Chapter 17
The next day, Barb reached the barn before full daylight, the sky still pale and streaked with early mist. The humidity settled thick across her skin, a heavy pressure that told her the day would be another scorcher.
The barn loomed in front of her like a tired giant, its boards bowed in places, its roofline slanted just slightly from years of neglect. She stood for a moment, studying it.
Under normal circumstances, she would have planned a slow renovation, something organized and thoughtful, a gradual improvement. Those were luxuries she no longer had.
Cathy approached from behind, pulling her hair into a tight knot. “Where do we start?”
“We start with everything,” Barb said. “This needs to become something useful, fast.”
They opened the barn door. Dust rose in a soft cloud, catching light like drifting ash.
The central aisle was choked with decades of abandoned equipment.
Old harnesses hung limp from hooks, cracked leather and rusted buckles sagging.
A tangle of rope spilled from a broken crate.
Metal rods and bent tools lay scattered across the floor.
An old feed trough leaned sideways; one of its legs had snapped off.
The place looked less like a barn and more like a hoarder’s attic.
Barb grabbed a pair of gloves and tossed another set to Cathy. “We clear the aisle first,” she said. “Everything in the center needs to move.”
Cathy slipped the gloves on, flexing her fingers. “Where do we put it?”
“Outside, on the right. Useful things go near the door. Broken things we sort later. Nothing gets thrown away until I check it.”
They began hauling debris. Barb took the heavier pieces, lifting a rusted metal frame that once belonged to a plow. She carried it outside and dropped it with a dull thud.
Cathy followed her, gathering smaller scraps and stacking them in neat bundles. “This board is split completely.” Cathy held up a long piece of cracked lumber.
“Set it aside. We can use the nails.”
Cathy tossed it onto the broken pile and reached for the next piece. Dust streaked her face, and sweat formed near her temples, but she kept moving steadily. Barb watched her briefly. Grief still shadowed her posture, but the work grounded her in a way nothing else had since the flare.
They cleared section after section. Barb dragged out a wagon frame, its wheels long gone, and propped it against the side of the barn.
She tested its metal joints on instinct.
Some were rusted through, but the frame itself might be useful.
Cathy carried out a stack of rotted boards, and Barb used her hammer to pull the nails free before tossing the wood aside.
“Keep every nail that isn’t corroded,” Barb said.
“Why?”
“Nails are like currency now,” Barb said. “We may need them for repairs, barter, or trade.”
Cathy nodded and added each salvageable nail to the growing bucket.
The more they removed, the more space appeared.
The floorboards, once invisible beneath the clutter, emerged in wide patches.
Dust coated Barb’s boots. Cobwebs clung to the rafters above.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and moved deeper into the barn.
“So much of this is just junk,” Cathy muttered.
“Junk can become tools. The only useless thing is something we don’t know how to use.”
“That sounds like something Dad would have said.”
She nodded. “He wasn’t wrong.”
They continued to the far end of the aisle, where old feed bags lay burst open, spilling dust and discolored pellets.
Barb kicked them aside with the toe of her boot.
When they reached the back of the barn, Barb noticed an old stall door blocked by a pile of warped boards.
Something about the door looked different from the others.
The wood was less faded, the hinges less rusted.
“Help me move these,” Barb said.
Cathy grabbed one end of the top board while Barb grabbed the other.
Together, they lifted it and set it aside.
Underneath were more boards, some thick, some thin, but all of them were warped.
They worked through the pile until the stall door was clear.
A heavy latch secured it. An old padlock hung on the latch, rusted shut.
Cathy frowned. “Why would someone lock a stall?”
“I want to know,” Barb said.
She retrieved a pry bar from their sorted tools and wedged it beneath the latch. Cathy stepped back as Barb pushed her weight against the bar. Metal groaned. A sharp crack filled the barn as the latch snapped. The door creaked open.
Inside, dust floated through the beam of light that spilled in from the aisle.
The stall smelled faintly of machine oil.
Hidden inside was a collection of tools.
Fencing pliers, three good-quality hammers, rolls of fencing wire, two tarps folded neatly, and four plastic jugs of oil stacked in the corner.
Cathy blinked. “What is all this? Why would someone leave it here?”
“Because they probably didn’t know what they had, or they thought they would come back for it.”
“This is brand new.”
“It’s worth a lot now,” Barb said. “We needed this. All of it.”
She brought the tools out one by one and organized them into piles.
Each item filled a gap on their supply list. Barb felt something like satisfaction, a spark of reassurance that they weren’t working against the land and that it was giving something back.
She cleared the stall fully, removing broken crates and old feed sacks.
“This stall becomes controlled storage,” she said. “Only we touch this. No one else.”
Cathy handed her one of the reinforced locks they had saved from the house. Barb installed it with slow precision, driving screws deep into the doorframe. When she clicked the lock into place, the sound echoed.
Cathy smiled faintly. “That’s the first thing on this property that feels genuinely secure.”
They turned their attention to the livestock stalls. The cows were calm, lying near the back of their pen. The goats bleated at Cathy as she approached, eager for attention. The sows, however, pressed their noses hard against the boards, testing weak spots.
“They’re going to break through if we don’t reinforce this,” Barb said.
“They’ve been pacing all morning.”
“Stress. The sounds from the woods put them on edge.”
Cathy helped her gather metal panels from the piles of discarded materials outside. Barb held the heavy pieces in place while Cathy slid bolts through and tightened them, her hands steady even when the screws resisted.
“These pigs are going to drive me insane,” Cathy said under her breath.
Barb laughed quietly. “You get used to it. They’re smarter than they look.”
“You think this will hold?”
“They’ll test it, but it will hold.”
They moved the feed bins next, dragging them away from the doors where the smell might draw wildlife or desperate people. The bins were heavy, but they pushed them together, grunting with the effort.
When the last one was in place, Cathy leaned on it, catching her breath. “This feels like the first real barn work I’ve ever done,” she said.
“It is, but you’re doing it well.”
Cathy looked around, her expression softening with a tired but real sense of accomplishment.
“It looks different now. Like a place with purpose.”
“That’s the idea,” Barb said.
By midday, the transformation was dramatic. The central aisle was clear. The stall with its new supplies was organized and secure. The goat and cow pens looked solid. The sow enclosure was reinforced. The tools they needed were visible and accessible. They had created order out of chaos.
Cathy leaned against a post. “I never thought I’d see this barn look like this.”
Barb nodded. “We aren’t reacting anymore. We’re building.”
Cathy blinked at her. “Building what?”
Barb looked at the organized stall, the reinforced pens, and the new structure they had formed through sweat and planning. “A system,” she said. “Inside the collapse.”
“It feels like more than just getting by.”
“It is more. This isn’t temporary. We’re shaping this place for our future.”
“I think I finally understand.”
Barb picked up the bucket of newly sorted nails. “Good. There is still more ahead.”
They walked out into the sunlight, and the heat hit them hard again, thick enough to feel like a wall. The animals moved sluggishly in the fields. Bees hovered over wild clover.
Cathy shaded her eyes. “Do you hear anything?”
Barb listened. The faint echo of movement drifted from somewhere near the ridge. Voices, distant, like a soft murmur.
“Yes,” Barb said. “People are still moving.”
Cathy’s face tightened. “Are they heading this way?”
“Not today, but they’re out there.”
She closed the barn door and locked it carefully. The click sounded final in a way nothing else had. It marked the shift from survival to something sturdier. They weren’t just reacting to a fallen world anymore; they were creating structure inside it.