Chapter 28
The wind rose before dawn, strong enough to lift the loose corners of the barn roof and slap them against the beams with hollow metallic thuds.
Barb woke with the sound vibrating through the walls, a steady pulse that felt too irregular to ignore.
She sat up slowly, realizing the air inside the house felt wrong.
It tasted dry, almost metallic, the way it did before the worst summer storms. She pushed the blanket aside and walked across the floorboards with quiet steps.
Outside, the wind carried a wildness that belonged to a different season. Summer winds should have been warm and soft. The gusts felt hot, sharp, and unpredictable. The sky hovered in dull shades of yellow and gray, unsettled and restless. Dust rolled across the pasture in thin spirals.
Cathy joined her on the porch, squinting into the wind. “It sounds like the barn is going to come apart.”
“It will hold,” Barb said. “We need to make sure everything around it does, too.”
“Do you think this is the start of a storm?”
“It could be or something worse.”
They crossed the yard together, leaning into the gusts.
The animals sensed trouble long before the sisters reached them.
The goats stayed pressed against their shelter, with the kids tucked tightly between the mothers’ legs.
The cows refused to graze, bunching together in a nervous cluster.
Even the ducks had stopped their usual waddling, staying under the lean-to with their feathers puffed in agitation.
“Wind like this means a fire risk,” Barb said. “We need to clear everything that can burn.”
Cathy nodded and ran inside to grab gloves and a tarp. Barb worked along the house first, dragging old branches and dried leaves away from the siding. The wind kept throwing debris back across the ground, forcing her to gather it twice.
Cathy arrived with the tarp, holding it tight against her chest as she stepped through the rough wind. “Where do you want the piles?” Cathy asked.
“The far side of the pasture,” Barb said. “Away from the barn and both houses.”
They hauled debris across the property in small loads, fighting the wind with each step. Barb felt the gusts tug at her shirt and hair with unpredictable jerks. She forced her movements to stay deliberate, refusing to rush even when the barn roof rattled so loudly she felt it in her teeth.
When they finished the first round of clearing, Barb went to the hand pump. She dragged out all the metal buckets they owned, lined them near the porch, and filled them with water. The wind tugged at each one as if trying to topple it.
“Do you really think a fire could reach us?”
“Today has the right temperature for it.”
“What do we do after this?”
“We wait,” Barb said. “We pay attention.”
Thunder rolled faintly through the valley even though the sky remained mostly dry.
Cathy looked up. “That was close,” Cathy said.
“It wasn’t lightning yet,” Barb replied. “It’s pressure. Something is coming.”
They continued clearing brush until the wind shifted again. The temperature dropped quickly, like someone had turned a dial inside the clouds. Cold gusts pushed against them, causing both women to stop.
Cathy spoke first. “That’s not storm wind.”
“No,” Barb said. She inhaled deeply. The scent settled into her lungs with an unwelcome clarity. It was bitter, sharp, and heavy. “Smoke.”
Cathy looked toward the ridge. “From where?”
Barb climbed the pasture rise without another word. When she reached the top, she saw it immediately. Thin vertical plumes stretched upward from somewhere near town. But it wasn’t widespread enough to be a wildfire. The smoke rose from several points, drifting slowly into the sky like signals.
“Buildings,” Barb said quietly. “Someone is burning buildings in town.”
“Why would anyone do that? What if people are trapped?”
“There’s no help left. Fire spreads fast when no one fights it, and there’s nothing to fight it with since the power is gone.”
“Do you think people are still leaving town?”
“Yes,” Barb said. “The ones who can will scatter.”
They walked back to the barn with urgency pushing their steps. Barb scanned the sky repeatedly, tracking the direction of the smoke. The wind carried it eastward, not directly toward them yet, but the pattern suggested it could shift.
Inside the barn, Barb gave orders quickly. “Gather the ducks and quail. Keep them near the back of the house. The goats stay in the inner stall. The cows move closer to the porch, where we can reach them fast.”
Cathy moved without question. Fear sharpened her focus.
Barb adjusted the vents inside the barn, closing them halfway to slow smoke intake while still allowing enough airflow for the animals.
She checked the tools next, carrying every saw and hammer to the center aisle so that nothing lost in the wind could injure an animal.
She closed the feed bins tightly and pushed them against the wall.
Hours passed, the smoke building slowly in the distance, turning the light into a bruised color. The wind kept shifting, sometimes hot and sometimes cold. The trees creaked in a way that made Barb uneasy. By late afternoon, something new reached the property.
Barb stepped to the edge of the barn and crouched behind the woodpile.
Two men appeared on the road, barely standing upright as they ran.
Their clothing was streaked with soot and ash.
One kept coughing violently, bending forward with every breath.
The other dragged him forward with both hands, his face streaked with grime.
Cathy appeared at Barb’s side. “They look hurt.”
“They are fleeing something,” Barb said.
The coughing man stumbled and collapsed at the edge of the driveway. The other man dropped beside him, shaking his shoulder. He looked toward the house, desperate and scanning.
“Barb, do we go to them?”
“No, we wait.”
The conscious man shouted something, but the wind carried the words away. He tried to pull the injured man again, but his strength faltered. He stumbled backward and looked toward the woods. Then he made his choice. He released the injured man and ran.
Cathy gasped. “He left him.”
“Fear does that.”
The injured man groaned and rolled weakly in the mud.
Barb moved toward him only when the other man disappeared completely down the road.
She kneeled beside the man. His breathing rasped shallowly.
His skin felt feverish even before she touched him.
The wound on his arm was deep and angry, swollen to dangerous levels.
Infection had already taken hold. His eyes fluttered open, but he looked through her as if he couldn’t focus.
Barb lifted his arm carefully to inspect the wound.
“Can he survive?” Cathy whispered.
“Maybe,” Barb said. “If we take him inside.”
“So, what do we do?”
“We buy him time,” Barb said.
She took a cup from her pack and filled it with water from her canteen. She placed it next to his hand. She tore a strip of cloth from an old shirt she had carried for emergencies and pressed it over his wound, slowing the bleeding. She dragged him gently to the shade beneath the oak tree.
Cathy kneeled beside her. “Is this enough?”
“It’s all we can give him right now,” Barb said.
“He’ll think we abandoned him.”
“We can’t save everyone. We have to save ourselves first.”
Cathy looked toward the smoldering horizon. “What if others come? Those who are strong enough to reach us.”
“They will,” Barb said. “Smoke draws movement, and fires push people outward. More will certainly move our way.”
“We’re going to be overwhelmed.”
“No, we’re going to be ready.”
They returned to the barn and barred the doors. The animals shifted restlessly inside. The ducks made small, distressed sounds. The goats paced, sensing danger in the wind. The cows pressed close to the fence nearest the house.
Cathy leaned against the barn wall. “Barb…how do we prepare for people who are running from a fire?”
Barb looked toward the distant glow on the horizon. Flames flickered through the thick smoke, turning nightfall into a strange red haze.
“We prepare for what fear makes people do,” Barb said quietly. “Not the ones who mean harm. The ones who panic.”
Cathy swallowed. “That’s worse.”
“Yes, it is.”
Night settled over the valley with a dim orange glow, the smoke lighting the sky from below.
The world felt thinner. Barb stood at the loft window, watching the road.
The next threat wouldn’t come from scavengers or scouts.
It would come from people fleeing the flames, desperate enough to run anywhere hope might still live.
She knew desperate people were the most dangerous of all.