"Freedom Farm" Chapter 17

The sun brought no comfort, just long shadows and sharper lines in the frozen mud. As dawn scraped over the wall, the yard divided into two armies: Boss Rudd’s Patriot Guards and the rest.

The Guards formed up first, lined shoulder to shoulder, red bands tight and eyes hard. They faced the barn wall as if waiting for a signal. On the other side, the sheep clustered in uneven clumps, hunched against the wind, pressed together not by loyalty but by the sudden, awkward fact that they were now on the same side. Even the goats hung back, ears flattened, watching for the next move.

Rudd himself waited until the yard was full, then stomped across the porch, Bleatrix Spinn just behind. He held a staff - a real one now, scavenged from a broken tool and topped with a piece of pipe. He smacked the porch post with it, once, and the yard went silent.

“Attention!” he barked. The word cracked like a whip.

The Guards snapped to parade rest, heads high.

Rudd scanned the yard, face a mask. “Today is a test,” he shouted. “You will prove your loyalty, or you will pay.”

Bleatrix hovered behind him, clipboard balanced on one hoof. She made no announcement, but her eyes logged every shiver, every turned head.

“Patriot Guards, secure the perimeter,” Rudd said, voice lowering to a growl. “Anyone not in formation is a suspect. Anyone not willing to fight is an enemy.”

The Guards fanned out, snapping their switches, herding stragglers toward the barn wall. A goat tried to slip away but got cuffed back into line. Two lambs, separated from their mother, bleated in panic; a Guard picked one up by the scruff and dumped it into the holding pen near the silo.

Whitney watched all of this from the edge of the trough, her white wool damp and heavy, but her eyes awake. When a Guard tried to push her group toward the wall, she stiffened and held her ground.

“We’re not the enemy,” she said, voice flat. “We’re hungry.”

The Guard sneered, “So’s everyone. You’ll get what you deserve.”

Whitney shook her head, then turned to Fancy Pants, who was already studying the layout of the yard. He scanned the movement of the Guards, the way they peeled off in pairs, how they left blind spots at the corners.

“Now or never,” he muttered.

Janet, at his side, said nothing. She just kept her eyes on the food shed, the only building still untouched by the Guards.

Rudd and Bleatrix retreated into the farmhouse, slamming the door behind them. Seconds later, the sound of furniture dragging across the floor echoed out - barriers built fast, with no concern for property values.

Outside, the Guards herded a dozen “disloyal” sheep into the pen by the silo, then staked two sentries at the gate. The message was clear: stay put, keep quiet, or join the prisoners.

Whitney moved first. She gathered her group - Janet, Fancy Pants, a battered goat, and a pair of yearling sheep who looked ready to break - and whispered fast.

“Food’s in the shed,” she said. “We go now, before they think to lock it.”

Fancy Pants nodded. “We need a distraction.”

The goat grinned, exposing a cracked tooth. “Give me five seconds.”

He trotted to the corner, then launched himself at a Guard’s back, bleating “For the Revolution!” as loud as he could. The Guard tumbled, limbs flailing, and took two more down with him.

That was enough.

Whitney hustled the group to the food shed, Janet limping but fast, Fancy Pants behind, checking for tails. They reached the door, found it unlocked, and slid inside.

It was dark and colder than the yard. The air reeked of old apples and mold. Sacks of grain lined the walls, stacked to the ceiling in uneven towers. Along the back, shelves sagged with jars - pickled beets, green beans, stewed tomatoes - and buckets of dried peas.

Whitney scanned the haul, then turned to Janet. “We need to secure this,” she said. “If Rudd gets here first, he’ll starve us out.”

Janet nodded and started moving sacks to the door, building a low barricade.

Fancy Pants checked the hinges. “We can lock it from the inside,” he said. “But if they bring tools…”

“They won’t,” Whitney snapped. “They want us alive. For now.”

She grabbed a barrel, rolled it against the door, and wedged it tight with a plank.

The two yearling sheep watched, eyes wide. “What do we do?” one asked.

“Guard the apples,” said Whitney, not joking. “If anyone gets through, you shout.”

The yearlings nodded, then posted themselves by the shelves, hooves ready.

Janet dragged a crate to the window and peered out. “They’re splitting up,” she whispered. “Half are sweeping the yard. The rest are at the pen.”

Fancy Pants checked the air vent near the ceiling. “If we get stuck, we can get out this way. Maybe.”

Whitney ignored the maybe. She looked over the haul - enough grain for a week, maybe more if rationed. The apples would go fast, but the beans and pickles could last months. It was a fortune in calories, and for a second, the weight of it almost made her dizzy.

She steadied herself, then turned to the group. “Nobody starves today except by choice,” she said. “We hold this until the others come.”

Janet smiled, weak but real. “They’ll come.”

Outside, the sound of Guards barking orders echoed. But inside the shed, the animals moved with new purpose, stacking barrels, posting sentries, and dividing the food into piles: one for the lambs, one for the sick, one for everyone else.

Fancy Pants set up a relay: “If anyone comes to the window, tap three times. If it’s Rudd, tap five.”

Whitney posted the battered goat at the door with a crate of apples. “If they break through, throw these at their heads,” she said.

The goat grinned wider. “Best use for them yet.”

The two yearling sheep, barely older than lambs, kept their eyes on the shelves, daring anyone to try their luck.

For the first hour, no one came. Then, footsteps outside - the crunch of hooves, the drag of something heavy.

Whitney motioned for silence. The group froze, breath held.

A voice outside: “Open up! Patriot Guards, by order of Boss Rudd!”

The goat giggled, then caught himself.

Whitney replied, “No one’s here but apples and ghosts.”

A pause, then a shudder as something hit the door - hard, but not enough to move the barrel.

The voice again: “You’re all under arrest! Open or we break it down!”

Fancy Pants rolled his eyes. “Classic,” he mouthed.

Whitney stepped to the door, voice calm. “We have food for everyone,” she said. “You want to starve the lambs? The sick?”

Silence. The Guards weren’t used to negotiation.

Whitney kept on, slow and steady. “We’ll share. But only if you stop the sweeps. Let the animals choose.”

Another silence, longer this time.

Then the Guards retreated, muttering.

Inside, Whitney exhaled, slow and controlled. “They’re scared,” she said.

Fancy Pants nodded. “We should be, too.”

Janet checked the window. “The others are grouping near the wall. Bruce and Frankie are with them.”

Whitney looked at the sacks, the jars, the apples. She counted, not just the food, but the hope.

She posted guards at every corner, set rotations for rest, and started making lists.

In the shed, for the first time, it felt like they might outlast the storm.

Outside, the yard was still split in two, but the line was no longer clear.

On one side, the Guards. On the other, the animals who had decided enough was enough.

The shed, once just a place to hide from the wind, was now the safest place on the farm.

And as the sun climbed, the siege began.