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The woods went quiet the day the Beast stopped hunting. The quiet wasn't peaceful, it was more like the woods were bracing for impact, though on Mossy Bottom Farm, the silence never lasted long.
Bitzer blew his whistle until it trembled in his grip, but no one listened. He had already spent the entire morning doing everything Farmer used to do. That being, checking the generator, hauling bags twice his size, kicking the stubborn gate until it finally latched and still, not a single one has gone quite right.
Outside the barn, the flock crowded anxiously around the troughs, nibbling at leftover scraps from the night before. The handful of grains left didn’t go far. The pigs were mid argument, their hooves throwing mud as they pointed and shouted over each other. The barnyard as a whole was noisy all over, wings flapping, Mowermouth and The Bull- No one was still.
It was the kind of morning where everyone pretended they weren’t afraid, the kind of morning where noise filled the space fear used to. It's been like this for weeks, maybe even longer.
Amidst the chaos, Shaun climbed onto a crate. He didn’t shout or wave, but reached down, picking up a mud covered megaphone from the ground and shook off the clumps of straw clinging onto it. He then lifted it to his mouth and let out a single sharp and commanding bleat. The animals all froze in place.
Shaun hopped down, his hooves sinking into the muck with a wet squelch. He didn’t bleat he just pressed the megaphone into Bitzer’s paw, eyes meeting his with a quiet unspoken your turn.
Bitzer hesitated before clearing his throat and trudging toward the trough. There, a chalkboard leaned against it half buried in mud. With an audible groan he dragged it free, wiping down the worst of the grime off with his paw and set it upright. The animals watched as Bitzer stood there with the chalk in his paw, hoping he’d know what to do.
Ahem Bitzer began to draw, thankfully there was an already faint map of Mossingham’s woods it’s smudged but still readable as he traced the lines with deliberate strokes, outlining the familiar shape of the land. There’s the path, a clearing, and finally a question mark drawn in thick trembling lines that betrayed more than he meant to. He circled the areas they’d already searched. The circles were small now, tight, cramped and desperate. It’s all just weeks of effort shrinking into nothing.
He pointed to the tiny patch left for the day as the daylight was thinning now that the approaching winter was stealing hours faster than they could use them. Even the most determined dog couldn’t ask the farm to keep searching forever. Bitzer underlined the remaining patches firmly, up until the chalk snapped in his paw.
The animals all groaned, several sheep pouting and scoffing, while the chickens rolled their eyes in annoyance. The pigs scoffed outright, crossing their hooves, one of them snorting something that didn’t need translation,
Farmer’s dead, the beast got him, searching is pointless- stop dragging us into the woods to be next.
A few of the smaller animals flinched at the bluntness, some ears flattening as if the words themselves had weight, even the wind seemed to pause. The air went still in a way that felt unfairly final.
Bitzer made a whimper as his ears folded back along with his tail drooping low. He wasn’t meant to deal with the fear or the doubt or the responsibility alone. In fact, those words hit him harder than he let show. They echoed the same thoughts he’s been trying to keep locked away for weeks, the ones he couldn’t afford to believe, not when everyone else already did.
His chest tightened into an aching pressure that made it hard to breathe for a moment. He’d been trying so hard to be the steady one, the hopeful one, the one who kept the farm moving forward, but right now all he could feel was how tired he was and how heavy the silence felt.
He wished Farmer would just walk out the front door and make all of this stop.
But he couldn’t let any of that show especially not when they were all looking at him, when hope was hanging by the thread he was barely holding onto.
Quickly, Shaun stepped beside him, crossing his arms and giving a stare at the pigs, putting in every ounce of force his face could put into it. His eyebrows slanted, head tilted, one stubborn hoof planted forward like he would personally fight anyone who dared say that ever again. He didn’t bleat and didn’t have to. The stare alone was enough to make even the bull shuffle out of the line of fire.
The pigs backed down with a few grumbles under their breath but made no further argument.
Bitzer swallowed hard, steadying himself and tapping the chalkboard firmly.
Farmer wouldn’t give up on them. So they wouldn’t give up on him.
The farm agreed only because Bitzer needed them to, because someone had to believe for all of them, because the alternative meant accepting that the fields were emptier now, that the front door hadn’t opened in months and that the only familiar sound left, was the whistle he carried.
A hollow breeze swept across the yard, rattling the tools in the shed as a sheep bleated softly and another animal kicked at the dirt. Nobody wanted to be the first to move
Slowly the group assignments were handed out. Bitzer paired up the flock with one another the same as usual. The chickens shuffled forward, grabbing little search lanterns with a reluctance that was on edge with dread. Even the pigs although grumbling under their breath, eventually waddled toward the group, their hooves dragging like they were being pulled by obligation rather than choice.
When the search parties scattered, Shaun patted Bitzer’s arm in a silent you did well.
Bitzer held onto the touch a second longer than he meant to, but just long enough for Shaun to notice. He forced a smile and walked off with Shirley and Hazel toward the western ridge, glancing back at the farmhouse windows, his eyes searching for a silhouette, for any sign of movement, for the smallest shift in the curtains that might mean something, anything.
But the glass only stared back blank and unmoving.
Shaun watched as Bitzer and the others disappeared into the mist, but he didn't follow, he waited until the last pair of hoves trotted away, until the farm was empty, only then did he turn toward the barn.
Inside, the air was dusty and still, the ladder into the loft casting long shadows across the hay as Shaun pushed past it toward the hidden latch behind the grain bins.
A quick press here, a soft click there... and the door opened.
The room that used to be the shearing room greeted him with its usual scent of dust and metal. The lights flickered on one by one, their low hum rolling across the room, the shadows peeled back slowly, revealing the shapes he knew by heart.
Stainless steel tables crowded at the center pushed together into the same makeshift workspace he’d built months ago. Paper scraps lay where he’d left them, blanketing the floor in a chaotic mess. Notes were crossed out, rewritten, circled and torn, the kind of mess that only made sense to him.
He moved past the tables without looking down, he didn’t need to. The beakers and tubes along the table glowed faintly with neon liquids bubbling in their glass like they had their own breaths. Their colors lighted over his wool as he passed, familiar as old bruises.
Sketches lined the walls being pinned in uneven rows. His handwriting had looped frantically across each scrap, the strokes were sharp and hurried like he’d been racing time and losing.
He slipped into the lab coat with practiced ease, the fabric soft where it had worn thin. The motions were automatic now, down to the sleeves and the goggles. He’s repeated it far too many times now. He exhaled once steadying himself and turned toward the back wall.
A cage awaited there half lost in the dim light. There were metal bars with thick shadows including the faint sound of a scrape of something shifting its weight. Shaun didn’t rush or hesitate, he simply walked the same way anyone walks toward a responsibility they have long stopped questioning.
A low rumbling sound growled out to meet him.
He stopped a few feet away. The shape inside shifted again, slow and heavy, like just lifting its own head took effort. The dim light caught on features that didn’t quite line up right. There was proportions that suggested something massive and altered, something that shouldn’t have been. But there was familiarity. Granted it’s wrong shaped, but it's familiar.
It's Farmer. Or at least, what was left of him.