The Silence Between

Posted on Wed Sep 30th, 2026 @ 11:15am by Wanderer Brielle Anders

4,927 words; about a 25 minute read

Mission: Winter's hope
Location: Brielle’s Farm – Southern Wisconsin
Timeline: August 30, 2010

The refrigerator stopped humming at 6:17 in the morning. Brielle noticed immediately. She was standing at the kitchen counter cutting bread when the low mechanical vibration that had become part of the background of the farmhouse simply vanished. The overhead light flickered. Once. Twice. Then went out. Across the kitchen, the digital clock on the oven disappeared. The coffee machine died halfway through brewing. From the sitting room came the abrupt silence of the television cutting off in the middle of another emergency bulletin.
Brielle stopped moving. For several seconds, nobody said anything. Then Carmen appeared in the doorway with Leah tucked against her shoulder. Her hair was still loose from sleep and the five-month-old baby rested heavily against her, one tiny fist pressed beneath her chin. "Again?"

Brielle looked at the dead clock. "Again."

There was no surprise in either woman's voice. That was what bothered Brielle most. The first time the power had gone out, three days earlier, she'd checked every breaker in the house.
Then she'd walked the property checking lines. Then she'd called the power company. Forty-three minutes listening to an automated recording. We are experiencing unusually high call volumes. Music. Please remain on the line. Music. Your call is important to us. Then the connection had simply disappeared. Yesterday there hadn't been a dial tone at all. Today Brielle didn't even bother picking up the telephone. She crossed to the window. Outside, dawn was spreading slowly across the valley. Mist hung low over the fields. The barn emerged from it in pieces — first the roof, then the upper walls, then the dark rectangle of the doors. The goats were beginning to stir. A rooster announced morning to anyone within half a mile who hadn't already noticed. Everything looked ordinary. The farmhouse wasn't. "Mum?"

Brielle turned. Sebastian stood at the bottom of the stairs wearing pyjama bottoms and one sock. At eight years old, his hair had developed a remarkable ability to point in six directions when he slept. "What happened?"

"Power's out again."

He looked toward the sitting room. "Can I still watch TV?"

Brielle stared at him. Sebastian considered his question. "Right."

Carmen laughed quietly. "Good recovery."

Sebastian came farther into the kitchen. "Generator?"

Brielle hesitated. It disturbed her that he already knew the routine. Three days. That was all it had taken. Three days of power failures. Three days of strange radio broadcasts.
Three days of learning which appliances mattered and which didn't. "Not yet."

Sebastian frowned. "Why?"

"Battery bank's handling the essentials."

"But the lights are off."

"Because the lights aren't essential."

"They are when it's dark."

"The sun's coming up."

He looked toward the window. "That's cheating."

Brielle almost smiled. "Go get dressed."

"Mum—"

"And both socks."

Sebastian looked down at his feet as though discovering the missing one for the first time. "Oh." He headed back upstairs.

Carmen watched him go. "He handles this better than I do."

"He's eight."

"Exactly."

Brielle turned toward her. Carmen shifted Leah higher. "He thinks if you aren't worried, he doesn't have to be."

That landed harder than Brielle wanted it to. "I'm not worried."

Carmen gave her a long look.

Brielle sighed. "Fine."

"A little?"

"Moderately irritated."

"Ah."

"Different thing."

"Of course."

Leah stirred. Her face scrunched. A soft disgruntled noise emerged from somewhere against Carmen's shoulder. Then a second. Carmen looked down. "Somebody has opinions."
Brielle reached out and touched one tiny foot. Leah kicked weakly beneath the blanket. "At least hers are straightforward."

"Food."

"Mostly."

"Clean nappy."

"Frequently."

"Being carried around like royalty."

"Constantly."

Carmen smiled. For several seconds the kitchen almost felt normal again. Then the emergency radio on the counter crackled. Both women turned. Static. A voice emerged. Faint.
"...residents are advised to remain..." Static swallowed the rest. Then: "...avoid contact with..." Gone. Brielle stared at it. Carmen didn't move. The signal came back. "...violent or erratic behaviour..." Static. "...bites..." Gone again. Brielle reached forward and adjusted the tuner. Nothing. Only hiss. Carmen's voice was quiet. "That's getting worse."

"Reception?"

"The messages."

Brielle knew what she meant. Five days ago, the news had still sounded like news. Anchors behind desks. Experts being interviewed. Officials standing beside podiums. Everyone using careful language. Unconfirmed reports. Isolated incidents. There is no immediate cause for alarm. Authorities are monitoring the situation. Then the language had changed. Remain inside your homes. Avoid unnecessary travel. Do not approach individuals displaying violent or erratic behaviour. Avoid contact with blood or bodily fluids. Anyone suffering a bite should seek immediate medical attention. As though being bitten had suddenly become a common enough occurrence to require public instructions. Schools closed. Then banks. The petrol station lasted another day before the pumps ran dry. The pharmacy opened for only three hours yesterday. People queued down the block. The grocery store had stopped answering its telephone. Milltown still existed. Its buildings hadn't disappeared. Its streets were still there. Its houses remained standing. But the town had stopped functioning. Piece by piece.
Quietly. Brielle hated quiet disasters. Loud ones were easier. You knew when something broke. The battery controller in the utility room showed a healthy charge. Brielle checked it twice anyway. Solar production would increase as the sun rose. The freezers remained cold. The refrigerator had switched automatically onto backup. The water pump still worked. Good. Solar. Battery storage. Backup generators. Water tanks. Fuel reserves. The bus. Contingencies for contingencies. Brielle closed the cabinet harder than necessary.

"Mum?" Sebastian stood behind her now fully dressed. Both socks. Progress.

"What?"

"Can I check the generator?"

"You can check the fuel."

His face brightened.

"And the oil."

"Really?"

"With me."

Slight disappointment. "Okay."

They headed outside together. Morning had strengthened. The mist was beginning to lift from the fields. Toby bounded across the yard toward them, tail wagging enthusiastically enough to move his entire back half. Sebastian crouched. "Hey, Tobes." Toby immediately attempted to lick his face. "Stop!" Toby did not stop. Sebastian laughed and shoved him away. Brielle watched. Eight. Her son was eight. He should be worrying about school. Whether his friends were coming over. Whether he could convince his mother to let him stay awake another half hour. He shouldn't know how much fuel a generator used. He shouldn't know which radio frequencies still worked. He shouldn't automatically look toward the gate when a vehicle engine sounded somewhere in the valley. But he did. Brielle unlocked the generator shed. Sebastian crouched beside the fuel gauge. "Three quarters."

"Good."

He checked the oil next. "That's good too."

"Good."

"Can I start it?"

"Not unless the battery drops."

"But—"

"We conserve fuel."

He sighed. "I know." There it was again. He knew. Too much.

Brielle crouched beside him. "Hey."

Sebastian looked at her. "You're doing really well."

"At what?"

She nearly laughed. All of it. Too much of it. "Helping."

His shoulders straightened. "I can help more."

"I know."

"I can feed the goats."

"You already do."

"And chickens."

"Yes."

"And check water."

"Yes."

"And—"

"Sebastian."

He stopped.

"You don't have to do everything." His expression changed slightly. For an instant she saw herself in him. That frightened her more than the power outage.

"I know, Mum."

"Good." She ruffled his hair.

He immediately ducked away. "Mum!"

"What?"

"You messed it up."

Brielle stared at the spectacular disaster already sitting on his head. "I've ruined it."

"Yes."

"My apologies."

Sebastian tried flattening it. It became worse. Brielle laughed. He gave up.

Breakfast happened later than usual. Cold milk. Bread. Eggs. Preserves. Coffee heated on the gas stove. Miranda complained that the television didn't work. Sebastian patiently explained electricity conservation to her until Miranda announced that she hadn't asked him. Carmen laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. Leah sat propped in Carmen's lap staring at a spoon. Midnight occupied the windowsill and watched everyone with the expression of a cat who had long ago concluded that human civilisation had been a mistake.
Outside, Toby lay across the doorway. For ten minutes, nobody discussed the world ending. Brielle treasured every second of it.

Then Miranda asked "Do I have school tomorrow?" Silence. Brielle looked toward Carmen. Carmen suddenly became fascinated by Leah's bib. Sebastian stopped eating. "Mum?"

Brielle put down her coffee. "No."

Miranda smiled immediately. "Yes!"

"That isn't a good thing."

"Why?"

"Because school is closed."

"For how long?"

Brielle hesitated. "I don't know."

Miranda considered this. "Forever?"

"No." The answer came too quickly.

Sebastian noticed. "How do you know?"

Brielle looked at her son. She didn't. "Because this isn't going to last forever."

Carmen's eyes met hers. Neither woman believed that sentence as much as Brielle wanted the children to. Miranda accepted it. "Can I play outside?"

"Near the house."

"Chicken coop?"

"Yes."

"Garden?"

"Yes."

"Creek?"

"No."

"But—"

"Not negotiable."

Miranda sighed. "Fine."

Sebastian looked at Brielle. "Barn?"

"Yes."

"Machinery shed?"

"If you stay off the roof."

He grinned. "I wasn't going to."

"Good."

Because apparently mothers now had to specify that. Brielle hadn't been into Milltown since the twenty-seventh. She had tried. She'd left shortly after nine in the morning with a list that had once seemed perfectly ordinary. Animal feed. Fuel. Medicine. Nappies for Leah. A few groceries. Check on Evelyn. See Ben if she could. She'd made it three miles. Then she'd rounded a bend and stopped. Cars blocked the road ahead. Not crashed. Abandoned. Four of them. One sat partly in the ditch. Another had both driver's doors hanging open. Shopping bags were scattered across the road. A child's backpack lay near the centre line. One vehicle was still running. Brielle could remember that clearly. The soft vibration of the engine. The driver's door open. Keys in the ignition. Nobody around. She'd sat behind the wheel staring. Everything inside her had screamed the same thing. Leave. Not investigate. Not help. Not find out. Leave. Years of surviving Myles had taught her to listen when every instinct told her something was wrong. She reversed. Turned around. Went home. The gate had remained locked ever since. Shortly before noon, Toby barked. Brielle was in the pantry taking inventory. Again. She knew exactly what they had. She couldn't seem to stop checking anyway.
Flour. Rice. Beans. Pasta. Canned vegetables. Preserves. Sugar. Salt. Cooking oil. Powdered milk. Coffee. Tea. Baby formula kept for emergencies. Enough nappies for Leah for now.
First-aid supplies. Medication. Animal antibiotics from Evelyn's clinic — veterinary, not human, and Brielle had no intention of pretending otherwise unless things became desperate.
Toby barked again. Deep. Warning. Brielle froze. Not Walter. Toby's Walter bark involved frantic tail wagging and usually ended with him waiting at the gate. This was different.
She crossed immediately to the window. Toby stood near the front fence. Rigid. Staring toward the road.

"Carmen."

Carmen appeared. Leah was against her chest. "What?"

"Take the kids inside."
Carmen looked through the window. She didn't ask why. "Sebastian!"

He appeared from the direction of the barn. Brielle stepped onto the porch. "Inside."

His face changed. "What's wrong?"

"Vehicle."

"Who?"

"Don't know."

Sebastian started toward the house. Then stopped. "Mum?"

"What?"

"Do you want me to get—"

"No." She knew what he meant. A weapon. Absolutely not. "Inside."

He nodded. Miranda emerged from behind the chicken coop. "What's happening?" Sebastian took her hand. "Come on."

"I don't want—"

"Miranda." Something in her brother's voice worked. She went. Brielle watched them disappear through the screen door. Then walked toward the gate. he didn't unlock it. The engine became louder. A pickup appeared slowly around the bend. Brielle's shoulders loosened. A little. "Ben."

But relief lasted only until the vehicle came closer. Sheriff Ben Mercer's patrol vehicle had never looked particularly polished. Rural roads did that. Today it looked battered. Mud covered the lower panels. One headlight was cracked. There was a smear across the bonnet Brielle couldn't immediately identify. The vehicle stopped outside the gate. Ben climbed out.
Brielle stared. Four days ago, Ben Mercer had arrived carrying homemade brownies and spent hours helping stack hay. That man had been tired afterwards. Sweaty. Dirty. Laughing.
This was something else. His uniform was stained. Dust covered his trousers. There was dried blood across one sleeve. His face was pale beneath several days' worth of stubble.
His eyes were red. Exhausted. Not tired. Exhausted. Toby growled softly. "Easy," Brielle said. Ben looked at the locked gate. Then at the chain. Then at Brielle.

"Good."

She frowned. "What?"

"Keep it locked." He didn't ask her to open it. That frightened her.

"Ben." He walked closer. Not too close. Brielle stayed on her side of the gate. "What happened to you?"

"Long story."

"Blood?"

"Not mine." That was not reassuring. Carmen came onto the porch behind Brielle. She kept Leah held close. Ben noticed her.

"Stay there."

Carmen stopped immediately. Brielle stared at him. "What's happening?"

Ben looked back toward the road. For several seconds he said nothing. "Everything."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

"Try harder." Something almost resembling the old Ben flickered across his face. Then disappeared. "Milltown's gone."

Brielle's stomach dropped. "Gone how?"

"Not gone." He rubbed both hands over his face. "Jesus." Brielle waited. Ben looked exhausted beyond words. "People panicked."

"Why?"

"News. Fuel. Food. Doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"Not anymore." That silenced her. Ben continued. "Then more people got sick."

"The flu?"

"I don't know."

"Same illness they've been reporting?"

"I assume."

"Assume?"

"Nobody's testing anything anymore, Brielle." His voice sharpened. "Clinic's overwhelmed. Ambulance service barely exists. Half the deputies aren't answering their radios."

Brielle thought of Evelyn. "The veterinary clinic?"

"Closed."

"Evelyn?"

"She was alright when I saw her."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

That wasn't enough. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know."

Brielle hated those words. Everyone used them now. I don't know. Nobody knew anything. "Tom?"

"Alive yesterday."

"Walter?"

"Home."

"Elsie?"

"With him."

Relief loosened something inside her chest. "Good."

Ben gripped the top rail of the gate. "If Walter comes here, let him in."

"Obviously."

"If Evelyn comes, let her in."

"Obviously."

"If Tom comes—"

"Ben."

He looked at her. "Why are you telling me who I can let onto my property?"

His eyes shifted toward the house. Sebastian stood behind the sitting-room curtain. Barely visible. Watching. Ben saw him. Then his gaze moved to Carmen. To Leah. "You've got two kids here." Brielle's expression hardened.

"I know how many children I have."

"And a baby."

"Carmen's baby."

"That's not my point."

"Then make your point."

Ben stepped closer to the gate. "If anyone else comes here, don't open it." Brielle stared at him.

"Anyone?"

"Anyone you don't know."

"What if they need help?"

Ben's expression changed. Pain. That was what she saw. "Don't."

Carmen came closer, though she remained several yards behind Brielle. "Why?"

Ben looked at her. "Because people are scared." His voice was quieter now. "Hungry. Some are sick. Some aren't. And some are doing things I never thought I'd see people around here do."

Brielle's jaw tightened. "What things?"

"Breaking into houses. Stealing fuel. Fighting over food. Taking cars." He paused. "That's the healthy ones." The silence after that was worse. Brielle looked at the dried blood on his sleeve.

"What about the sick ones?"

Ben went completely still. For a moment, she thought he might not answer. Then he said: "If somebody comes here sick, don't go near them."

"I wouldn't."

"No." His voice sharpened. "You don't understand." Something in his face made Brielle stop. Ben Mercer was afraid. She had never seen him afraid. Concerned. Angry. Alert. Yes.
Not afraid. Now he was.

"What happened?"

Ben looked down. Then back at her. "I watched a man die yesterday." Brielle said nothing. Carmen shifted Leah slightly. Ben continued. "He'd been bitten."

"By what?"

"A person."

Carmen frowned. "What?"

"A man attacked him outside the grocery store."

"Bit him?"

"Yeah."

"Ben, people don't—"

"I know."

His voice broke slightly. Silence. "He got sick fast."

"How fast?" Brielle asked.

"Hours."

"Fever?"

"Yeah."

"Confusion."

"Aggression."

"Then?"

Ben swallowed. "He died."

Brielle waited. There was more. She could see it. "Stopped breathing. No pulse. Nothing. I checked. Another pause. EMS checked. He was dead."

Carmen's face had gone pale. "Ben..."

"About ten minutes later..." He stopped.

Brielle felt cold despite the August heat."Later what?"

Ben looked directly at her. "He got back up." Nothing moved. Even the breeze seemed to disappear.

Carmen stared. "What?"

"I know."

"That's impossible."

"I know."

"Maybe you were wrong about him being dead."

"I wasn't."

"Shock?"

"No."

"Seizure?"

"No."

"Ben—"

"I watched him die." His voice rose. Then dropped again. "I watched him die." Leah stirred against Carmen. A small unhappy sound. Carmen automatically rocked her. Brielle couldn't look away from Ben.

"What did he do when he got up?"

Ben's face hardened. "He attacked us."

"Confused?"

"No."

"Talking?"

"No."

"Did he know who you were?"

"No."

"Did he—"

"He tried to bite me." That stopped her. Ben looked toward the blood on his sleeve. "Deputy Harris tried restraining him."

"What happened?"

"He didn't care."

"About what?"

"Pain." Ben's eyes were distant now. "He had a broken wrist. Didn't react. We hit him. Didn't stop. I shot him."

Carmen made a soft sound. Brielle barely heard it. "Where?"

"Chest."

"Once?"

"Three times."

"And?"

"He kept coming."

Brielle stared at him. No. Her mind refused it. People did not take three bullets to the chest and continue walking. Not ordinary people. "What stopped him?" Ben's eyes met hers.

"Head." Brielle didn't move. "One round." He tapped a finger against his temple. "That stopped him." Silence settled over the yard. The goats grazed beyond the barn. A chicken scratched beneath the oak. Somewhere, impossibly, a bird sang.

Brielle looked at all of it. Then at Ben. "No."

He almost laughed. There was no humour in it. "I know."

"No, I mean..." She struggled. "People don't get back up."

"I know."

"Dead people don't—"

"I know." His voice cracked. Brielle stopped. She suddenly saw exactly how exhausted he was. Not physically. Not only physically. He had spent his entire adult life in a job built around rules. Causes. Effects. Laws. Procedures. Someone was hurt, you called an ambulance. Someone committed a crime, you arrested them. Someone died... They stayed dead. That rule was gone. Ben put his hat back on. "I've got to go."

Brielle stared. "No."

He paused. "What?"

"You aren't going back."

"Yes."

"Ben, look at yourself."

"I know what I look like."

"You've got blood on you."

"Not infected blood."

"You don't know that!"

"I didn't get bitten."

"That isn't what I said."

Ben opened the patrol vehicle door. "People are still in town."

"Then let them leave."

"Some can't."

"Ben." He looked at her. "You can't save everybody."

A faint, sad smile crossed his face. "No."

"Then stop acting like you can."

"I don't."

"Could've fooled me."

Something of the old Ben appeared. Barely. "Good to know your bedside manner survives the apocalypse."

Brielle stared. "Don't call it that."

His smile disappeared. Neither of them said anything. Finally Ben looked toward the farmhouse. "Keep the kids close."

"I will."

"Lock the barn."

"Already do."

"Don't leave lights blazing after dark."

Brielle frowned. "We've got solar."

"Exactly."

Understanding hit. If everyone else lost power... A brightly lit farmhouse became a beacon. "Right."

"Conserve fuel."

"Done."

"Radio?"

"On."

"If you hear evacuation orders..." He hesitated.

"What?"

"Don't automatically follow them."

That surprised her. "You're telling me not to follow emergency instructions?"

"I'm telling you roads are worse than staying put right now." He glanced around the property. "You've got food. Water. Power. Animals. Fencing. Stay here as long as staying here is safer than leaving."

Brielle looked toward the barn. The enormous double-decker bus sat inside. Myles's bus. She hadn't thought of it as anything except an ugly reminder of him for months. Suddenly she remembered what was inside. Beds. Water tanks. Kitchen. Solar. Storage. Fuel. A vehicle designed to keep moving when other things couldn't. She pushed the thought away. They weren't leaving. This was home. Ben climbed into the patrol vehicle. "Brielle." She looked at him. "If Walter comes..."

"I know."

"Evelyn."

"I know."

He nodded.

Then looked toward Carmen. "Keep that baby inside the fence." Carmen held Leah tighter. "Believe me." Ben started the engine. Brielle walked alongside the gate as he began to turn.

"Ben." He stopped. "Be careful."

He looked at her through the open window. This time he didn't say always. He simply nodded. Then drove away. Brielle stood watching until the patrol vehicle disappeared around the bend. The engine faded. The valley became quiet again. Too quiet. She reached for the gate. Pulled the heavy chain through. Added the padlock. Then another. Sebastian appeared behind her. "Mum?"

She turned quickly. He stood halfway between the porch and the gate. "I told you to stay inside."

"I was."

"Then stay there."

"Is Sheriff Ben okay?"

The question caught her. Brielle looked toward the empty road. "I don't know."

Sebastian's expression changed. He'd heard enough of that phrase lately too. "What's happening?"

Brielle walked toward him. She put both hands on his shoulders. "Things are getting dangerous in town."

"Because people are sick?"

"Yes."

"Like on TV?"

"Yes."

Sebastian hesitated. "Are we sick?"

"No."

"Carmen?"

"No."

"Miranda?"

"No."

"Leah?"

"No."

"Walter?"

"As far as we know, Walter and Elsie are fine."

Sebastian absorbed this. "Are we safe?"

Brielle looked at her son. Eight years old. Waiting for his mother to tell him what the world was. She wished she could give him certainty. "We're safer here than anywhere else I know."
It wasn't the same answer.

Sebastian understood that. But he nodded. "Okay, Mum." She pulled him against her. He tolerated the hug for approximately four seconds. "Mum."

"What?"

"Can't breathe."

"Drama."

"Actually can't breathe."

She released him. "Go inside."

"Can I feed the goats first?" Brielle looked toward the pasture. Everything inside the fence. Everything familiar. "Yeah. But Toby goes with you."

Sebastian smiled. "Okay." Toby immediately followed him. Brielle watched both of them until they reached the barn. Only then did she realise her hands were shaking.

By sunset, the farm had rules. Not suggestions. Rules. Nobody left the property alone. Nobody opened the gate without Brielle knowing. Sebastian and Miranda stayed close to the farmhouse, barn or animal pens. Toby remained inside the main fence. The radio stayed on. Fuel use was logged. Water tanks checked morning and evening. The generator remained emergency-only while the solar batteries could cope. After dark, curtains closed. Exterior lights off. Minimum lights inside. Carmen stood in the kitchen as Brielle switched off the overhead light. The room dropped into shadow. "But we've got power."

"That's exactly why."

Carmen looked through the window. The valley beyond was darker than it had been a week ago. The Miller farm still had lights. Another property farther south didn't. Neither did the Whitmore place. Milltown usually cast a faint glow against the horizon. Tonight there was almost nothing. Carmen understood. "We're brighter than everyone else."

"Yes." Brielle closed the curtain. Miranda immediately protested from the sitting room.

"Mum!"

"What?"

"I can't see!"

"You have a lamp."

"It's dark."

"That is generally what happens when you turn lights off."

"I need another one."

"No."

"Two?"

"One."

"One and my night-light?"

Brielle stared into the sitting room. Miranda was barely visible. Somehow Brielle could still sense the negotiating expression. Carmen covered her mouth. "Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're laughing."

"Internally."

Brielle sighed. "Fine. Lamp and night-light."

"Yes!"

Sebastian groaned. "You always give in."

"I heard that."

"I know." For a few seconds... They laughed. All four of them. Even Miranda. Leah startled at the noise, stared around indignantly and then began waving both arms. Carmen lifted her.

"Apparently she wants in."

Brielle smiled. It felt good. Almost painfully good. Because laughter belonged to normal life. And Brielle had no idea how much of normal life they had left. That night, nobody slept upstairs. Brielle didn't suggest it. She simply brought blankets downstairs. Sebastian noticed. So did Carmen. Neither commented. Miranda thought it was a sleepover. That helped.
She dragged pillows across the sitting-room floor and insisted Toby needed his own blanket. Toby lay directly beside it. Apparently blankets were optional. Sebastian settled on the sofa.
Miranda curled on a mattress nearby. Carmen sat in an armchair with Leah sleeping against her chest. The emergency radio occupied the table. Static rolled constantly from the speaker. Every few minutes a voice broke through. "...remain indoors..." Static. "...do not attempt to travel..." Gone. Then another station. "...Milwaukee evacuation routes..."
Static. "...National Guard..." Gone. Brielle adjusted the tuner. Nothing stable. No Madison station. Chicago had vanished. Milwaukee repeated the same automated emergency message.
No live presenter. No callers. No explanations. Just instructions. Brielle stood beside the window. Curtains mostly closed. Just enough of a gap to see through. Across the valley, the Miller place still showed a faint light. Good. Walter. Elsie. She found herself checking it every few minutes. Still there. Still there. Still there. Like a heartbeat.

Carmen spoke quietly behind her. "You should sleep."

"So should you."

"I've got a baby."

"You always have that excuse."

"It's an excellent excuse."

Brielle smiled faintly. Then Leah stirred. Carmen looked down. "See?"

"Convenient timing."

"She's talented."

Brielle returned her attention to the valley. One farmhouse beyond Walter's had been dark since yesterday. Another had lights tonight. Barely. She didn't know what any of it meant.
Generator failure? People gone? People dead? Stop. She couldn't do that. Couldn't turn every unlit window into a tragedy. There were enough real ones. A sound broke the silence.
Sharp. Distant. Brielle froze. Gunshot. Toby's head lifted immediately. Sebastian moved on the sofa. Carmen looked toward the window. Another shot. Far away. Then three quickly together. Pop. Pop. Pop. Miranda stirred but didn't wake.

Sebastian sat up. "Mum?"

Brielle turned. "Stay down."

That woke him completely. "Was that a gun?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Carmen stood carefully without waking Leah. "Milltown?"

"Maybe."

They listened. Nothing. No sirens. No patrol vehicle. No ambulance. No fire engine. That was worse. A week ago, gunshots would have brought something. Police. Neighbours.
Someone. Tonight... Nothing. The valley absorbed the sound and became silent again.

Sebastian looked toward Brielle. "Should we help?" Her heart twisted. Of course he asked that.

Eight years old. Still believing that when something bad happened, somebody went to help. "No."

His expression changed. "Mum—"

"We don't know where it came from."

"But—"

"Sebastian." She softened her voice. "We stay here."

He looked unhappy. But he nodded. "Okay."

Brielle crossed the room and checked the front-door lock. Then the back. Then the windows. Then the front again. Carmen watched. "You already checked those."
"I know."

No judgment. Just observation. Brielle stopped. Outside, the farm was dark. Inside, the solar batteries quietly powered the things that mattered. Refrigerator. Freezers. Water pump.
Radio. A lamp. They had food. Water. Power. Fuel. Animals. Land. Shelter. For now, they had almost everything they needed. And suddenly that frightened Brielle. Because everyone else was beginning to have nothing. She looked toward the barn. The double-decker bus waited inside. For the first time since she'd arrived in Wisconsin, she didn't see Myles when she looked at it. She saw water tanks. Beds. A kitchen. Solar panels. Storage. Fuel. Wheels. A way to take Sebastian and Miranda somewhere else. A way to take Carmen and Leah. Maybe Walter. Elsie. Evelyn. She stopped herself. No. This was their home. She had fought too hard to reach it. Built too much. Planted too much. Made friends. Made a life. She wasn't going to abandon it because the world had been insane for a few days. Things could still settle down. The government would respond. National Guard. Army. Hospitals. Someone would work out what this illness was. Someone would fix the power grid. Someone would clear the roads. Someone would restore order. Someone— Brielle stopped. Ben's face returned to her. I watched him die. Ten minutes later he got back up. I put three rounds into him. He kept coming. One through the head. Another gunshot echoed in the distance. Closer? No. Maybe. She couldn't tell. No siren followed. No flashing lights appeared on the road. Nothing. Carmen came to stand beside her. Neither woman spoke. They listened to the silence.
Brielle had spent five days waiting for the adults in charge to explain what was happening. Officials. Doctors. Police. Government. Someone with more information. Someone with a plan.
But Ben didn't have answers. The radio didn't have answers. The hospitals weren't answering. The power company wasn't answering. Milltown wasn't functioning. The roads were blocked. And somewhere beyond the locked gate, people who died were apparently getting back up. Brielle looked at Sebastian. Her son had fallen back against the sofa, but his eyes remained open. Miranda slept beside Toby, one hand tangled in the dog's fur. Carmen held Leah. Four people inside this house depended on decisions being made. Her decisions.
Not tomorrow. Now. Brielle reached down and turned the radio slightly louder. Then she checked the curtain. Checked the lock. And finally sat in the chair beside the window.
She would stay awake. Just tonight. Just until things were clearer. Outside, the valley remained dark. Somewhere far away, something screamed. Human. Animal. Brielle couldn't tell.
She gripped the arm of the chair. Nobody came. No siren. No engine. No lights. Nothing. And sometime in the long silence before dawn, Brielle finally understood what she had spent the last five days refusing to believe. Nobody was coming to fix it.

TBC

 

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