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Cans

By: Christy Davis

By Christy DavisPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
1

The wind pierced through Hannah's tattered shall as she made her way through the snowy forest at the crack of dawn. Just two more miles, she thought to herself. Just two.

A gust tore through the trees above her, whistling eerily and sending snow down on her head. She shivered as the cold powder melted and dripped down the back of her neck, another burst of wind freezing it against her skin.

Just two.

She saw the barn long before she reached it. It was set on top of the next hill, surrounded by an overgrown clearing that must have once been a patch of grazing land. She still had one more mile to go, down a steep and unforgiving slope and up a snowy hill on the other side. One slip in her slick, leather shoes and she was sure to injure herself, careening into a tree. No one would find her until it was too late, and the cold had overtaken her.

She hugged her arms tightly to her body, standing at the top of the hill. She could barely see the start of the day's sun peeking out in the sky far beyond. One foot over the edge, and she was committed.

She navigated the hill sideways, trying to move her hands from tree to tree for balance. She slid slightly into each step, making little mounds of snow against her leading ankle that tipped into her shoe. She knew the way, but the light, fresh snowfall obscured the path she had forged before.

Her hands froze with the exposure to the moist, frigid air. She pressed them into the bark, which was a little less cold than the air itself. This did little to improve their whiteness, made even worse from the fear pumping through her veins.

The snow was so soft that it made no noise under her feet. She was grateful that it had not been more than an inch. Suddenly, she saw a fast blur fly right past her feet that almost caused her to trip. She jumped, startled, and lost her right footing, then threw herself onto her knees to prevent herself from tumbling down the hill. Her knee landed hard on a barely-concealed rock, and she cried out in pain. Quickly, she clamped a hand over her mouth. She doubted there was anybody this deep in the woods at this early hour, but a lone, injured, frightened woman was never a a safe thing to be.

She straightened up, reaffirming her grip on the nearest tree, and winced to find that she could hardly straighten her knee. She could still put pressure on it--perhaps the cold helped with that--and by darn, she was going to have to.

She stepped off the bottom of the hill gingerly, taking care not to let the momentum cause her to run away on her injured leg, and started the climb the last hill. Going uphill was easier, and this hill was much less steep, meaning that the way down would be easier, too--that was good, since she would be carrying as much of a bundle as she could manage.

She dug her heels in deeply with each step and looked for rocks peeking out from the snow for footholds. She tested each step before putting her weight fully into it, lest she be surprised by a loose stone or a hole.

The short, final stretch of the hill was the steepest, and as much as it was easier going uphill than having the entire force of gravity pressing down on her swollen right knee joint, she still felt the pressure building as the incline grew. She leaned her body weight so far forward that she was practically kissing the snow with her knees. The cold felt almost a relief next to her inflamed skin. She plunged her hands into the snow in front of her to the climb up the rest of the hill. Her hands were beyond wet now and white as ice, and the snow burned her skin. Still, the weight transfer took a bit of pressure off of her knee.

At the top of the hill, she stood at the edge of the clearing and a burst of wind assaulted her, seemingly from all sides. She had no protection and the wind skirted through every crevice in her thin garments. Still, she saw the old barn only a few feet in front of her, and she was filled with hope, pride, and an abstract sense of warmth.

She tucked her hands deep under her armpits and trudged forward. The snow had piled higher and packed itself denser up here, given that there was no slope's gravity to cause runoff. It reached her ankles easily, filling her shoes with more wet powder and numbing her ankle bones and toes. She hardly felt it. She reached the wooden door of the barn, long since beat and broken, and pushed it open.

Inside was silence, and dark. She knew where to go. The wood did not smell of smoke, but she was sure it would have had she been here when it had first burned. The air would have been ripe with the ashy cent of kindling and flame. The stalls had been gutted, the hay destroyed, and all but a few feed sacks must have been torched. Hannah found evidence of some tattered sack remains, which she figured some wild animals had ravaged years ago.

But she was not interested in animal feed. Her family had long since been too poor to afford a sheep or a chicken of their own. In here was something much more valuable. She walked straight to the stairs that led to the loft above and turned underneath them instead. This side of the barn had been remarkably untouched by the fire. The owners had most likely put out the fire while it burned on the other side, evacuated their animals, and left the rickety building to its fate. They had cleared out the other buildings as well, a cottage and a chicken coop; Hannah had long since inspected both for treasures and found them empty. Looking around at the burnt rafters, she could see why they wouldn't have risked coming back in here for anything else.

In the farthest recess under the stairs, she found the hole in the packed earth. She reached down and all the way into the back of the hole, and she pulled out a can.

Decades-old something. It didn't matter what it was. It was food. It was meant for humans, and more than likely, it has survived all these years. She picked up another and shoved them into her sack. The last time she had come here, she had only brought home the cans she could carry in her arms, but this time, she had planned ahead.

Twelve cans. They would have no way of knowing what was inside them until they were opened, but at any rate, they would fetch a healthy price. She reached into the back of the hole once again and felt around with her hand as far as she could. Finally, she climbed into the hole to double-check that she had not missed a single tin. There was nothing left. She had twelve cans in her sack, and she was going home.

Another gust of wind burst open the door and howled and whistled in the cracks of the building. It darted through the empty windows and straight through Hannah's body. She looked up, squinting against the blast. The barn door slammed closed and open again, whacking against the wood of the doorway. The barn creaked, and she swore she could see it bending. A split-second of investigation, and she knew she had to get out of there. Now.

She climbed out from under the stairs, putting her sack strap around her shoulder. She had to go to the doorway all the way on the other side of the barn, underneath the most treacherous part of the roof and past the fragile walls in order to go through it. She briefly considered waiting until that part of the barn fell, but she knew it was foolish. The half of the barn she was under would surely become unstable and tumble right down after the first one.

The door slammed closed again, as if it was an omen that she would not be able to escape. The roof creaked and she heard the loud snap before she saw the crack in the rafters above the door develop. She ran for it. Her sack banged against her body, cans bulging out of the bag slamming into her ribcage. Her knee ached, but hardly noticed. She had to get to the door.

The wall was falling down toward the left of the door. She hardly had time to look up before she felt the roof shedding bits and pieces of its wood around her. The rafter was cracking more now, and a second later it snapped in two. She was halfway across the barn. The roof caved in at the left, bringing the middle down with it and destabilizing the right side. She ran. She hugged the cans tightly to herself and ran. She thought she wasn't going to make it. The wood above the door seemed to cave in in slow motion she bolted towards it, knowing there is no way out but under. Showers of dust and wood chips fell on her head, and a large piece of rafter fell right in front of her feet. She almost tripped over it, but somehow in her inertia and fright managed to leap instead. Two more paces towards the door. One.

The door collapsed.

Hannah heard the crash and felt the ground shake as pieces of wood and debris fell all around her, hitting her head, her arms, her face. She closed her eyes tightly, rooted to the spot in terror. She heard a great crash and felt the gush of disrupted air as the barn's last legs fell, toppling the barn into a huge heap of wood, debris, and ash. The noise quieted, though she still swore she could hear the rumbling echoing on the hills.

It occurred to her that she could still hear anything at all. She opened her eyes. She was two steps outside of the barn. She turned. Burnt wood, snow, and dust mingled in a terrifying site, a great pile that would have fallen right on top of her. She wondered how she had dared to go into that barn at all, or what she would have done had she known that it was about to collapse. Would she have still made sure she had grabbed every can? Or would she have tried to grab one and then they made a run for it? She clutched the cans tightly to her body. This was her family's way out.

They would buy a chick with these cans. By spring, the chick would be grown and almost ready to lay eggs, perhaps even breed. They could sell the eggs for almost fifteen cents each--the chicks, for who knows how much--and they would make it.

She looked down at the hill in front of her, the steep place that had seemed so daunting to her sore knee and freezing hands only minutes ago. Now, it seems a trifle. She took one more look behind her, the dust settling and leaving an unknowing and peaceful clearing once again. She stepped one foot on to a flat foothold beneath her and started making her way down.

Short Story
1

About the Creator

Christy Davis

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