Chapter 23
Rain threatened before the sun had fully risen, settling low over the valley in a green-gray haze that made Barb uneasy.
Storms in early August were nothing new.
Storms in a collapsed world were another thing entirely.
Without emergency services, without functioning drainage, and without any place for the desperate to shelter, the weather became another adversary. Another danger she had to prepare for.
She stepped onto the porch and scanned the sky.
The clouds moved slowly, heavy with moisture.
The wind rolled across the fields with an uneven rhythm.
It carried the faint metallic scent that always preceded a downpour, sharp enough to sting her nose.
She watched the tree line sway in slow arches before turning back toward the barn.
The animals were tense. The goats paced along the fence line, calling out in uncertain cries.
The ducks huddled near the back of their pen rather than dabbling across the small pond Barb had dug.
The cows stood together under the near side of the pasture oak, refusing to settle.
None of them trusted the morning. She went inside the barn.
Cathy stood near the center aisle, already gathering items from shelves and corners. She held a tarp in one hand and a sealed bucket in the other. “Storm is coming fast,” Cathy said.
“I know,” Barb replied. “We need everything off the outer walls. The leaks will get worse when the wind picks up.”
“I checked the ducks. They’re already refusing to go near the shallow end.”
“They’re smart. They know water rises.”
Barb moved toward the goat paddock. The ground dipped near the back, an area that always flooded first when the creek rose.
The soil there was already darker. She grabbed a roll of wire and extra posts, securing the lowest section of fence and reinforcing the corner where the goats tended to press when afraid.
Cathy joined her with a handful of boards. “You want these here?”
“Yes,” Barb said. “Use them to block the gap near the trough.”
Cathy kneeled and hammered the boards into place. The echo carried, muted by the thick air.
Barb tightened the last wire and gave the fence a hard pull. It held. “We need flotation,” Barb said as she stood.
“I have barrels and sealed buckets ready.”
“Good. Place them near the barn door. If water reaches the paddock, we move everything in fast.”
“Do you really think it will flood?”
“I think storms do worse things when no one is around to intervene,” Barb said. “I would rather prepare for the worst and be wrong than expect nothing and face it unprepared.”
Cathy’s eyes flicked toward the sky. “I hate storms now.”
“We treat them like anything else that can harm us.”
They brought the firewood under cover next.
The stacks outside would soak through within minutes once the rain arrived, so they moved each bundle to the barn’s interior wall.
The wood thudded heavily into place, filling the air with the scent of old bark and dry earth.
The first rumble of thunder rolled across the valley.
Cathy lifted her head. “That was close.”
“Closer than I like,” Barb said. “Help me move the tools.”
They carried every hammer, saw, and hand tool into the center aisle of the barn.
Barb placed them into crates so nothing would scatter if the storm shook the building harder than expected.
She checked the covering tarp again, pressing it tightly against the outer wall. Another rumble came, and it was louder.
They hurried back to the house. The light dimmed faster than it should have as the storm took shape over the ridge.
The color of the sky shifted from greenish gray to something closer to bruised purple.
Clouds sank low enough to brush the tops of the taller trees.
Inside, the cats paced restlessly along the windowsills.
The puppies whined near the door as Barb motioned for Cathy to close the shutters.
“Seal everything,” Barb said. “This one will be strong.”
The rain hit before Cathy finished the last latch.
It came fast and hard, slamming against the tin roof in sheets that blurred the world outside.
The sound swallowed everything else, a roaring curtain that drowned out the usual morning noises.
Water streaked down the windows so thickly that the yard vanished behind it.
Even the barn became a faint shape in a wash of distorted motion.
“I can’t see a thing.”
“Stay near the back window,” Barb said. “Listen instead of looking.”
Cathy nodded and took her place. Barb stood near the front window, leaning just enough to see through the cracks between the curtains.
The storm erased the road, turning it into a flowing river of mud.
Debris bounced along the current—branches, stones, and something that looked like part of a tarp.
The thunder cracked overhead. The puppies barked in instinctive alarm until she kneeled beside them and placed a calming hand on their backs.
“It is all right,” Barb murmured. “You’re safe.”
Another flash lit the entire room in a cold burst of white.
Barb remained steady, watching the road in the flickering light.
Movement appeared between the flashes. Three figures sprinted down the road, drenched and stumbling.
They held packs over their heads in a useless attempt to shield themselves.
The water made their footsteps uneven, knocked them sideways, and forced them toward the ditch before they corrected their course.
They reached the old oak tree near the driveway and huddled beneath its branches.
“People.”
“Yes,” Barb said quietly. “Caught in the storm.”
“They look miserable,” Cathy said. “Are they dangerous?”
“Storms make everyone unpredictable,” Barb said. “Keep an eye on them.”
The figures pressed close to the tree trunk, arms wrapped around themselves as the rain hammered the ground around them. One bent over, coughing. Another wiped his face repeatedly with a soaked sleeve, trying to clear the water from his eyes. Then one broke away.
He lifted his head, saw the house through the curtain of rain, and bolted toward the driveway. Something in his posture screamed desperation. He didn’t hesitate. He charged straight toward the rock border Barb had built, slipping in the mud and scrambling over the stones.
“Barb,” Cathy whispered.
“I see him,” Barb said.
She slipped toward the side door and eased it open.
The rain hit her immediately, cold and heavy, soaking her hair and shirt within seconds.
She moved in a low arc toward the woodpile, letting the storm swallow the sound of her footsteps.
Water dripped into her eyes, and she blinked it away, keeping her gaze locked on the figure climbing the rock border.
He reached the top and crouched there, panting, looking toward the house as if expecting someone to open the door and wave him in.
He was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead.
His clothes clung to him in wet folds. He lifted one hand as if to knock, then froze when Barb stepped out from behind the woodpile.
She kept the rifle slung low across her chest, held calmly but visibly.
Rain ran down his face in streams. He opened his mouth to speak, but Barb shook her head slowly.
“No,” she said. “You don’t come closer.”
“I’m soaked,” he shouted through the rain. “I’m freezing.”
“I know. Keep moving. You can’t shelter here.”
He looked back toward his companions under the tree.
One of them shouted his name, but the storm drowned the sound.
He hesitated, clinging to the hope that she might show mercy.
Barb saw the moment he realized she would not.
His shoulders slumped. He lowered his gaze and backed down the rocks, slipping once before he caught himself.
He ran back toward the tree. The others yelled something to him, too distorted by rain to decipher.
He shook his head and pointed toward the house.
After several minutes, the three figures moved again, bracing themselves against the storm as they left the shelter of the tree and staggered down the road toward town.
Their shapes blurred in the rain, swallowed by distance and water.
Barb let her posture drop only when they vanished completely.
She slipped back inside, drenched and shivering.
Cathy hurried to her with a blanket. “You scared me,” Cathy said, wrapping it around herself.
“I scared him more. That was the point.”
“Do you think he will come back?”
“No,” Barb said. “He was seeking shelter, not conflict.”
Thunder cracked again overhead. The storm intensified. Rain seeped through the outdated seals around the windows, dripping in slow trails onto the floor.
Barb grabbed a bucket and placed it beneath the worst leak. “We need to repair those tonight,” she said. “If the storm lasts, the house will take on water.”
Cathy nodded and gathered the lantern. The faint light cast long shadows across the room.
Together, they patched the leaks, pressing cloth and waxed paper into gaps, sealing edges with wooden wedges.
Outside, the wind howled. A place that had once felt like an untouched refuge trembled beneath nature’s weight.
Cathy paused beside her, breath uneven. “We can’t fight storms.”
“No,” Barb said. “We can only endure them.”
Cathy looked at her. “That scares me more than people do.”
“It should. Nature doesn’t negotiate.”
They worked in silence while the storm raged outside, the lantern flickering against the walls. The valley groaned under the force of the rain. Nature had joined the list of adversaries, and Barb knew it was only the beginning.