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The Flock

739 Views Posted on: 06/30/2022

The dog sat down on the squeaky bench in the locker room. He put on his heavy tactical boots and began to tighten them, taking care not to miss any eyelets.

He put on his knee pads, then his elbow pads, and lastly, his combat gloves, moving his fingers rhythmically.

He took a few steps towards the sink, had a sip of water and looked at himself.

His face was drawn into a grim expression, the wrinkles around his eyes were deep and dark, his mouth twisted into a suffering grimace.

He didn't remember the last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep.

Probably before the sheep took to the streets, before the government declared the state of emergency, certainly before Sally walked out on him slamming the front door behind her.

Forever.

His heavy steps echoed down the deserted corridor, a muffled silence permeating the faded walls of the barracks.

He passed the mugshot room; the door was ajar and he heard the sound of water coming from inside.

He carefully pushed the door open and found Rudy, the caretaker, cleaning the floor with a hose; he was smoking and deep in thought.

"Hi Rudy, rough night?", he asked with a conciliatory tone.

“Yeah, things got a bit out of control. They said he was a dude from the school... "

He almost retched  as he saw an eyeball floating in the middle of the filthy water that flowed placidly towards the drain.

“Hey Tobias, tell me. Where are they sending you today?” asked the caretaker after a long silence.

“I don't know, they said something about going to the Ministry. Today there’s gonna be a lot of hassle. "

"Uh."

Rudy threw his cigarette towards the grate; it was clogged with piled up bits of flesh.

"Shit," concluded Rudy, throwing the hose to the ground.

Tobias left and headed towards the recreation room where he entered without saying hello.

He reached a small group in riot gear but no one seemed to notice him.

They were sitting randomly around a table full of papers and empty bottles, a metal tray with a couple of credit cards on it, and a heaped ashtray.

The air was unbreathable.

The television was crackling loudly above them; the live broadcast of the Ministry filled the air.

"Citizens! It is with great pride that I announce the election of General Wolf as National Security Advisor! I am sure that thanks to his proven experience in the field we will be able to resolve, once and for all, the controversy that has arisen with our sheep sisters. I’m confident that soon peace and harmony will reign again in the animal kingdom... "

The dog clenched his fist tightly as he listened to the pig's honeyed voice, and could barely refrain from spitting on the ground as the camera moved to General Wolf, closing in on his satisfied grin and the spread of ribbons pinned to his chest.

"Oh, you've finally arrived," said one of the group addressing him, hardly taking his eyes off the screen.

"The friend of the sheep", said another, angrily extinguishing his cigarette butt on the table.

Tobias restrained himself with difficulty, growling under his breath.

"Hey guys!", A voice was heard coming from the back of the room. “We’ve got to go, there’s a hail storm of shit at the Ministry. Everyone in combat gear!"

The group jumped in unison, a couple of chairs fell to the ground, a bottle spun on itself for a couple of turns and finally smashed to the ground.

"Be careful, shepherd," the first guy warned him, giving him a violent shove.

The armoured car scuttled rapidly through the deserted city streets, zigzagging through abandoned checkpoints and burning car wrecks.

They passed in front of the headquarters of a well-known newspaper, its doors were wide open and all around was a sprawl of shattered monitors and fluttering sheets of paper. 

A gigantic inscription in red paint, sang the praises of the revolution.

It wasn't signed.

"Who made all that mess,uh?" murmured the dog, hoping to make himself heard.

No one answered.

Someone lit a cigarette and started to whistle a popular tune. Others began to join in, but a couple remained silent staring into space.

Finally, they reached the large square in front of the Ministry where the vehicle swerved to the side and stopped near a large group of riot cops, crowded under a wide stairway.

"Come on! Come on! All out and stand on the left of the column! Put on the gas masks! "

The heavy armoured door swung open, spilling them onto the street, and immediately they were engulfed in intense smoke, unable to orient themselves. The air was full of tear gas and the smell of burnt tires.

Tobias felt his rear straps being pulled up as he was carried forward a couple of meters. Then he found himself locked between two colleagues, in formation.

He gripped his truncheon and shield firmly, lifting them up in front of him.

A gust of wind cleared the curtain of smoke and in front of them there was a wall of animals bleating and bellowing wildly.

They weren't just sheep.

Some wore crude handcrafted armour made of foam rubber and motorcycle helmets, others were dressed in black, hooded, with sticks covered in barbed wire, and iron pipes. Most stood proudly, unprotected, with their bare hands outstretched menacingly.

There were banners of various shapes and sizes alternated with large coloured flags, and here and there were reproductions of a pig skewered on a spit. 

At one point, a resounding roar was heard as someone stepped forward through the crowd and started haranguing with a megaphone. The words were not distinguishable but every now and then the horde exploded into a deafening scream.

After the short speech, a kind of tribal song began to rise, it sounded rhythmic, disturbing and primordial.

The ranks began to move in the direction of the Ministry, continuing to sing, louder and louder.

It seemed that the sky suddenly darkened and the ground started to shake from the power released.

The policemen huddled in fear of annihilation; some of them crossed themselves.

The world looked oddly funny from there.

Tobias observed the jungle of legs and feet moving frantically in front of him with amusement, reminding him of rugby matches with the other detachments.

The blows came distant and muffled, as if someone were hitting a dusty carpet.

He wanted to take off his gas mask to spit out the annoying clot of blood that was in his mouth, but he couldn't move his arms.

He didn’t even really understand how he’d got there.

Perhaps they’d grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away from the testudo.

Perhaps someone had pushed him forwards by the shoulders, consigning him to the mass.

Perhaps…

However, it didn’t really matter anymore.

He would have liked to have been able to sniff the odours, yes definitely that.

His grandfather had often told him about the unmistakable scent of sheep when they were crammed together like this, in a flock. Taken alone they smell of fear, like any other insignificant animal. But when packed together, the emanation changes, becoming intense and powerful, stuff to be very cautious of.

Suddenly, someone  tore off his gas mask and  a chaotic and disharmonious effluvium entered his nostrils of iron, chilli, garlic, sweat, gasoline, cordite, shit, piss and paint.

And fear, so much fear.

He smiled as he thought back to his grandfather's ramblings and his father's attempts to silence him, saying that there had never been dogs that spent the day sitting, watching sheep, making sure nothing happened to them.

“In those days, dogs were dogs, sheep were sheep, and pigs were already pigs”, the old man had kept on saying until the end of his days.

He began to wonder if this therefore was a flock, or a swarm of individuals, but it began to seem basically irrelevant now.

All of a sudden he felt a violent tug, somebody had turned him on his back and was now sitting on his belly, legs astride.

It was a huge ram, his face covered with a balaclava, and with eyes that looked haunted and absent. He was holding a big stone above him.

Tobias tried to smile at him, but didn't succeed very well.

He felt a blow.

A second one.

A third one.

And then nothing else.

Text by Oliver Maria Pascoletti

Translation by Paola Vetrano 

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Tags : Animals, Apocalypse , Life and death
Posted in: Short stories
Author: Oliver Maria Pascoletti
I like writing, sitting and hiking. I work in Dec Art as a copywriter and content creator.

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