CHAPTER IV: HOOVES KEYING SENTENCES

With gazes fixed firmly on their hooves, the sound of Boerboel baying drifted toward the Digital Refectory, where the herd had yet to finish their rations. The cowboys entered, chains taut, restraining two hunting hounds with heads as massive and heavy as granite blocks. For many, hunger vanished instantly; others, moved by raw survival, gorged on the remains to fuel the night’s labor.

The air turned a thick grey as the two men announced their arrival, grappling with the beasts. They leaned back, heels digging into the concrete to anchor the mass of muscle and fur that lunged violently at the swine, their barks vibrating through the very walls.

Even Hannibal held his breath for what felt like several stretched seconds of pure dread. Wild animals are always the most precarious; there is little leverage to be found with them, unlike other grey-furred predators. The cowboys offered no comfort either—young men with smirks of satisfaction, the veins in their hands bulging from the strain of control.

Regaining command of his frozen limbs, Hannibal began to daydream:

“If those chains snap or the cowboys lose their grip… I don’t want to imagine how these curs would begin to butcher us. Or how they’d tear through the humans. A pig might last longer on its feet, yet these soft-looking humans have them at their beck and call. I want a puppy like that too.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes, running his tongue in a circle over his teeth. With flickering glances, the herd tried to appear attentive to the Foreman, who stood upon the podium between the cowboys and the hounds. With boots parallel and hands clasped behind his back, he thrust his pelvis forward—almost excessively—in a posture of dominance and superiority. It was a crude display, even as the cowboys puffed their cheeks to stifle a laugh.

“It seems a hog tried to dodge the red truck. I can think of no other reason a good worker would wish to forfeit his comforts,” he spoke in a solemn tone; he either believed it or feigned it well enough to make the others believe. “We have information. We know he was last seen here. If anyone has extra intel to help us track him, we will compensate you with twenty-five points.”

The air grew heavy. Sidelong glances darted between every pig within reach of another.

“Fine. Let’s round it up. Thirty points instead of twenty-five,” the Foreman said, his face now a mask of affability. “Come now! Don’t be shy! The dogs are well-handled. It’s impossible that no one—”

“Ahem.” The pig let out a raspy grunt from his throat. With eyes attempting to meet the Foreman’s directly, he stepped timidly toward the podium. The rest of the herd relaxed; their fear replaced by a voyeuristic thrill. If this one lied, it wouldn’t be the red truck taking him—he’d be fed to the Boerboels.

“Perfect! Someone has some spirit. Come, enter your ID into the terminal and correctly select the fields provided.”

“Let’s see… My ID is 0471-CHIP.” He finished keying the digits into the terminal at the foot of the wooden podium. The screen flickered to life, unfolding his options. The Foreman loomed over him as the pig below betrayed one of his own for a handful of points that would cover two shifts. The dogs had slumped at the edge of the stage.

The pig observed his hundred accumulated points, a figure poised to rise just a day before the week’s end. With a precise tap of his snout against the cold surface, he selected Report Incident. The menu deployed with the efficiency of an executioner, offering a list of pre-configured betrayals.

The screen flashed: HANNIBAL, SELECT INCIDENCE TYPE.

The pig pressed the number three: [D] INDOLENCE / DISOBEDIENCE.

The system demanded the accused’s code. With the slow deliberation of one seeking to inject tension into his audience, Hannibal keyed the digits: 1-1-2-3. On the screen, the name Toby appeared shaded: an inventory unit marked for decommissioning. He lied in the report, noting he had seen the pig looking exceedingly anxious—a plausible trait for a deserter. He detailed how he had approached him, placing a hoof on his back in a show of solidarity. He explained that, out of concern for his comrade, he had followed him to the vicinity of the silver trailer. Hannibal concluded the deceit by claiming that, seeing Toby there, he assumed he was merely performing his duties and withdrew, feigning peace of mind because his colleague was still “persevering” in his labor.

After a brief hum, the terminal issued the final verdict: Report Registered. A forty-point bonus was credited to his account, exceeding even the Foreman’s initial offer.

From his heights, the man let out a grunt of satisfaction as the case-closed notification hit his tablet.

“Well done, zero-four-seventy-one,” the man said, his voice booming against the corrugated tin roof. “It seems someone here understands the value of loyalty… and credit.”

The Foreman glanced back at the final figure on his tablet and then down at Hannibal. His face maintained its mask of affability, but his eyes—cold and cutting—betrayed a deep contempt. It irked him that a mere pig had been clever enough to wring forty points out of him in one go.

“Zero-four-seventy-one. Since your memory is so fresh and your nose so well-trained, you’re coming with us,” the Foreman said with a fresh smile. “Stay behind the search party.”

Hannibal shrugged and immediately bowed his head, tucking his snout between his forelegs in a gesture of absolute submission. He trembled slightly, feigning the terror of one forced into the dark woods with hounds. The cowboys let out mocking snickers at the sight of him so “frightened.”

But as he walked with a faltering gait toward the Refectory exit, his mind operated on a different frequency.

“Heh, heh… the fates smile upon me,” he thought, feeling the weight of the newly minted points. “With the right marketing, I could sell them shit in their mouths as a cure for a toothache.”

He finished savoring his own cunning and, with a soft step and a sunken posture, resumed the role of the docile subordinate. He followed the hunting party, dragging his hooves with feigned trepidation, until they reached the rusted trailer waiting at the farm’s edge.

Upon arrival, the cowboys pressed a handful of Toby’s bedding straw to the hounds’ noses. The Boerboels caught the scent and, almost instantly, surged violently into the dark woods. The Foreman tossed a flashlight to Hannibal, who caught it in his snout to light the way. Night had fallen completely, and even in a hailstorm, no one disappeared from Rodolfo Farm without leaving a trace.

“Damn it, these dogs are good. They’re going to realize I was right there with Toby.” He felt something damp on his forehead and nearly laughed; pigs don’t sweat—that’s why they need mud, why in the idle hours the herd kills for a puddle that wouldn’t fit a backside. But there he was, dry, smelling of death, wishing for even a bit of clay to erase his own trail.

Hannibal tightened his grip on the flashlight. The beam danced erratically among the trunks as he tried to throttle his heart rate. If the dogs detected his scent entwined with the dead man’s, forty bonus points wouldn’t cover the cost of his funeral.

“Come on, little wolf… howl like Little Red Riding Hood is marrying someone else. Do it so these dogs, when they find Toby’s mangled corpse, don’t realize we smell exactly the same,” Hannibal thought, focused on keeping his snout steady so the beam wouldn’t stray from the hounds’ tracks.

They delved deeper into the thicket. The Foreman’s face was a map of pure disgust as he realized Toby had ventured at least thirty minutes on foot into the forest. All this had happened without a soul noticing until the system tripped the alarm. Under his command, no one should be able to bypass surveillance; otherwise, the Landowner would seek someone “more capable.” And the position of “more capable” was synonymous with “more ruthless.”

The snapping of branches under the cowboys’ boots and the rhythmic panting of the Boerboels were the only sounds breaking the silence of the cold woods. Hannibal felt the weight of the flashlight in his jaw, but the weight of his own stupid, overlooked mistake was heavier: if the dogs were tracking Toby and he was right there, the hounds had already caught his overlapping scent.

The tension in his jaw was unbearable; the plastic of the flashlight tasted of his own stupidity. Every step the Boerboels took brought them closer to Toby, and Toby closer to him. In minutes, the dogs would reach the cadaver, and he would be standing there, flashlight in mouth, smelling of complicity.

“Damn it…” he thought, clenching his teeth on the hard plastic, restraining the urge to snap it. “If the wolf doesn’t show up now, these dogs are going to tear me apart before the Foreman can even ask why I lied on the report.”

The imaginary sweat now felt like a cascade of ice down his spine. The dogs strained at their leashes with a force that made the cowboys’ shoulders groan. They were close. The smell of iron and Toby’s open flesh must have been filling the hounds’ nostrils by now, but worse still, beneath that scent of death, the trail of Hannibal’s hooves screamed his presence at the scene.

The hounds’ thunderous barking marked the fugitive’s trail with a frantic violence. The Foreman, hand on his hip unholstering his weapon, ran at full tilt, aiming his light. He expected to see the swift reflection of a pig, to hear the squeals of a cornered, hopeless animal; instead, an unbearable stench violated his nostrils.

Before him, trampled remains covered in fat flies swirled over scraps that no longer held the shape of an animal. It seemed that after that particular “business meeting,” other guests had helped themselves to the banquet without paying in advance. The cowboys struggled to calm their beasts, who, eyes fixed on the treetops, bared fangs ready to pierce any flesh in their path.

Hannibal stood stunned in a corner, aiming his light directly into the dogs’ eyes. His heart beat with the deranged rhythm of a hamster on a wheel. “Ashoka or something else must be lurking… Damn wolf, if it’s you, don’t you dare forget me,” he pleaded internally.

“Awoo-oooooo!”

A bruised, powerful howl turned up the volume of the forest. The dogs, their discipline shattering at the wild call, broke free from the cowboys’ grip and bolted like madmen around the perimeter. The three humans pressed themselves against tree trunks, staying out of the mini-beasts’ path, eyes glued to the shadows as they gripped their .44 revolvers.

Something blurred through the canopy. The facade of caution vanished; the men spun around and fled at top speed the way they came. Hannibal tried to mimic them, but a massive, voracious reflection wiped him from the path in a heartbeat. One of the cowboys caught the tackle out of the corner of his eye and let out a scream of pure terror, fleeing on trembling legs behind his comrades.

When the human screams faded into the distance, silence returned, escorted by three small pups playing with a much larger dog—one that stood on two legs before returning to its quadrupedal form. Hannibal lay on his side, pale and wide-eyed, not daring to breathe.

“Damn it, Ashoka, you really are something… I hit my head when I fell,” he thought as he regained his senses.

“What the hell was that tackle for?” Hannibal asked, now standing, enveloped in a frigid atmosphere that seemed to emanate from his four hooves against the forest floor. He stood tall, puffing out his chest almost too much… a ridiculous but functional pose, mirrored from the one he’d seen the Foreman strike on the podium.

“Porker, what’s with the defiant stance? Do you want me to take you for a dog?” the wolf asked mockingly, wagging his tail, caught up in the good humor of having two pups to play rough with.

Since he was a young pup, Ashoka had never belonged to a pack. The “Chattering Wolves” had formed a sort of mafia, and his stuttering bravery was not welcome in that organized group. But there, in front of the pig trying to act like a human, the wolf was the only one who could afford to laugh.

Hannibal shook off the mud, maintaining that inflated posture. He ignored the games of the pups, who seemed to pay him no mind, and fixed his round eyes on the wolf, cutting straight to the chase:

“Well, Ashoka? Did you stop me for a reason, or did you just want a show of power?”

“Clever little pig,” the crafty wolf thought, realizing Hannibal had read between the lines of that fierce tackle.

“I want to see Red Riding Hood,” he said curtly.

Hannibal had expected as much; his mind had already engineered the plans for an exchange of benefits with Ashoka. He bared his teeth—straight and an unnaturally artificial white—and proposed a theatrical performance that was a bit more savage, and a bit more real.

“Effective marketing must be multisensory,” the pig told him, reclaiming his posture. "It isn’t enough for them to know you exist. Fear is the hook, but dread only solidifies through the senses. We need the visual: something so grotesque it forces them to believe in the Beast of the Penumbra. But also the audio: those harrowing wails that slice through the ears just by imagining them. Let’s test the marketing with Red Riding Hood; if it works, you’ll get to meet her at the farm’s decaying vet…

…"

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