Chapter 4 – The Forgotten Field
The field was quiet.
Tall weeds swayed in the breeze, brushing against the cracked concrete like ocean grass against a reef. Once, this land had been rich with rows of corn and wheat. Now it stood forgotten—overgrown, choked, and yet… not lifeless.
Leah stood at the edge of the slab, brushing away moss with her boot. Beneath the green, a rusted hatch creaked into view. She knelt beside it, brushing her gloved hand across its face. The latch resisted, then gave way with a groan, revealing a stairwell that descended into cool darkness.
She had found it—the seed vault.
For weeks, she had followed rumors and hand-drawn maps, whispers from the remaining farmers, scavengers, and travelers. A vault hidden beneath an old research plot outside Columbus. A place that stored the memory of crops long before the world caught fire.
She descended carefully, flashlight flickering against the curved concrete walls. The air was dry. Clean. Protected.
And below, she found what she had hoped for.
Rows of sealed containers lined the vault walls—labeled with careful handwriting and aging stickers. Cherokee White Corn. Black Valentine Beans. Brandywine Tomato. Glass Gem Popcorn. Some jars were no larger than her palm. Others were wrapped in wax paper and linen, stored in carved wooden boxes marked with simple hand-drawn symbols.
She moved slowly through the rows, her fingers tracing the names. These were not just plants. They were memories. Lives.
A soft creak echoed from the stairwell above.
Leah froze.
A silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by afternoon sun. The figure carried a satchel and a walking stick, with a wide-brimmed hat shading their face.
“Didn’t expect company,” the figure said gently. Their voice was calm. Measured. “But you found it fair and square.”
Leah stepped back cautiously. “Who are you?”
The figure descended a few steps and tipped the hat back to reveal a young woman—perhaps late twenties—with sun-tanned skin and clear gray eyes. Her braid was tied with twine, and her clothes were hand-sewn, well-kept.
“Name’s Clara,” she said. “Been tending this vault for a while now. Collecting from the communities up north.”
Leah blinked. “The Amish?”
Clara nodded. “The ones who stayed. Most went quiet. But some kept their seeds and stories. I’ve been trading for what I can.”
She stepped farther into the vault, her hand resting gently on one of the shelves. “I travel between towns—walking when I have to, bartering when I can. I trade seeds for bread, stories for water. Some people give me food just to hear about the seeds I carry. About the people who grew them, and the storms they survived.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, cloth-bound notebook. “I keep a journal. I write down where each seed came from, who gave it to me, and what they told me about its past. Some strains came across the ocean with great-grandparents. Others were saved during the Dust Bowl, or hidden in closets when farms were sold off.”
She opened the book to a page filled with neat handwriting and small drawings of leaves. “This one,” she said, tapping it, “is Aunt Frida’s pole bean. She said it was the only thing her grandfather would eat at the end. She saved it after the power went out. Planted them in old washtubs on the roof of her apartment. She gave me a pouch in exchange for some Red Fife wheat.”
Leah stepped closer, looking over Clara’s shoulder at the pages.
“You’re keeping more than just seeds,” she said softly. “You’re keeping a whole people.”
Clara gave a quiet nod. “The stories are what matter most. You can always grow more beans. But if no one remembers where they came from, they’re just food. Not memory.”
Leah nodded, deeply moved.
Clara smiled and walked farther in, her boots silent on the concrete floor. “Most folks just take what they want and leave. You’re the first one I’ve seen who looked like she was saying thank you.”
Leah nodded. “Because this isn’t just food. This is history.”
Clara reached into her satchel and pulled out a packet wrapped in beeswax cloth. “Here. Heirloom cabbage from Holmes County. Grown without chemicals. Saved for five generations.”
Leah took it carefully. “Why give it to me?”
“Because you came for the right reason,” Clara said. “And because I can’t keep walking alone. Too much weight, not enough story.”
Leah looked at her for a long moment. Then she smiled. “You said you’ve been trading. Do you have a map?”
Clara tapped her head. “Better. I remember the turns.”
Leah nodded slowly. “Then maybe it’s time to share the load. I’ve been planning to head southeast—Route 64.”
Clara’s expression brightened. “Toward the Shenandoah?”
Leah nodded again. “They say the rivers there still run clean. And the land remembers how to grow.”
Clara extended a hand. “Then let’s walk it together.”
The two women climbed back into the sunlight, the vault door closing behind them with a metallic thud that echoed like the end of a chapter—and the beginning of another.
Together, they began their journey along the old highway—toward the mountains, the river valley, and a future that still had room for memory to bloom.
The two women climbed back into the sunlight, the vault door closing behind them with a metallic thud that echoed like the end of a chapter—and the beginning of another.
They spent the rest of the day packing their backpacks, selecting only what they could carry. From the vault’s many shelves, they chose the rarest and most resilient varieties—strains that had survived drought, flood, and fire. Seeds that had passed from hand to hand like sacred gifts.
Clara took the time to portion out a small amount from each of her personal samples—just enough to plant again, just enough to share.
“We leave some here,” she said, tucking wax-sealed envelopes back onto the shelves, “in case someone else needs them.”
Leah nodded, placing a copy of Clara’s journal notes into a sealed pouch. “And we carry what we can.”
By nightfall, their packs were full—not just with seeds, but with stories. With the memory of soil and sweat, with the names of people who had kept these treasures alive when everything else was falling apart.
Clara took the time to portion out a small amount from each of her personal samples—just enough to plant again, just enough to share.
“We leave some here,” she said, tucking wax-sealed envelopes back onto the shelves, “in case someone else needs them.”
Leah nodded, placing a copy of Clara’s journal notes into a sealed pouch. “And we carry what we can.”
When they stepped out into the fading light, they didn’t head east—not yet.
Instead, they turned south, toward the last patchwork of fields and fences held by the old Amish farms that still dotted the land between Columbus and the hills near Louisville, Kentucky. The route would take them through quiet stretches of countryside, where horse-drawn wagons still rolled past solar panels hidden under barn roofs, and simple clothes masked complicated deals.
Their goal was to pick up the trail near Route 64, cross into the Shenandoah Valley, and eventually reach the mountains. But first, they’d walk through lands held together by habit and trade, where rumors whispered of holdout communities—ones untouched by the fires, but not untouched by the Beast.
What they didn’t know yet was that these farms were different.
They kept their buggies and plain dress, yes—but they had bartered something deeper for security. These farmers, bound by tradition, now served a darker order—providing food to the cities along the eastern coast still under the control of the Beast.
The signs would come slowly: the perfectly uniform corn, the chemical smell drifting from rusted tanks, the strange silence in the eyes of children.
For now, though, Leah and Clara walked with purpose, carrying the past in their packs and hope in their hearts.
They would learn soon enough what still grew in the fields ahead—and what it had cost.
American Prophet 