"Freedom Farm" Chapter 13

Dawn brought no comfort, only a cold slap that reached through the wool and rattled bones. Frost bit deep into the ground, each hoofstep echoing like cracking glass. At first light, animals filed from the barn ruins, heads low, ribs visible through patchy coats. The smoke smell clung to everything, but even that beat the wet rot of old straw now frozen to their flanks.

Sheep came first, single file and silent, goats trailing behind in a cluster. The cows, forced to sleep outdoors, lumbered in last, eyes hollow. At the yard’s center, beneath the standing silo’s shadow, the new feeding station waited - salvaged troughs and a battered blue drum marked, in crooked paint, UNITY FEED.

Boss Rudd’s Security Committee claimed the prime spots, forming a wool wall, coats gleaming in sun, each red scarf tied sharp. Behind them, fresh Unity volunteers - plumper than any animal should be after the fire - hauled buckets of morning rations. The Committee received the best hay, fluffed and fragrant. The rest got last year’s silage mash, mildewed grain, and scraps left after cows picked it clean.

Fancy Pants stood near the line’s back, three sheep behind Bruce and Frankie, who bounced on toes to fight the cold. He watched Unity staffers dole portions: double scoops for Security rams, a handful for goats, half that for everyone else. Each time the trough neared empty, a Committee sheep scooped dregs into a side bucket - for the next batch of loyalists, no doubt.

Regular sheep suffered. The oldest ones swayed on weak legs, noses gray, eyes red-rimmed. The few remaining lambs shivered, coats thin from molts interrupted by cold. Even Bruce had lost weight: his cheekbones jutted, and his brow patch stretched like a scar.

The line moved in silence. Wind and bucket clinks against troughs broke the quiet. When the crowd reached the feeding station, the division was clear. Unity sheep - rosy, full, soft - oversaw everything, never breaking formation except to whisper to Security rams.

Bleatrix Spinn handled the main scoop. Her wool had grown since the barn fire, silver in sun, clean as her birth day. She kept her head down, but her eyes tracked each animal, cataloguing them like Chester Gilt counted heads at tax time. When sheep failed to stand straight or took extra rations, she clicked her tongue and marked her clipboard.

Fancy Pants kept his head low but saw the others shuffle through. Near the front, a young lamb wobbled, knees buckled, then collapsed in straw. The line continued. Security rams watched, unmoved. Whitney broke from her place, rushed to the lamb, lifted it with her nose, held it until it stood. She whispered comfort but had no extra food to offer. She gave a mouthful from her own share.

Janet watched from the silo’s cold side. She never ate with others but appeared when things went wrong. Her eyes fixed on Whitney, then the lamb, then Bleatrix, who recorded the incident and continued.

Bruce and Frankie, stuck behind an aging wether and yearling goats, muttered.

“Last year we’d eat the good hay by now,” Bruce said, too soft for the Committee but loud enough for Frankie. “Now we get sweepings.”

Frankie snorted. “Guess the wall mattered more than food. Too bad you can’t eat security.”

Bruce grinned, lips cracked. “Rudd does. He eats security and shits paranoia.”

Fancy Pants tried not to laugh, but the sound escaped, a brief bark. Bleatrix heard. Her head snapped up, eyes locked on him.

“Fancy Pants,” she said, voice syrupy but hard. “Did you want to share your thoughts with the group?”

He stiffened. “No, ma’am.”

She studied him, then portioned his share with theatrical care. When he reached the front, Bleatrix gave him a single scoop - enough to fill his palm and nothing more.

“Troublemakers get troublemaker rations,” she said, loud for the yard. “You want more, you earn it.”

The Security rams smiled, faces smug and clean.

Fancy Pants took his bowl and stepped aside. He watched Unity staff refill the Committee trough, heaping it high, then scraping the bottom for the next batch of regular sheep.

Behind him, Bruce and Frankie debated sneaking into the storage shed after dark. “If we get caught, Rudd’ll hang us from the silo,” Bruce said, but laughed anyway.

Janet followed Whitney and the lamb, the weak animal now riding on Whitney’s back. Janet drifted after, silent as frost, her gaze fixed on Bleatrix and the Security rams.

Boss Rudd appeared once, at the end. He surveyed the line, nodded to Bleatrix, then retreated to the farmhouse warmth. His own trough, rumored full of gourmet mash and fresh oats, waited inside.

By the time regular sheep finished, the sun had just cleared the fence. The wind cut sharp, and the work day began. No one lingered at the feeding station, not even the goats.

Everywhere Fancy Pants looked, he saw the same thing: the Committee, round and smug, while the rest shrank by the day.

He watched Bleatrix Spinn, her wool untouched by hunger, and thought how simple it would be to rewrite history when everyone who remembered it was too weak to argue.

The work bells sounded. The yard emptied, leaving scattered hooffuls of chaff and the silo’s long shadow.

Fancy Pants ate his meager ration, counted the ribs showing in his side, and wondered how many more mornings the flock would survive.

Fancy Pants waited for the work bell to fade, then slipped away from the others. He moved quick, hugging the fence line, keeping to the shadow of the silo until he reached the blackened frame of the old barn. Inside, the smell of scorched timber and piss stung the nose, but it was better than the open yard - at least here, the sound of hooves carried and echoed, and you could hear a visitor coming from a mile away.

He climbed the ladder to the hayloft, each rung creaking but holding. The floorboards above were warped from the fire, but the far corner still had a square of dry straw and the hiding place he’d built weeks ago: a loose plank, covered with a layer of old feed sacks. He checked for eyes, then pried up the board and reached in.