose of the Humvee into the woods. But instead of turning around, he started backing up. Straight toward us.
    “Christ!” Darla screamed. “Male drivers!” She kept accelerating directly toward