New Life

Posted on Thu Mar 5th, 2026 @ 2:56pm by Survivor Brielle Anders

2,449 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Wandering About
Location: Southern Wisconsin
Timeline: Backdated post- Prior to fall

The old barn door creaked shut behind the bus with a groan like it was exhaling. Dust swirled through the light filtering in from gaps in the boards. The silence that followed was thick—almost sacred.

Brielle cut the engine. For a few long seconds, she sat still, hands gripping the wheel, watching the rising mist of her own breath. Miranda had fallen asleep curled up in the seat beside her, a handmade doll tucked in her arms. Sebastian sat behind her, legs swinging, eyes wide, peering out the window with quiet awe.

The golden retriever, Toby, gave a low woof and leapt down as she opened the door. The cat, Midnight, slinked out after him like smoke.

They were here.

She stepped outside into the cold, boots crunching on packed dirt. The barn smelled of hay and old wood. It was huge—weathered, solid, safe. She walked around the front of the bus, reaching up to tap one of the solar panels just to reassure herself it was real.

This was hers. The whole damn place. Sixty acres of solitude and sovereignty. Purchased quietly, methodically—money skimmed from her husband’s accounts and tucked into a shell company she built in secret. Every paper signed, every deed secured in her name only.

She looked back at the bus—her fortress on wheels. The herb garden hanging near the kitchen window was still thriving. Rainwater tank sealed. Extra fuel secure. Food, supplies, everything labeled and stored. She had done it. Not just escaped, but survived.

The farmhouse loomed behind her, familiar now after three months of preparation. She’d already stocked the pantry, wired the solar batteries, cleared the chicken coop, and plotted her kitchen garden with help from the neighbor woman down the hill—one of the few she trusted. The goat pen was ready. She’d bartered for six of them. No cows yet. That dream would have to wait. Still, there was milk. Cheese. Soap. Wool. Skills her mother thought would only make her "a good wife"—but now made her self-sufficient.

She walked back into the bus and gently lifted Miranda, whispering to Sebastian to grab his backpack.

“Is this home now?” he asked as he followed her out.

She paused, looked out across the snowy fields, the wind teasing the treetops, the gate she’d locked tight with chains and bolts.

“It is,” she said softly. “And it’s ours.”

She’d thought she’d feel fear—or guilt. But there was nothing. Only a sense of purpose. Her children would never know the kind of silence she had grown up in. They would never be told their worth came from obedience. They would never kneel for someone who hadn’t earned it.

The world may have ended—but for her, it had only just begun.

=May 27, 2010 = Brielle’s Farm – South Wisconsin =

Brielle stood on the porch, shotgun resting in the crook of her arm, eyes fixed on the truck bouncing up the long dirt drive. She’d seen the plume of dust from the ridge camera fifteen minutes earlier and had pulled the kids inside, locking the doors and sending them down to the basement with Toby and Midnight.

Now she waited.

The truck rolled to a slow stop by the gate. A man stepped out, hands raised, carrying nothing but a canvas pack and a jug of what looked like goat milk. He looked older—late forties maybe—leathery skin, sun-bleached beard, cautious eyes. She recognized the truck. He’d passed by once before, heading south with a flatbed full of fencing supplies. She’d let him be then.

He called out without stepping closer. “Name’s Elliott. I run the Milltown bartering post—what’s left of it. Not here to cause trouble.”

She said nothing, watching him over the top of her sights.

“I’ve been hearing from the southern farms. Word’s getting around. A woman with a solar rig. Livestock. Clean water. You been trading eggs and soap under the name ‘Rose.’ That you?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Might be.”

“Figured.” He set the milk jug down at the base of the fence post. “Just wanted to say thank you. Your soap’s the only thing keeping my niece’s skin from falling off. Bad rash from stress and god knows what else. This is from our goats—our thanks.”

He turned and began walking back to his truck without waiting for an answer. That was smart.

“Wait,” she called.

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“You got books?” she asked. “For kids?”

He turned just slightly. “I got a whole box of them. Some worn, some good as new. You need ‘em?”

“I’ll leave a crate of eggs and half a wheel of cheese at the gate tomorrow,” she said. “You leave the books.”

He nodded once, then climbed back into his truck. The engine growled to life and he drove off without another word.

Brielle stayed still for a moment, the wind stirring the hem of her coat. Then she lowered the shotgun and walked down to where the milk jug sat.

Warm. Fresh.

She picked it up, carried it inside, and bolted the door behind her.

Later, as the sun dipped low and painted the kitchen walls golden, she poured glasses for Sebastian and Miranda. They were reading on the rug—books she’d already bartered for in secret—but they looked up and smiled at the offering like it was a feast.

Brielle watched them for a long time.

The world outside was broken and rotting. But here, within the fences she’d built and the choices she’d made, a new world was starting to bloom.

And maybe—just maybe—it was time to let a few more good people in.

= June 9, 2010 =Brielle’s Farm – Dusk =

The knock on the door was frantic. Two sharp raps, then silence. Then again—faster, more desperate. Brielle’s heart skipped as she turned off the lantern and grabbed the shotgun from under the table. Miranda and Sebastian were already trained to respond. They scurried silently down to the cellar with Toby and Midnight, no crying, no questions.

She crept to the door and peered through the peephole.

A woman.

Alone.

Late twenties maybe, bleeding from a gash on her forehead, clutching something tightly to her chest—a baby, no more than a year old.

Brielle didn’t move. She waited, watched.

The woman looked back over her shoulder down the road, her lips trembling as she whispered, “Please…”

Brielle opened the door only wide enough to keep the barrel of the shotgun aimed through the gap. “Who’s chasing you?”

The woman flinched at the sight of the weapon, then answered quickly. “Three men… scavengers. They tried to take my daughter. We were camped two miles down. I ran. I think I lost them but…”

“Are they armed?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Brielle’s mind raced. The perimeter sensors hadn’t triggered. No sign of movement on the ridge cameras. Yet. That meant they were either cautious—or already inside the fencing.

She motioned with the shotgun. “Come in. Fast.”

The woman slipped inside, baby whimpering in her arms. Brielle locked the door, her eyes scanning the windows, her hands already moving to a hidden panel near the hearth. She hit the button.

In the barn, floodlights flicked on. Loud. Bright. Blinding. Any motion near the edges of the property would be lit up like noon. She then activated the perimeter chime. A silent bell would alert her if the fence line tripped.

“Sit there,” Brielle ordered, pointing to the corner. “Don’t move. What’s your name?”

“Carmen. My daughter’s Leah. We—we’re from Iron River. I worked at the library before all this.”

“Where’s your group?”

“Dead. All dead.”

Brielle believed her. Mostly.

She brought the children up only once she’d confirmed the perimeter was quiet. Miranda stared at Carmen in wide-eyed silence. Sebastian hovered beside the couch, glancing between his mother and the stranger.

Brielle offered a warm cloth and a small mug of water. “I don’t know how long you’ll stay,” she said honestly, “but if trouble follows you here, I’ll defend this place.”

“I understand,” Carmen murmured. “I just needed someone to be kind. Just once.”

That night, Brielle stood watch from the barn roof, rifle across her lap. A pair of shadows moved along the road hours later—scouts, searching. But they passed by. They didn’t see the sensors. Didn’t see the floodlight triggers. Didn’t realize they were being watched.

They disappeared into the dark.

When the morning came, Carmen was still asleep on the couch with Leah curled on her chest.

And Brielle, for the first time in a long while, had to ask herself:
What happens if someone like her needs more than a night?

= June 13, 2010 = Brielle’s Farm – Morning =

The smell of goat milk simmering on the stove filled the kitchen. Carmen stood by the sink, gently rocking baby Leah in one arm while rinsing a stack of foraged dandelion roots. She hummed something soft—a lullaby maybe. It was the kind of sound Brielle hadn’t heard in years. Warm. Domestic. Human.

Too human.

From the doorway, Brielle leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching her.

“You sing when you’re nervous,” Brielle said.

Carmen startled slightly, then smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

“You didn’t sing the first two days.”

Carmen looked down at Leah. “Didn’t think I’d be allowed to.”

Brielle said nothing. Just walked into the room and turned off the burner before the milk bubbled over. She took the pot, poured half into jars for cooling, and handed one to Carmen without looking at her.

“She’s healthy,” Brielle said. “But if she gets sick, I don’t have medicine for a fever.”

“I know.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll be gone before that becomes your problem.”

That hit a nerve.

Brielle exhaled slowly, setting her hands on the counter. “I didn’t bring you in to send you out,” she said finally. “But I need to know you’re not bringing danger to my door.”

Carmen hesitated… then nodded. “The men who chased me—they won’t stop. They take women. Use them. I ran after they killed an old man who tried to help. I think they call themselves the Crossers.”

That name was new.

Brielle stiffened. “Where?”

“They were south of the old river bridge—maybe six, seven miles. But they’re moving. Always moving.”

“Do they know this place exists?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t even know until I hit your fence line.”

Brielle went quiet. Then motioned for Carmen to follow her. They stepped outside into the fresh morning air. The goats were grazing quietly, and the chickens scratched at the garden edge. It looked peaceful.

But peace was fragile.

They walked to the barn, where the bus stood tucked away behind the big doors. Brielle unlocked a side panel and pulled out a weathered crate. Inside were two pistols, one bolt-action rifle, and a box of loose ammo.

She held one of the pistols out to Carmen. “Can you use it?”

Carmen blinked. “Yes. But I didn’t think—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Brielle said firmly. “You work. You earn your keep. And if they come… you help me keep this place standing.”

Carmen took the pistol with trembling hands. “I will.”

As they walked back toward the house, Leah giggled in her mother’s arms—unaware of the quiet promise forged between the two women beneath the rising sun.

Inside, Sebastian peeked from behind the curtain. Miranda stood beside him, clutching a worn storybook.

They were watching.

And Brielle realized something:
This was no longer just survival.
This was the beginning of a family.

= June 18, 2010 = Soap Shed – Midday =

Steam curled from the copper pot as Brielle stirred the thickening mixture with a long wooden paddle, the scent of goat milk, lye, and lavender rising into the humid summer air. The soap shed was warm, the windows cracked open to let in a breeze, and the rhythmic sound of stirring was steady, grounding.

Carmen leaned against the workbench nearby, sleeves rolled up, baby Leah asleep in the woven sling across her chest. Her eyes followed every movement like she was memorizing each step.

“You don’t need to help with this,” Brielle said without looking up.

Carmen smiled softly. “I want to learn.”

Brielle raised an eyebrow. “You planning on starting your own soap empire?”

“Maybe just want to stop smelling like wood smoke and baby drool,” Carmen quipped. “Besides, you said you’re trading this stuff. If I’m going to stay here, I should know what’s bringing in eggs and bullets.”

Brielle didn’t answer right away, just kept stirring. “This was one of the first things I learned. My mother taught me, thinking it would make me a good wife.” She snorted. “Joke’s on her.”

Carmen chuckled. “Funny. My mother taught me how to make pasta from scratch. Said it would keep a man around.” Her smile faded slightly. “Guess neither of us were what they expected.”

“No,” Brielle said, glancing over at her. “We were better.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Outside, the goats bleated in the pasture, and the chickens clucked their way through the garden fence. Toby barked once—just to announce his presence—and settled under the shade tree with Sebastian and Miranda.

Carmen reached forward, hesitant, and dipped her fingers in the discarded herbs on the table—lavender, calendula, a pinch of mint. “What if we added rosemary next time?”

Brielle gave her a sideways look. “You want to start getting creative?”

“Maybe a little. You’ve got that drying rack in the attic. Might as well use what’s growing wild.”

“Hm.”

It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no, either.

Later, when the soap had been poured into the molds and set to cool, Brielle watched Carmen carry Leah back toward the house. She saw the way Miranda tugged her hand to show her the drawings she'd made. The way Sebastian sat a little closer now, letting Carmen read aloud at night.

The woman wasn’t just a guest anymore.

Brielle turned back to the rows of soft, white soap and marked the newest batch with a small notch in the corner—a habit she'd started when each bar had once been counted for trade, for survival.

This one was different.

This one was for them.

 

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