Instinct

32. Everything Will Be Okay

Night had fallen hours before Brennan finished work for the day. Daytime temperatures had plummeted with the descent of the sun, leaving the sweat cooling on his skin and leaving him chilled to the bone. Brennan slapped his working gloves down on the counter in the barn as he passed. Giving the shed its last once over for the night, he flipped the light switch, plunging the property into a dark punctuated only by the warm, glowing light emanating from the farmhouse just down the lane.

He used the last of his bodily strength to haul the barn doors shut and set off down the darkened footpath that eventually led off McLeod’s ranch. Cicadas were still singing in the trees and undergrowth that lined the driveway, a constant sound that Brennan had become accustomed to in his work.

Brennan rubbed at the skin at the back of his neck, fever-hot and no doubt reddened from consistent sun exposure throughout the day. He could still hear the voices of the other ranch-hands as they trundled down the path after an inordinately long day. Exhaustion burned like grit in Brennan’s eyes. Returning home and flopping into bed was on the very top of his to-do list. Reaching for his alarm clock the next morning was not.

Eventually he caught up to the rag-tag band of hands. Not that it was very difficult to do with their wearied gait as they trudged down the pitch blank country lane.

“This is bullshit man,” one of them sighed, voice disembodied from the person that accompanied it. “I have a goddamned PhD and I’m stuck working on a ranch for that jackass McLeod.”

“Jesus, shut up Brian, we know you’re a friggin’ genius. Think we wanna be here anymore’n you?”

“What you’ve got is a degree in whining. You’re lucky you’ve even got a bleedin’ job.”

Brennan shook his head. They were lucky all right. Four in the morning ‘til nine at night seven days a week on a beggar’s wage, and don’t you dare get caught complaining about it either. Jobs for werewolves were all shot to hell. Forget about fair working hours or minimum wage. They were the new kind of undocumented worker.

So, yeah, the fact that McLeod, the bastard, would even give them a job was supposed to be some kind of godsend. Brennan and the rest were supposed to think he was the best thing since sliced bread. Yeah, right. They all knew he was capitalizing on their positions – that they couldn’t negotiate a cent more than he was deigning to give them because really, they didn’t have a leg to stand on in this life.

Cheap, strong, hardworking labour. That’s all there was to that story.

“Man, I’m so hungry – I keep dreaming of steak,” another groaned. “All this damn beef around all day and I go home to microwave dinners if I’m lucky.”

“At least you don’t have children to feed,” someone else replied. “Christ if I can just feed them, then I’m happy.”

“Hey, you hear about that kid that tried to sneak some meat home?” a voice asked. “They say McLeod picked up his rifle and shot him like a dog, right there.”

“Dude, who the hell is ‘they’, anyway?”

“I dunno, I just heard it!”

“You’re all a bunch a dumbasses if you believe that.”

“You don’t think he would?”

“Oh, I think he would, don’t mean it’s true, though.”

“Yo, Brennan, what d’ya think? You think McLeod’d have the balls to shoot a guy for stealing?”

Brennan rolled his eyes, jamming his callused hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I think you should try it, see what he does. Then we’ll all know for sure,” he drawled.