Chapter 14
Barb walked the rise overlooking their pastures as the first light of day spread across the grass.
She had climbed the hill before to map out repairs or picture what the property could become someday, back when someday was a luxury.
She stood there because the land had stopped being a theory.
It was no longer a dream, a project, or a retreat. It was the sum of what they had left.
Cathy climbed beside her, slower than usual but steady. Her hair was pulled back in a rough braid. Her breathing carried a hint of exhaustion, though her eyes were clearer than they had been since the flare. “What are we doing up here?” Cathy asked quietly.
Barb pointed toward the open field where the cows grazed. “This is the plan. That pasture will be our first rotational grazing lane. We will move the cows in sections so that the grass can regrow. It keeps the land healthy and gives us long-term feed.”
Cathy followed her gaze, nodding slowly. Barb pointed to the south-facing slope.
“That strip gets the most light. It will be our first crop field. Potatoes. Beans. Squash. They can all thrive there.”
Cathy exhaled softly. “You already figured all of this out.”
“I did. Now you need to see it, too.” She turned toward the tree line.
The dark line of trees created a natural barrier, but one with gaps where the land dipped.
Barb pointed toward the thickest section.
“That is where we will build a defensive line,” she said.
“Nothing extreme. Just enough to slow anyone coming through without announcing ourselves.”
“A defensive line. As in…protection.”
“As in boundaries,” Barb said. “People will get desperate, and we need visibility. That ridge blocks sight in three places, so we clear only enough to see movement.”
Cathy ran her thumb along her palm. “I never thought we would be talking about things like that.”
“No one did. That’s why we are here, not in town.” Barb pointed toward the far creek bed. “We need a concealed approach in case the road becomes unsafe. That path behind the sows’ paddock leads straight to the water. It’s a natural cover. If someone blocks the main road, we use that route instead.”
“You planned every direction. Every possibility.”
“I had to. We’re not living through a temporary outage. This is a new reality. Everything we do now needs to move us forward, not keep us standing still.”
Cathy looked down at her hands. “So, this is our life now.”
“It is,” Barb said. “We aren’t waiting for the old world to come back.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that felt like a verdict.
When Cathy finally spoke again, her voice was soft but grounded. “What do you need me to do today?”
Barb pointed downhill. “We start with the driveway.”
The morning passed in heat and sweat. Together, they carried heavy rocks from the creek bed to the lower edge of the driveway.
The rocks scraped their arms and left dirt streaked across their shirts, but neither slowed.
The barrier they built wasn’t tall or imposing.
It was a line, a small wall that said someone lived here and someone cared enough to protect it.
Cathy wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Will this stop anyone?”
“No,” Barb said. “It just tells people we are not passive. It forces groups to funnel into a narrow entrance. That gives us an advantage.”
Cathy looked at the line of rocks. “It looks like the start of something.”
“It is.”
When the barrier was finished, Barb took her to the inner fence line. A coil of thin wire sat beside a bucket of tin cans she had saved specifically for this purpose.
“What is that for?” Cathy asked.
“An early warning line,” Barb said. “It will rattle if someone tries to cross the fence at night. It is not a trap. It is information.”
“This is so simple.”
“Simplicity works. You don’t need heavy machinery when noise tells you everything you need.”
Cathy threaded the first wire through the can, then twisted it into place along the fence.
The can clinked softly as it swung. Barb watched her.
They worked slowly along the inner boundary.
Cathy’s hands moved with more confidence.
She tied each knot carefully, testing the rattle before moving to the next post. Barb reinforced the sections that needed more tension, guiding her sister with a nod or a gesture rather than long explanations.
Halfway down the fence line, Cathy paused. “If someone hears this, won’t they know we are here?”
“Yes,” Barb said. “Which is why we keep it inside the main line. It buys us a warning, but not visibility.”
Cathy’s brow furrowed as she tightened the next tie. “This is a lot.”
“It is the foundation. Everything after this becomes easier.”
The sun climbed higher. Sweat crawled down the sides of their necks.
Dirt collected on their arms and under their fingernails.
The cans rattled lightly each time they tested the line.
The sound became strangely comforting, a reminder that they were building something tangible.
By midafternoon, the entire inner fence had a string of cans.
They clinked in the breeze, soft but persistent.
Cathy stepped back and wiped her hands on her jeans. “It looks like we know what we are doing.”
“We will,” Barb said. “Soon.”
They went inside only long enough to drink water and rest their legs. Cathy leaned against the counter, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.
“Barb,” she said quietly. “Do you ever get scared?”
“Fear is natural. It’s a signal, not a weakness. The trick is listening to what it tells you and ignoring what it imagines.”
Cathy gave a faint smile. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple. It just needs to be done.”
They ate a small lunch of leftover quail and beans, then returned to the porch as the day cooled. Barb watched the cows settle near the shade of the northern fence.
Cathy watched the goats tear into the brush behind the barn. “This place feels different already.”
“It is becoming something.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon clearing fallen branches from the ridge that overlooked the western side of the property.
They stacked the branches in a line that would eventually become a natural barrier.
Cathy worked silently beside Barb, dragging limbs that cracked under their own dryness.
When Cathy’s strength wavered, Barb adjusted the task.
“Stack the smaller ones. I’ll handle the heavy stuff.”
Cathy nodded and continued. Her movements slowed near evening, but she didn’t stop.
Every task she completed seemed to settle something inside her, as if the land itself was pulling her back into her body.
By the time the sun lowered behind the hills, the ridge looked less cluttered, more defensible.
It wasn’t finished, but it was beginning.
The air cooled as the sky deepened. Cathy walked with Barb back toward the house, breath still labored from the day’s work but steadier than before.
When they stepped onto the porch, the first stars appeared.
Without the glow from town, the darkness stretched wide and clean.
The Milky Way cut across the sky like spilled light.
The stars hung in sharp clusters, brighter than Barb had seen since childhood camping trips.
Cathy leaned on the railing, staring upward. “I didn’t know the sky could look like this.”
“It always could,” Barb said. “We just couldn’t see it.”
The night insects rose in a steady chorus. The animals shifted in their pens, hooves brushing dirt. No engines, hum of distant traffic, or glow on the horizon where the town used to shine.
Cathy’s voice came, but it was barely a whisper. “How long do you think the lights will be off?”
“It could be forever,” Barb replied. “There’s no way to know for sure how long any of this is going to last.”
Cathy inhaled sharply, but she didn’t cry. She nodded instead, slowly and deliberately, accepting the weight of the truth she could no longer hide from. Barb watched her sister’s face and saw steady, quiet agreement. The shift Barb had been working toward was finally there.
None of it was temporary; it was home. It was their line in the sand.
Cathy stayed beside her, staring at the sky, the bright spill of stars lighting the edges of her hair.
The night pressed in, calm and vast, around them, and Barb felt the resolve in her chest settle with quiet certainty.
They were done waiting for the old world to return.