Pen-pals

The old wooden door opened with the scraping and creaking that comes with age, from the warping effect of many rainy days followed by warm ones. Its maroon paints flaked and a few pieces fell off as one of the things entered. In one corner of their little room they sat. They knew what it meant if a thing came in: they wanted something. Commotion began in all of the other rooms too, the bleating chatter of a group working out what is going on, or what may be coming. Its footsteps sounded wet, which fitted with the drumming of the rain on the roof, and the small stream being allowed in by the crack in the corrugated panels. Where it fell it made a small path on the soft floor.

In this little room there were four of them. They didn’t know how many other rooms there were, or how many other occupants, but some definitely sounded far away. There were 2 exits to the square, breeze block room; one that led to the path where the thing walked and one on the opposite wall which gave way to an outside area with similar walls on the left and right, with a high gate at the far end. The rain had kept them all inside today.

Unceremoniously, the thing’s footsteps stopped, as it reached the far end of his walkway. Shuffling feet peppered the sudden quietness that had fallen on the place. The rain’s arrhythmic noodling, along with the drips from the crack, continued with complete contempt for the new found tension. Then a rustling sound came from where the thing was standing. It was okay, the food, it was just the food sound. The soundscape didn’t change but a shared feeling of relief could be felt by all those present, waiting for their visit from the thing.

When it had finished its rounds, passing the same old sustenance through the bars in the wall, the thing slid off towards the door through which it had entered and the atmosphere of the building returned to what it was before. Calm, but alert.

How many years had they all been in these rooms? Who knew? Their parents, and their parent’s parents and many more generations back had been brought up in these same rooms. But they didn’t die in the rooms. They wished they did. None of them that had ever left had come back. The things would come in, making their alien noises to each other, and the occupants of the small rooms would know what was about to happen. By the time that that information was known anywhere else it was too late. Inside the room there was nowhere to go. All that could be done was avoid making eye contact, hope that cowering in the corner made another candidate look more attractive. Sometimes it worked, other times not. Making noise made one stand out, so the silence in which most of their time was now passed had been learnt rather than chosen.

The things were twice as tall as they were, if not more. It was pointless to run for the open gates when they came in. Faster, stronger. It was just an express, one way ticket to join all of those that had gone before to attempt an escape.

The night fell, but the rain had tired for the day. It was a fairly cold night, not freezing but grouping up inside made sense. The things didn’t ever come at night at least. It was a safe time, a world away from the time that the sun was up until it went down. The youngsters cuddled up to their mothers and they both knew that the other enjoyed it. The cycle of day to night, questioning everything to almost glutinous and carefree sleep, was how life was. Out the back, one could see the night sky, and beyond, over a few more grey buildings, the rooms with green floors and no ceilings or walls. Is that where the one who had been taken went? Nobody knew, but there did seem to be bodies, or at least movement, far off in the distance over there.

In the very early morning hours, the light blue of a cloudless day bled gradually into the deeper, oceanic blue of the night. As the sun was just beginning to stretch its legs and stand up over the horizon, one of the things was making its way towards the barn. He could hear the rustling of the sheep inside, intermittently garnished with their distinctive ‘baa’ bleating sound. He wrestled with the door, which had a small layer of moisture from the cold overnight. He heard their footsteps becoming more agitated. The lambs were reaching their prime age. A few had matured early enough to be sold off early, and mutton was surprisingly popular this year. The older ewes were in demand. Past their birthing years, still good meat. He stopped at pen number 6.

The sheep all looked up as he slid the bolt back, and shut the gate behind him. There was still lots of food, they didn’t need more. The looming thing stood over them, surveying each member of the pen. The lambs stood by the mothers, and sounds became those of shivers and cowering. One by one that day they went. Different things at different times, making different alien noises, but all with the same outcome. The sheep tried their best, but hiding in a room with just a straw floor and 4 walls is no mean feat. Gradually they were worn down. The things were relentless. From out the back on this clear day, the last glimpses of the ones who wouldn’t come back could be seen.

For generations they had been in here, and for generations more they would be. The things had won up to this point, and the things would win again.