Chapter 16
Barb felt the heat long before the sun reached its peak.
The air clung to her like a damp cloth, thick enough that every breath tasted warm.
Kentucky summers always carried humidity, but it felt different.
Heavier and still. The kind of heat that slowed thought and movement.
She tied her hair back, slung the ax over her shoulder, and nodded to Cathy, who held the saw with both hands.
“We start at the forest’s edge,” Barb said. “We’ll do the deadfall first, since it will be less noisy.”
Cathy nodded. “Tell me what you want me to grab.”
“I’ll cut, and you haul. We’ll stack it behind my house where no one can see it from the road.”
They walked toward the tree line. The sun pressed down hard, turning the grass brittle beneath their boots. The forest offered shade, but not relief. The heat collected beneath the leaves and lingered, unmoving and stale. Barb inhaled slowly, letting the smell of the warm earth anchor her.
She scanned the trees the way she always did before beginning new work.
Every trunk held information. Some were healthy, some filled with rot, and some were ready to fall with a single storm.
She tapped a fallen limb with the back of the ax and found it to be solid.
She lifted the blade and struck cleanly. The wood split with a muted crack.
Cathy gathered the limbs. Sweat already rolled down her temple, but she didn’t complain.
She carried the first load toward the house without hesitation.
Barb cut another, then another. She moved methodically, her swings controlled, her eyes tracking sound more than motion.
Each strike echoed softly through the trees.
By the time Cathy returned, Barb had piled more wood.
“Stack this with the rest,” Barb said.
Cathy tugged at the heavier piece. “I’ve got it.”
Barb watched her for a moment. There was strain in Cathy’s shoulders, the grief still there beneath her skin, but something steadier had begun to grow in its place.
She saw discipline, focus, and a survival instinct trying to wake up inside her sister.
They repeated the pattern—cut, carry, and stack.
Each trip grounded them in the reality that winter would come no matter what happened beyond their land.
By midday, the heat became almost oppressive.
Sweat soaked Barb’s shirt. Her arms ached from the repetition, but she welcomed the burn.
Work held fear at bay, and her thoughts were sharp.
She wiped the sweat from her brow and bent to cut a thick branch.
That was when she heard a distinct crack of a branch, then another evenly spaced.
Barb lifted her hand sharply. Cathy froze mid-step, eyes wide. Barb didn’t speak. She pointed toward the barn with a tilt of her chin. Cathy nodded and moved backward slowly. She kept her gaze low, not risking a glance behind her.
When Cathy was clear, Barb crouched behind a fallen tree. She held still, listening. The sound came again, farther in the woods. A measured pace, too cautious to be someone lost. It was someone wandering and cutting across the countryside.
She waited long enough to determine the direction.
The person wasn’t approaching their property.
They were moving parallel to it, following a line that mirrored the creek’s path.
She listened until the sound faded, then backed away silently, choosing the opposite direction down the slope.
When she reached the clearing, she saw Cathy near the goats, her face tight with worry.
“What was it?” Cathy whispered.
“Someone walking,” Barb said. “They weren’t coming toward us.”
“Do you think they saw us?”
“No. We stayed quiet enough that I doubt they knew we were there at all.”
Cathy pressed a hand to her chest. “It feels like people are everywhere now.”
“They’re moving. Most people from the town are pushing outward. They’re following paths that make sense to them. Shade, water, and cover. This was always going to happen.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’re not supposed to,” Barb said. “Fear keeps us aware.”
They walked back to the house and closed every curtain. Barb checked the windows twice. Smoke drew eyes, and so did scent. They would cook inside, even if it made the kitchen feel like a furnace.
“What are we making?” Cathy asked.
“Duck, eggs, and vegetables,” Barb said. “Enough for two days.”
“Tell me what to cut.”
They worked side by side at the counter. The duck sizzled in the cast-iron pan on the wood stove, the fat spitting as it melted.
Cathy sliced vegetables, her motions careful but growing more sure with each stroke. “It smells good,” Cathy said softly.
“It will keep us full. That’s the important part.”
“Do we have enough jars to store all of this?”
“We have enough for a few batches,” Barb said. “It won’t keep long but long enough.”
They carried the cooked food to the basement, placing it in the coolest corner they had. The basement smelled of damp earth, old lumber, and faint mildew. Barb noted the scent. They would need to clean the space more thoroughly later. When they climbed back upstairs, Cathy kept her voice low.
“Do you want to finish the wood now?”
“No,” Barb said. “I need to check the perimeter again.”
“I should come with you,” Cathy said.
“Not this time. If I move quietly, I move better. Listen to the animals. If they react to something, come get me.”
“Okay. I’ll watch.”
Barb stepped out, the ground warm beneath her boots.
The sky felt close, the clouds heavy with humidity but not rain.
She moved along the fence line, eyes scanning each section with practiced attention.
Near the back pasture, she found what she expected.
Bigger and deeper footprints than the ones she had seen earlier in the week.
A man’s shoe print. The soil had been disturbed recently; the print edges were still sharp.
Someone had walked their boundary while she and Cathy were in the woods.
She crouched, studying the print. The direction angled toward the ridge.
Someone was cutting across the country, looking for water or resources or simply a path that felt less exposed.
She brushed the dirt from her palms and made her way back toward the house.
When she stepped inside, Cathy looked up from the chair near the dogs.
“How bad?” Cathy asked.
“Someone passed through,” Barb said. “Not toward us, but toward the ridge.”
“So, it’s happening.”
“It is. People are spreading out. They’re looking for anything that keeps them alive.”
Cathy swallowed. “What do we do?”
“We get ready. That’s all we can do.” Barb reached for the rifle and placed it in Cathy’s hands. “You hold this tonight. Not because something is coming, but because your mind needs to know that you can.”
“Where do I stand?”
Barb guided her to the corner of the living room. “Here. You can see the door from this angle. If someone approaches, you have time to speak or call for me.”
Cathy’s voice cracked slightly. “I hope I never have to use it.”
“So do I, but hoping isn’t a plan.”
Cathy nodded weakly. “I understand.”
Together, they darkened the house, covering weak spots in the curtains with blankets.
Barb blew out the lantern flame and made sure the room settled into shadows rather than pitch darkness.
Enough to move safely, but not enough to be seen from outside.
The puppies curled beside Cathy’s feet, restless but quiet.
The cats perched along the back of the couch, ears swiveling toward every faint sound outside.
Cathy kept her eyes on the door. “Do you think someone will come tonight?”
“No,” Barb said. “Not tonight.”
Cathy kept her hands wrapped tightly around the rifle. “It feels like the world is pushing closer.”
“It is,” Barb said softly. “That’s why we stay ready.”
The house fell silent except for the soft breathing of animals and the faint tightening of wood as the night air cooled.
Cathy sat straighter, fear and determination mixing in her eyes.
Barb settled beside her, watching the shadowed doorway and the dark beyond it, where the world continued to shift.
The pressure on their land was growing. The drift outward from town had begun.
Their quiet window was narrowing, hour by hour, and Barb felt every second of it in her bones.