Chapter 32
The morning air bit hard enough to cut skin.
Barb stepped through the frost with the rope slung over her shoulder and her knife kit in her hand.
The cow lay exactly where she had left it beneath the heavy branches, a mound of frozen muscle and stillness that pressed into the earth like a gravestone.
She stood over the body for several seconds, letting the cold steady her pulse.
There was no room for hesitation. Meat meant survival, and emotions could come later.
She gripped the rope, exhaled once through her nose, and pulled the branches aside.
The cow’s hide had stiffened overnight. Frost clung to the ears and lashes.
The weight of the loss settled on her again, but she refused to let it slow her down.
She kneeled and set her tools out in precise order. The first cut needed to be clean.
Cathy approached quietly, footsteps crunching on the frozen ground. She carried her own set of gloves, her hair pulled back. “Tell me where to stand.”
Barb glanced at her. “You don’t have to be here.”
“Yes,” Cathy said, “I do.”
Barb nodded once. She pressed her blade against the hide and began the opening cut from sternum to pelvis.
The skin resisted. The hide was thick, tougher than most people imagined.
The knife slipped at one point, and Cathy reached instinctively to steady the carcass.
Blood seeped slowly at first, thick and dark from the cold.
It hit the air with a metallic smell that would travel far.
Barb felt the urgency in her gut. They had hours to get the carcass processed before predators or desperate wanderers picked up the scent.
They worked in silence. Barb cut, pulling the hide away from the muscle, her hands steady even when the weight fought her. Cathy held limbs in place or moved tools before Barb needed to ask. For the first time in weeks, Cathy’s movements had purpose.
The sun rose slowly above the ridge, spilling weak light over the pasture. Barb sliced through connective tissue, exposing the muscle groups she needed. Her breath fogged in steady puffs.
Cathy tied off sections of intestine with trembling hands, her jaw clenching each time a new wave of smell crept up. “I forgot how heavy this is,” she whispered.
“It’s always heavy,” Barb said. “That’s why people don’t survive without help.”
“Good thing you learned everything.”
“Just enough to keep us alive.”
They separated the legs first, dragging them onto the sled board.
Barb carved away thick cuts of meat, working quickly to avoid letting any part of the carcass spoil.
Cathy moved each piece into tidy piles in the barn, organizing them the way Barb had taught her two days ago.
The cold kept the meat firm, which made the work easier.
Still, blood coated their gloves, froze against the straw, and soaked into their sleeves.
The smell hung heavy enough to sting their noses, an iron tang that turned the barn into something primal.
By midday, they had sectioned the ribs, removed the flank, and cut the loin into thick slabs that would last a family months in the old world.
Cathy paused only once. She stood over the pile of meat, her breath shaking. “This is a lot,” Cathy said quietly.
“Yes,” Barb answered.
“We can’t keep it all, so we’ll have to trade.”
“That’s right.”
The certainty in Barb’s voice made Cathy close her eyes. When she opened them again, something steadier had replaced the fear. “What else do you need me to do?” Cathy asked.
“Start sorting,” Barb said. “Fresh cuts go into the clay bowls for immediate use. Anything we can’t smoke or dry goes in the trade pack. Offal goes into the tin tubs for the dogs, and bones go to the shed for broth.”
Cathy nodded and moved. She pulled a cloth over her face to block the worst of the smell.
The puppies paced behind her, whining anxiously at the blood and movement.
By late afternoon, the barn had transformed into a landscape of survival and necessity.
Slabs of meat covered wooden boards. Bones piled in buckets.
The cold air carried a thick, unignorable scent.
Even with the doors partly open, the smell felt overwhelming, creeping into every corner, pressing into Barb’s clothes and hair.
Cathy wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “Barb, this isn’t going to last long.”
“No,” Barb said. “Not without salt.”
“How much do we have left?”
“Enough to preserve maybe ten pounds. We have well over one hundred.”
Cathy stared at the meat. “So, without salt…”
“It will rot,” Barb said. “Everything we worked for will rot.”
“Then we trade.”
Barb nodded. She selected the best cuts from the pile—the most uniform slabs, the ones least damaged by the cold. She wrapped each piece in cloth and placed them inside the pack she had reinforced the night before. When she lifted the pack, the weight pulled at her shoulders, heavy with the future.
“Barb, you could run into the same people who attacked us.”
“Yes,” Barb said.
“What if they are waiting on the road?”
“I won’t take the road. I’ll go around so that I’m careful not to be seen.”
“What if someone sees the pack?”
“I’ll keep it wrapped under my coat.”
“What if you don’t come back?”
“I’ll come back,” Barb said. “Because I know you need me. Because the farm needs me. Because you’re not ready to run it alone.”
Cathy looked down. “I’m trying.”
“I know. You’re doing more than you realize.”
“Take more bullets.”
“No,” Barb said. “Noise brings trouble. I’ll take twenty-five shells and no more.”
Cathy held on to the strap. “Please be careful.”
“I will.”
A long silence stretched between them. Winter air seeped through the crack under the barn door. The newborn calves shifted in their pen, tiny bodies shivering under blankets. The surviving mother cow nudged them closer with her nose.
Barb walked to the barn shelf and lifted a small tin box. “I’m leaving instructions.”
Cathy frowned. “For what?”
“For everything you need to do until I get back.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A day,” Barb said. “Maybe two, but no longer.”
“Two days?” Cathy whispered.
“Yes.”
“I can do it.”
“I know,” Barb said. “Here’s what you need to focus on.”
She handed her the list she had written by lantern light.
Cathy read it slowly, mouth tightening as she reached each line.
Feed goats twice. Rotate calves onto the mother every four hours.
Keep the fire steady. Keep the rifle close.
Do not open the doors for anyone. Check the tin-can line at dawn and dusk.
Stay inside unless absolutely necessary. Wait for me.
Cathy looked up. “What if someone comes?”
“You treat every voice like a threat,” Barb said. “You stay in the loft with the rifle. You don’t leave the barn unless you hear my voice.”
“What if someone pretends to be you?”
“I’ll say our code first thing.”
Cathy nodded. “Okay.”
“I need you to say it back.”
“The sparrow takes the low branch.”
Barb nodded. “Good.”
“Barb,” Cathy said quietly. “Come back.”
“I will.”
Cathy stepped closer. “Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t speak to anyone longer than you need. Don’t give away what we can’t replace. Don’t leave me alone in this world.”
Barb inhaled sharply. That last sentence hit her deeper than any fear she had held. She placed both hands on Cathy’s shoulders and held her gaze. “I’ll always come back for you,” Barb said.
Cathy blinked rapidly, tears threatening but not falling.
Barb turned away before her own resolve could crack.
She slid the pack over her shoulders again.
The weight pulled her sideways for a moment until she adjusted her stance.
She tied her coat tightly around her. Then she reached for the rifle, checked each shell and placed twenty-five in the inner pocket of her pack.
Cathy followed her to the barn door but stopped before she opened it. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Yes. The trade point by the ruined feed store. People linger there. Someone will have salt.”
“Someone could take everything from you.”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know the land better than they do.”
Cathy nodded. “Be safe.”
Barb stepped outside. The frost cracked beneath her boots. The horizon glowed with the first hints of dawn. Smoke still curled faintly in the air. The farm behind her felt like a fragile world she was leaving in Cathy’s trembling hands.
She adjusted the strap once more, braced herself against the cold, and began walking toward the remains of civilization. The weight of meat and responsibility pressed hard against her spine. Bullets rattled softly in her pocket. Salt would decide their winter, and survival depended on both.