Fighting in silence

This structure to the south of the farm has only brought pain and sorrow, its presence can only be compared to that of the arrival of the grim reaper. Its dark and dreary exterior does but only compliment the events that have occurred within the deceptive walls that make it whole. This distilled beast roars with anger and rage and, whilst its bloodlust leaves no evidence, its simplistic shadows glare out mockingly. This shed plays god and we watch on hoping for it to stop, and whilst there is a need to do something no one can feel the urge; bravery has no say in this.

My name is Bo Taurus, but everyone here calls me Patches. I live on a farm in a small town on the border of Alabama state in the United States of America. I am well built with my mothers brown hair, although my dads hair has had an influence, hence the name patches. I am often compared to my father and am expected to follow in his footsteps and take charge of the town. For you see my father was considered the most influential and respected person in town. Many would laugh and say that it was almost like he was the head of the heard. I say was, as he has now past away. Befallen by the dreaded shed and added to the many on its victims list.

The shed, as the towns folks so often referred to it as, is located on the most southern point of the farm and its large worn down wooden structure is often considered to be an eyesore on an acreage that is often referred to as Alabama's pride and joy. Whilst no-one dares go near it, many have found that curiosity does not just belong to the cat and whilst they have paid for this, most others have found to have just vanished in the night. Some have tried to communicate with the police and every attempt so far has been unsuccessful. All those that have tried, have said that from the looks they were given by the police, in regards to the shed, they might as well have been speaking in a foreign language.

As I have said, my father has now become the latest victim of the shed and whilst his death was not unnoticed, only a few have rallied up to do something about it, myself included. With uncertainty of what to expect, we headed out. Dusk had arrived and while the sun slowly vanished and darkness spread, our nerves grew higher and higher.

We had arrived at the shed and whilst its appearance could only be compared to that of a childs nightmare, the need to enter was still too strong; we began to move towards the large wooden doors. A small light from inside was penetrating through the worn down slates, adding an ominous effect to the event. Whilst the others fought in whispers trying to determine whom would enter first, I approached the door and began to heave the large conglomeration of timber open.

The doors finally swung open and I found myself sprawled out on the floor after stumbling from their sudden retreat. The floor, much to my surprise, was not dirt but was in fact paved with large white tiles. A dark substance ran through the cracks between the tiles and as the others entered and gathered around me, a light burst to life blinding us all momentarily. My heart was racing and whilst my eyes began to adjust, I prepared to see my nightmarish surroundings. The walls were no longer wooden, but instead, were replaced with large white concrete faces. Large fish hooks dangled from the ceiling displaying an array of carcasses and whilst my stomach turned at this site, I began to notice the perpetrators surrounding us.

The door slammed against the wall, its hinges rattled as the wind forced it open. A stand off had began, there were eight of them to the six of us and whilst we were unarmed they all boasted, with grins on there faces, shotguns in hand. The murderers had us surrounded and whilst we glared down at each other, reasoning had disappeared from the building and the intent to fight had replaced it.

A shot penetrated through the silence and like a bell to a boxing match the massacre had began. Its true what has been said about the fighting spirit and when its faced with danger it can do almost anything, for this was much the case in the shed. Whilst the outcome was already established, we were not going to go without a fight. Rage had built within me and whilst the sounds of war had erupted in the shed only silence found my ears, my thoughts over powering all and constantly reminding me of revenge for my father and the chance to avenge all those that have fallen victim here.

Reality hit me and whilst I looked around and began to see the effects of the fight, my support had all but diminished, their corpses decorating the floor around me. Two of us remained and whilst the others had managed to decrease the enemies numbers to four, we were still outnumbered. Four shots were fired and I was left alone. They now circled around me. In a white flash of rage, my eyes closed and I began to kick the air around me, connecting on a number of occasions. My heart now pulsating in my throat, my eyes opened, but not for the sake of seeing the damage I had done, but instead they were cast at the door.

Seeing the door as a chance for freedom and a chance to escape this horrible disaster, I sprinted in that direction. Making it to the door, a shot was fired and a searing pain exploded in my pelvis. The need to reach the farm house and warn the towns folks of the murderers chasing me increasing, I sprinted with all my energy. Another shot was fired this time leaving my legs useless, I fall to the ground and stare back at my attacker. With the last of my energy, I managed to communicate with my enemy, the words escaping me like an ungodly essence leaving my body, "Why, oh why, do you have to kill us cows?"