The Voice in the Static
Posted on Sun Nov 1st, 2026 @ 9:19am by Wanderer Brielle Anders
5,543 words; about a 28 minute read
Mission:
Wandering About
Location: Brielle's Farm – Southern Wisconsin
Timeline: September 11, 2010
Walter was late. Only three minutes. Under normal circumstances, three minutes would have meant absolutely nothing. Walter Miller had spent most of his life operating on a schedule determined by livestock, weather, machinery and whatever else decided to break before breakfast. Three minutes was barely enough time to find a misplaced glove. These were not normal circumstances. Three minutes was long enough for Brielle to stand beside the radio with her arms folded tightly across her chest, staring at the little black unit as though sufficient irritation might somehow force Walter’s voice through the speaker. The replacement radio sat exactly where she had placed it after Walter’s old one had failed four days earlier. Beside it lay a small notebook that had also become a permanent fixture of the kitchen. Brielle had begun keeping track of the calls.
**8:00 AM — MILLERS**
**8:00 PM — MILLERS**
Underneath, she recorded each successful check-in. Not because Walter needed monitoring. At least, that was what she told herself. Behind her, the kitchen had already dissolved into the strange, noisy version of normal that now existed at the farm. Carmen stood at the counter with Leah balanced against one hip, attempting to butter toast one-handed while the five-month-old repeatedly stretched toward the knife handle. “No,” Carmen told her daughter, moving it farther away.
Leah answered with an indignant grunt, then grabbed a fistful of Carmen’s shirt instead.
“At least that won’t cut you,” Carmen muttered.
At the kitchen table, Sebastian was bent over a sheet of paper, drawing something that appeared to contain an unreasonable number of fences, gates and what Brielle suspected might be defensive towers. Smudge sat beside him. Not beside the chair. On it. The little grey cat had apparently decided that Sebastian provided an excellent combination of warmth, food access and attention, and personal space was no longer something either of them required. Miranda sat cross-legged on the floor near the back door attempting to fasten a ribbon around Pip’s neck. Pip, being Pip, believed this was the greatest game anyone had ever invented. Toby sat beside them watching with an expression that suggested he was deeply concerned about the dignity of dogs everywhere. Maggie lay closer to the front door.
She had not moved in several minutes. She simply watched. Outside, Daisy bleated from the sheep pen. Clover answered. Then one of the chickens began loudly objecting to something. Several more immediately joined in. Brielle looked at the clock again. 8:03.
The mudroom door opened and Gareth entered carrying two empty feed buckets. He stopped after only a few steps. His eyes moved to Brielle. Then to the radio. Then back to Brielle. “How late?”
“Three minutes.”
Gareth nodded gravely. “Terrifying.”
Brielle glared at him. “Yesterday he was four minutes early.”
“Yesterday Elsie probably shoved him toward the radio.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“No,” Gareth agreed, setting the buckets down. “The point is that Walter survived thirty-eight years of marriage, several decades of farming and the end of civilisation, but three minutes might finally kill him.”
“Gareth.”
He held both hands up. “I’m stopping.” The radio crackled. Brielle snatched it up before the first complete word had even made it through the static.
“—orning, mother hen.”
“Walter.”
There was a short pause. Then Walter’s voice came back through the speaker. “Good morning to you too.”
“You’re late.” Across the kitchen, Gareth covered his mouth. Brielle pointed at him without looking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Walter heard him anyway. “Is that Gareth?”
“Yes.”
“I heard that.”
Brielle frowned. “You heard him not say anything?”
“I know his tone.”
Gareth stared at the radio. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
From somewhere behind Walter came Elsie’s voice. “I told you she would be waiting!” Walter muttered something Brielle couldn’t quite make out. Her shoulders finally loosened.
“Everything alright?”
“Fine.”
“Radio working?”
“Radio is working.”
“Then why were you late?”
Walter hesitated. “Chicken.”
Brielle blinked. Gareth slowly lowered himself into a chair. “What?”
“One of the hens got herself behind the feed bin.”
“Walter.”
“What? She was stuck.”
“Three minutes.”
“She didn’t have a clock.”
Elsie’s voice immediately cut through the background. “He forgot!”
“I did not forget!”
“You forgot!”
“I was dealing with the chicken!”
“You were drinking coffee!”
Gareth lowered his head onto the table. Sebastian started laughing. Even Brielle smiled. For a few seconds, it felt almost absurdly ordinary. Then Walter’s voice changed. “Had another one at the fence last night.” The humour vanished from the kitchen.
Brielle straightened. “One?”
“One.”
“Living?”
Walter was silent for half a beat. “No.”
“Did it get through?”
“No. Jasper started carrying on before it reached the fence. Beau joined in. I dealt with it.”
“With?”
“The axe.”
Brielle exhaled slowly. “Head?”
“I remembered.”
“And?”
There was another silence. “Didn’t enjoy it.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“No.”
Static whispered between them. Brielle looked through the kitchen window. Morning sunlight spilled across the farm, bright and deceptively peaceful. Maggie still lay near the door. Beyond the barn she could just make out Toby’s tail as he followed Miranda outside. Pip bounded after them with his usual complete lack of caution. Pumpkin had disappeared into the barn sometime before breakfast, where he had apparently declared war on every mouse within fifty acres. Mabel sat on one of the dining chairs as though she paid the mortgage. Midnight occupied the top of the refrigerator. Neither cat acknowledged the other. Their cold war was becoming increasingly impressive. “How’s Elsie?” Brielle asked.
“Meaner than ever.”
“I can hear you!”
Walter laughed. “The animals are fine too.”
“All forty-three chickens?”
“Forty-three.”
Brielle smiled. Miranda had remembered that number. Of course she had. “How’s Mildred?”
Walter groaned. Elsie answered instead. “Still alive. Still convinced she owns the place.”
“Good.”
Walter sounded personally offended. “Why are we specifically checking on Mildred now?”
“Because Miranda asked.”
“That child has priorities.”
“She does.”
Brielle leaned against the counter. “Eight tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t be late.”
Walter laughed. “You’ve given me a curfew.”
“Walter.”
“Eight o’clock.”
The connection clicked off. Gareth looked at Brielle. “You realise he’s going to be exactly three minutes late tomorrow just to annoy you.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“He absolutely would.”
Brielle picked up her coffee. “If he does, I’m going over there.”
Gareth smiled. “I know.”
---
By early afternoon, Gareth had turned half of Brielle’s dining table into what he insisted on calling a **map station**. Brielle called it a mess. County road maps overlapped one another beneath handwritten notes, pencil marks and rough sketches. Gareth had begun building a picture of the valley as it existed now rather than the way the printed maps claimed it did. Blocked roads. Abandoned vehicles.
Occupied farms. Places where they had seen the dead. Roads they no longer trusted. The Peterson property had been marked **LEFT — SISTER’S** after the note they had found there. Margaret Reed’s property had a small cross beside it. Brielle hadn’t asked Gareth to draw that. She hadn’t asked him to remove it either. Beside the map lay another piece of paper containing their rough description of the three trucks they had seen four days earlier.
**Three pickups.**
**Armed occupants.**
**Boxes.**
**Supplies.**
**A trailer.**
**Moving west.**
**Unknown.**
That final word had been underlined twice. Sebastian stood beside Gareth with both hands planted on the edge of the table. “What’s the red X?”
“Blocked road.”
“And the circle?”
“People.”
“That line?”
“Creek.”
“What about that?”
“Bridge.”
“That?”
“Another road.”
“That?”
Gareth closed his eyes.
Brielle walked past carrying a basket of clean tea towels. “He won’t stop.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Sebastian pointed again. “What about that?”
“Feed store.”
“Can we go there?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s close to Milltown.”
The excitement drained from Sebastian’s face. “Is Sheriff Ben still in Milltown?”
Brielle stopped. They hadn’t heard from Ben since he had come to the farm. She hated thinking about that. Hated even more that every passing day made the likely answers worse. “I don’t know.”
Sebastian looked down at the map. “He could’ve gone somewhere else.”
“He could have.”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“Yes.” That answer came more firmly. Because Ben did. Or had. Whatever the world had become, Brielle refused to decide he was dead simply because she couldn’t find him. Not yet. Smudge jumped onto Sebastian’s chair and immediately began sniffing one corner of the map.
Gareth moved it away. “No.”
Smudge reached for it. “No.”
Sebastian grinned. “She doesn’t listen.”
“Apparently nobody on this farm does.”
From the kitchen doorway Carmen called, “That’s because Brielle owns it.”
“Exactly,” Brielle said.
Gareth looked around at all of them. “I’m surrounded.”
“Yes.”
He sighed and returned to his map.
---
That evening, Gareth began scanning the radio. It had become routine now. AM. FM. Weather frequencies. Emergency channels. Anything that might still contain a human voice. Wren did not exist to them yet. Ben still hadn’t answered. Milltown remained a question none of them particularly wanted answered too clearly. Most channels gave them nothing. Static. Automated emergency instructions cycling endlessly for people who were no longer listening. Once, they had caught the voice of a man somewhere west of Madison begging anyone who could hear him to tell his wife he had tried to come home.
They never heard his name. They never heard him again. Tonight there was mostly static. Carmen sat at the kitchen table with Leah against her chest. The baby was sleepy but determined not to surrender, repeatedly rubbing her face against Carmen’s shirt before jerking herself awake again. Sebastian was working on something involving Walter’s dead radio. Brielle had told him he was absolutely not allowed to take it completely apart. Gareth had then shown him which screws to remove. Brielle had stared at Gareth. Gareth had claimed technical education was important. Miranda sat nearby brushing Mabel with a doll’s hairbrush. Mabel appeared to approve. Midnight did not. Outside, Maggie was on the porch. Toby and Pip were somewhere near the barn. The sheep had quietened. The chickens had settled. Brielle was snapping beans into a bowl when Gareth adjusted the radio dial again. Static. Nothing. He moved slowly backward. A hiss. A pop. Then—“...please...”
His hand stopped. Brielle looked up. “What was that?”
“Don’t know.”
Gareth turned the dial with extraordinary care. Static swallowed everything again. Then— “...anyone...”
Carmen lifted her head. “That’s a person.”
Gareth raised one finger. Everyone went quiet. Even Sebastian stopped moving. Static rolled through the kitchen. Then a voice broke through. Young. Female. Terrified. “...if anyone can hear me... please...” Brielle stood immediately. Gareth caught her wrist before she could reach the microphone. She looked down at his hand.
He released her at once. “Wait.”
“That’s a kid.”
“I know.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“To work out whether she’s alone.”
Brielle frowned. Carmen’s expression changed. She understood before Brielle did. “The trucks?”
Gareth nodded. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He lowered the volume slightly. “I’ve seen people use someone vulnerable beside a road. Someone young. Someone hurt. Someone frightened.”
Brielle stared at him. “As bait?”
“Yes.”
“To rob whoever stops?”
“Yes.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“People are desperate.”
“That doesn’t make it less disgusting.”
“No.”
Gareth’s expression remained serious. “It doesn’t.”
The voice returned. “...please... I’m at—” Static swallowed the location. “...they’re outside...” Then nothing.
Brielle looked at Gareth. “Still want to wait?”
“I want more information.” He picked up the microphone. “Unknown caller, this is—” He stopped. Brielle raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“I’m not giving her our location.”
“Good.”
Gareth looked mildly surprised. “I do listen occasionally.” Carmen snorted. Brielle ignored her. Gareth pressed the transmit button.
“Unknown caller, this is Gareth. We can hear you. Come back.”
Nothing. He waited. Tried again. “If you can hear me, don’t tell us exactly where you are yet. Tell me your name.” Static hissed from the speaker.
Then— “...Wren.”
Brielle exchanged a glance with Carmen. Gareth continued. “Wren, how old are you?”
A pause. “Seventeen.” Brielle’s stomach tightened. Not a child. Not really. But certainly not old enough to be alone in whatever remained of Wisconsin.
“Are you alone?” Gareth asked. Silence. Too long. Gareth noticed. So did Brielle. “Wren,” Gareth continued calmly, “are there any living people with you?”
“No.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Bitten?”
“No!” Too fast. Too frightened.
“Scratched?”
“No.”
“Do you have blood on you?”
Another pause. “Some. It’s not mine.”
Carmen looked toward Brielle. That would matter later. Gareth asked, “Who’s outside?”
“Them.”
“The dead?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
Wren’s breathing came through the speaker, shallow and uneven. “Six. Maybe.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
Brielle closed her eyes briefly. Of course. Gareth remained patient. “That’s alright. Where were you going?”
“North.”
“From where?”
“Milltown.”
The entire kitchen went still. Even Leah seemed to sense it. Brielle stepped closer to the radio. “You came from Milltown?”
Gareth glanced at her but didn’t stop her.
Wren answered. “Yesterday.”
Brielle’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “What happened there?”
Static crackled. Then Wren said quietly, “It’s gone.”
Carmen looked down at Leah. Sebastian slowly raised his head. Brielle thought of Ben. Tom. The diner. The grocery shop. The school. The library. People she had passed a hundred times without ever learning their names. “What does that mean?” Brielle asked.
“People are dead.” Wren swallowed loudly enough that the radio carried the sound. “Lots.” Brielle stared at Gareth’s map. Ben’s name wasn’t written anywhere on it. She was suddenly grateful for that.
Gareth took over again. “Wren, forget Milltown for a minute. Focus on where you are.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.” His voice softened.
“What can you see?”
There was a pause. “A building.”
“What sort?”
“Old.”
Brielle rolled her eyes. Gareth ignored her. “Anything written on it?”
“No.”
“Road?”
“Yes.”
“Paved?”
“Mostly.”
“Anything else?”
Wren did not answer for several seconds. Then— “A tower.”
Gareth leaned closer to the radio. “What kind?”
“Water tower.”
“Can you see writing?”
“I can’t see all of it.”
“Try.”
The static suddenly seemed enormous. Everyone waited. Then Wren said, “...field.”
Gareth immediately dragged the map closer. “Fairfield?”
“No.”
“Greenfield?”
“Maybe.”
Brielle leaned over the map and pointed. “The old Greenfield feed depot.”
Gareth looked up. “You know it?”
“I went past it when I was buying fencing.”
“How far?” He traced the road.
“Six miles.”
“Seven.”
“Close enough.”
The radio crackled again. “Are you coming?”
Brielle reached for the microphone. Gareth caught her wrist. Again. She glared at him. He sighed. Then nodded. Brielle pressed the button. “Yes, Wren.”
Carmen stood. Brielle looked at her. Carmen pointed at the radio. Then at Brielle. “No.”
“Carmen.”
“We have had this conversation.”
“And apparently we’re having it again.”
“You have two children.”
“I’m aware.”
“And there’s Leah.”
“Yes.”
“And you keep leaving.”
“Twice.”
“Twice too many.”
Brielle looked toward Sebastian and Miranda. Sebastian was watching her. Not frightened exactly. But old enough now to understand what leaving the farm meant. Miranda looked between the adults.
From the radio came Wren’s quiet voice. “Please.”
Brielle closed her eyes for one second. Margaret had written four words on a notepad before leaving her home. **GO TO BRIELLE?** That woman had crossed miles while dying because, somewhere in the confused remains of her mind, Brielle’s farm had meant help. Brielle still didn’t know whether Margaret had reached the gate as herself. She never would. But she knew what they had found at Margaret’s homestead. Animals waiting. Food preserved. A spinning wheel beside wool prepared for hands that would never touch it again. A woman who had opened her door because someone was injured. That choice had killed Margaret. It still didn’t make helping wrong.
It made the world dangerous. There was a difference. Brielle looked at Carmen. “I can’t hear someone asking for help and do nothing.”
“I know.”
Carmen looked furious about it. “Which is incredibly inconvenient.”
Brielle smiled faintly. “I’ll bring her back.”
Carmen’s expression sharpened. “You don’t know that.”
Brielle stopped. A month earlier she would have promised. She would have told everyone it would be alright because that was what adults said when children were listening. She didn’t do that anymore. “No.” Her voice was quieter. “I don’t.”
She glanced toward the radio. “But I’ll try.”
Carmen held her gaze. Then nodded once. “Better.”
Sebastian stood. “Can I come?”
“No.”
His mouth opened. Brielle cut him off gently. “I need you here.”
“To help Carmen?”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward Leah. Then Miranda. Then the dogs outside. “Everything?”
Brielle smiled. “Everything.”
Sebastian nodded. “Okay, Mum.”
Miranda stepped forward. "Are you bringing another person home?”
Brielle looked toward Gareth. Gareth looked at the ceiling. “Maybe.”
Miranda considered this. “Tell her we have sheep.”
“I’ll make sure that’s the first thing I say.”
“And chickens.”
“Miranda—”
“And cats.”
“Yes.”
“And dogs.”
“I’m going now.”
Miranda nodded. “Okay.”
---
They took the pickup. This time, they needed speed. Gareth drove. Brielle hated that. “You know this is my truck.”
“You know I’m better at driving while you’re staring at the map.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You almost drove into a ditch looking at a road sign.”
“One time.”
“Four days ago.”
Brielle looked at him.
“Drive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The valley looked worse than it had even on September seventh. There were more abandoned cars now. More doors left hanging open. More fields beginning to sag beneath work nobody was doing.
At one farmhouse, a child’s bicycle lay on its side near the end of the driveway. No child. No people. Nothing. Smoke rose somewhere toward Milltown. Thin and grey. Gareth didn’t comment on it.
Neither did Brielle. They passed three walkers on the road. A woman. A teenage boy. An older man. Gareth steered around them without slowing more than necessary. Brielle watched them shrink in the side mirror. She didn’t recognise any of them. She was grateful. That disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. Not that she didn’t know them. That she had become grateful when the dead were strangers. The Greenfield water tower appeared first. Then the old feed depot. They heard the dead before they saw them. Low moans. Scratching. Something striking metal. Over. And over. And over. Gareth pulled the truck behind a line of trees where it could not immediately be seen from the road. “Six,” Brielle whispered.
“That’s what she saw.”
Brielle checked her pistol. “No guns unless we need them.”
“Agreed.” Gareth reached into the truck bed and handed her a long-handled hammer.
She stared at it. “What?”
“Quieter.”
“I know why.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I’ve never killed one with a hammer.”
Gareth’s expression softened. “You don’t have to.”
Brielle looked toward the depot. Then thought of Margaret at her gate. The first shot. The second. How little she had understood then. She took the hammer. “Yes.” Her fingers closed tightly around the handle. “I do.” There were eight walkers. Not six. Eight. One wandered near the front door. Three drifted close to the road. Four moved around one side of the depot, repeatedly drawn toward whatever noise or movement came from inside. Brielle crouched beside Gareth behind an old fence line. “She said six.”
“She couldn’t see all of them.”
“She also said they’re outside.”
“She was right about that.”
Brielle stared at the building.
“Plan?”
Gareth scanned the ground. Then he noticed an old metal drum lying half on its side in the grass. He picked up a stone. “Noise.” He threw. **CLANG.** Every walker turned. Brielle stared. Gareth picked up another stone. **CLANG.** The dead began moving toward the drum. Slowly. Awkwardly. All of them pulled toward the same sound. Brielle watched. “That easy?”
“No.”
“It looks easy.”
“Wait.”
One walker stopped. Its head shifted. Then it turned back toward the building. It began moving toward the side window again. Gareth sighed. “There is always one.” They moved behind the building. Gareth came up behind it. One swing of the hatchet. The walker dropped. Brielle stared at the body. Four days earlier she had watched Gareth do the same at Walter’s fence. It was beginning to look routine. She wasn’t sure anything about this should ever feel routine. They reached the rear door.
Brielle knocked quietly. “Wren?” Nothing. “Wren, it’s Brielle. We spoke on the radio.” Something scraped inside. Then silence.
Then— “Prove it.”
Brielle blinked. Gareth smiled. “I like her already.”
Brielle ignored him. “You said you could see part of a water tower.” Silence. “You thought there were six outside.” A pause. “There were eight, by the way.”
“I couldn’t see all of them.”
“Fair.”
Brielle heard locks moving. One. Then another. The door opened perhaps three inches. One eye appeared. Then part of a face. Seventeen. Filthy. Exhausted. Dark shadows beneath both eyes.
She held a tyre iron in both hands. “Which one’s Gareth?”
Brielle pointed. “Him.”
Wren looked at Gareth. “You sound older on the radio.”
Gareth’s expression became deeply offended.
Brielle laughed. “I definitely like her.”
“We need to go,” Gareth said. The walkers near the drum were already beginning to drift away from the sound. Wren opened the door wider. She had a backpack. A radio. And a small toolbox. Brielle stared at the toolbox. “You carried that through Milltown?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My tools.”
“Leave it.”
“No.”
“Wren.”
“No.”
Brielle stopped. She knew that tone. She had used it herself often enough. “Fine. Give it to me.” Wren hesitated before handing it over. Brielle nearly dropped it. “What the hell is in this?”
“Tools.”
“Yes. We’ve established that.” They moved quickly toward the truck. They nearly made it. A walker appeared from behind an abandoned car. Too close. Wren froze. Brielle didn’t. She swung the hammer.
Missed. The walker lurched toward her. Brielle stumbled backward. Then swung again. The metal head struck the side of its skull. It dropped onto one knee. Still moving. Still reaching. Brielle struck it again. Harder. The body collapsed. This time, it stayed down. Brielle stood over it. Her breathing came too fast. Her hands shook around the hammer. Gareth appeared beside her.
“You alright?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
Wren stared at Brielle. “You killed it.”
Brielle looked at her. “Yes.”
“You don’t look like someone who kills things.”
Brielle looked down at the hammer. Then back at Wren. “I make goat cheese.” Wren blinked. Gareth burst out laughing. “Truck. Now.”
---
They reached the farm before dark. Carmen was already waiting behind the locked gate. Maggie stood beside her. Toby and Pip waited farther back near the porch, both alert. Sebastian had Miranda behind him. Not exactly hiding. But clearly following the rule about staying back from the gate. Something tightened in Brielle’s chest. Good. They had listened. Gareth got out first. “She’s clean as far as we can tell.”
Carmen did not touch the lock. “Bitten?”
Wren shook her head. “No.”
“Scratched?”
“No.”
“Blood?”
“Some.”
Carmen’s eyes narrowed. “Whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not yours?”
“No.”
“Take your jacket off.”
Wren stared at her. Brielle almost smiled. “Do it.”
Wren removed the jacket. Carmen visually checked her arms. “Shirt up enough to show your waist.” Wren looked at Brielle again. Brielle nodded. “We all do it.”
Wren obeyed. No bite. No scratch. Carmen looked toward Gareth. “Trouser legs.” Wren rolled them high enough for Carmen to inspect. Still clear. Carmen finally stepped back. Only then did she open the gate. Wren looked at Brielle. “Is it always like this?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Brielle smiled. “Welcome to the farm.”
Maggie approached first. Slowly. Head low. Watching Wren. Wren froze. “Does she bite?”
“Only if she has a reason.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“Maggie’s new too.”
The shepherd mix sniffed Wren’s hand. Then stepped away. Toby arrived next with considerably less dignity. Pip followed immediately, because anything Toby did was obviously worth doing. Wren suddenly had two dogs investigating her shoes. “What are they doing?”
“Judging you.”
“Are they?”
“No. They’re deciding whether you have food.”
Wren looked down. “I don’t.”
Pip remained optimistic. Miranda appeared. She stared at Wren. Wren stared back. “Are you staying?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Gareth said that.”
From behind them Gareth called, “I did not.”
“Yes, you did,” Sebastian replied.
Miranda studied Wren for another moment. Then pointed toward the rear paddock. “We have sheep.” Wren looked. Daisy was visible near the fence. Clover had somehow managed to put her head through a section she absolutely should not have been able to get her head through.
“Oh.”
“And chickens.”
“I can see.”
“Not all of them.”
Wren looked concerned. “There are more?”
“Lots.”
Brielle closed her eyes.
“Miranda.”
“And three cats that were Margaret’s.”
“Miranda.”
“And two dogs.”
“Those are the dogs.”
“No. Maggie and Pip were Margaret’s. Toby was ours.”
Wren looked helplessly toward Brielle. Brielle smiled. “You’re on your own.” Miranda took Wren’s hand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“To meet the chickens.”
“I don’t think—”
“You need to know them.”
“Why?”
Miranda stared at her as though the answer could not possibly be more obvious. “Because you live here now.” Wren stopped. The words landed harder than Miranda could possibly understand. Brielle saw it. So did Carmen. Miranda didn’t. She simply tried to pull Wren another step. Brielle intervened gently. “Miranda, let her eat first.”
Miranda sighed dramatically. “Fine.” Then she looked at Wren. “But after dinner.”
---
Wren ate stew at the kitchen table. Slowly at first. Then faster. Then so quickly that Brielle began wondering when she had last eaten a proper meal. Carmen silently added another ladleful. Wren looked at the bowl. Then at Carmen. Carmen shrugged. “You can complain or you can eat.”
Wren ate.
Sebastian sat opposite her. Smudge had settled into his lap. Mabel watched from the doorway. Midnight occupied the stairs. No progress had been made in diplomatic relations. Outside, Brielle occasionally heard Toby and Pip racing across the yard. Maggie did not bark. Brielle had learned that when Maggie made noise, it mattered. Gareth picked up Wren’s radio and turned it slowly over in his hands. “This is good.”
Wren glanced up. “I fixed it.”
Gareth looked at her. “You fixed this?”
“It was broken.”
“What was wrong?”
“Capacitor first.”
She swallowed another spoonful. “Then the antenna connection was crap.”
Gareth looked toward Brielle. Brielle smiled. “Useful?”
“Very.”
Wren immediately stiffened. It was subtle. But Brielle saw it. The spoon stopped halfway to the bowl. Her shoulders tightened. Her eyes sharpened. Value. Usefulness. Payment. Brielle understood that too. “You don’t have to earn your dinner.”
Wren lowered the spoon. “I can work.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“I don’t want charity.”
Brielle almost laughed. Walter. Carmen. Now Wren. Apparently nobody left alive wanted to receive anything without paying for it. “Fine.”
She pointed toward the radio. “Tomorrow you can show Gareth what you know.”
Wren relaxed slightly. Then her attention moved toward the power monitor mounted near the pantry. “What is that?”
“Battery monitor.”
Wren stared at it. “Battery?”
“Farm batteries.”
Her eyes sharpened. “You have solar?”
Brielle smiled. “Some.”
“Can I see?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Carmen pointed toward the bowl. “Because you’re eating.”
“I can eat later.”
“Sit.”
Wren sat. Gareth looked away to hide his grin. Brielle continued. “The main system was professionally installed. I’ve added some things since.”
Wren looked toward the window. “Where are the panels?”
“Not something we advertise after dark.”
Understanding immediately crossed Wren’s face.
“People see them.”
“Yes.”
“Then they know you have power.” Brielle and Gareth exchanged a look. That was exactly the sort of thinking they needed. “Tomorrow,” Brielle repeated.
Wren nodded. This time she didn’t argue.
---
Much later, after the children had gone to bed and the animals had settled, Brielle moved quietly through the farmhouse. One final check. Front door. Back door. Windows. Blackout curtains. Radio.
Camera monitor. Maggie slept near the front door but opened one eye as Brielle passed. Toby had somehow ended up halfway into Miranda’s bed. Pip slept beneath it. Sebastian was asleep with Smudge curled near his feet. Midnight occupied the landing. Mabel had reclaimed the kitchen chair. Somewhere outside, Pumpkin was probably murdering something. Daisy and Clover were quiet. Both groups of chickens had settled into their nighttime routine. The farm felt full. Not crowded. Not yet. But full. Brielle found Wren asleep on the sofa. Not beneath the blanket. On top of it. Shoes still on. Backpack beneath her head. Toolbox beside one hand. Ready to leave. Ready to run. Brielle stood there for several seconds. She had once slept like that. Not exactly. But close enough. Never fully settled.
Never completely unpacked. Always knowing which bag mattered. Always knowing what she would grab first. Always listening for the change in someone’s footsteps that meant it was time to move.
The farm had eventually taught Brielle to stop. Wren hadn’t learned that yet. Brielle picked up another blanket and laid it carefully over her. Wren’s eyes opened instantly. Sharp.
Terrified. Her hand shot toward the toolbox. “It’s okay.”
Wren stared at Brielle. “Where’s my radio?”
“Kitchen table.”
“Toolbox?”
“Beside you.”
Wren looked. Only then did some of the tension leave her body. “You don’t have to sleep in your shoes.”
“Yes, I do.”
Brielle paused. Then nodded. “Okay.” No argument. No lecture. Some things couldn’t be taken away from someone before they were ready to give them up. Brielle turned. “Brielle?”
She stopped. Wren pushed herself a little higher against the arm of the sofa. “Why did you come?”
The question was so quiet Brielle almost pretended she hadn’t heard it. Instead, she leaned against the doorway. “Because you asked.”
Wren frowned. “That’s it?”
Brielle thought about Walter. About Elsie. About Carmen arriving with Leah. About Gareth walking down the road because he had nowhere else to go. About Margaret’s notepad. **GO TO BRIELLE?**
About Maggie and Pip sleeping safely here. About Mabel and Pumpkin and Smudge. About Daisy and Clover. Ten extra chickens settling into a new flock. Rows of jam jars in the cellar. Seeds waiting for spring. A spinning wheel sitting in the workshop because Walter had said that if they didn’t know how to use it, they could learn. People were leaving pieces of themselves at Brielle’s farm now. Sometimes because they chose to. Sometimes because there was nowhere else for those pieces to go. She looked at the seventeen-year-old curled around a toolbox because it apparently contained the things she trusted most in the world. “No.” Brielle smiled faintly. “But it’s enough for tonight.”
Wren didn’t answer. Brielle switched off the lamp. Behind the blackout curtains, the farmhouse disappeared into the darkness. Seven people slept beneath its roof. Brielle. Sebastian. Miranda. Carmen. Leah. Gareth. And now Wren. Outside were three dogs. Four cats. Two sheep. More chickens than Brielle wanted to count at eleven o’clock at night. A barn full of tools. A workshop holding Margaret Reed’s spinning wheel and wool. A cellar containing jars prepared by hands that would never open them. The solar panels gathered nothing beneath the night sky, but the batteries quietly carried the house. The gate remained locked. The cameras watched. The world beyond them continued disappearing. Brielle checked the monitor one last time. Nothing on the road. Nothing at the fence. Nothing moving beyond the fields. For tonight, everyone who had reached her door was safe. A family wasn’t quite the right word. Not yet. Maybe it wasn’t something people decided anyway. Maybe family was simply what remained after enough people stopped running. Brielle looked toward the darkened living room where Wren slept with her shoes still on. The farm had once been somewhere Brielle had fled **to**. Then it had become home. Then Margaret’s animals and work had found their way through its gates. Then Gareth. Now Wren. Every person who arrived changed it. Every animal changed it.
Every jar, seed, radio, tool and story added another thread. The farm was becoming less like the hiding place Brielle had once desperately needed... and more like something else. A refuge. Somewhere in the quiet house, the radio gave a tiny burst of static. Just one crackle. Then silence. Brielle looked at it. A few hours earlier, one frightened voice had travelled through that static and asked if anyone could hear her. Someone had. For tonight, that had been enough.
TBC
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