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The freezer door closes with a soft click. The hum of the machinery fills the silence.

I flick off the light.

The pigs are about to eat like royalty.

CHAPTER

FIVE

The pigpen reeks of mud, damp straw, and the musk of shit. They crowd the fence as I approach, their snorts and grunts rising to a frenzied pitch when they see me coming with the wheelbarrow. A bucket of grain, the same feed I picked up from the hardware store earlier today, sits balanced on the edge of the wheelbarrow, the thawing limbs stacked beneath it. I pause at the gate, placing the bucket at my feet, one hand still resting on the wheelbarrow’s handle. The pigs shove against the wood, their filthy snouts poking through the slats, eager for their evening meal.

“Calm down,” I murmur, swinging the gate open. The grain bucket weighs heavy in my grip, the sharp scent of cornmeal and molasses wafting up as I step into the pen. They swarm as I toss a few handfuls onto the ground, before dumping the rest into the trough. The pigs descend immediately, grunting and snuffling, their mouths snapping as they fight for each scrap.

I stand back, watching. They’re ravenous, their snouts working furiously, their beady black eyes darting between the feed and the bucket. The grain disappears quickly, swallowed in gulps, leaving nothing but churned-up mud and straw.

It’s time.

I set the empty bucket aside and push the wheelbarrow closer to the fence. Inside, the limbs lie in a tangled heap. Frost clings to the pale skin, melting into dark streaks that pool along the metal bed. A foot juts out over the edge, the toes frozen mid flex. The smell rises, sharp and tangy, cutting through the earthy musk of the pen.

The pigs grunt louder, nosing toward the wheelbarrow.

“Patience,” I say softly, pulling out the first arm. It’s stiff, the fingers curled like they’re trying to hold onto something. The flesh is pale and waxy, the veins faintly visible beneath the surface. My glove sticks slightly as I lift it, the thawing blood tacky against the rubber.

The arm feels heavier now, more alive somehow, as I toss it into the pen.

It lands with a wet thud, sinking slightly into the mud. For a moment, the pigs hesitate, their heads tilting as they sniff the new offering. Then, the largest sow lunges forward, her teeth sinking into the frozen flesh. The others follow, squealing as they descend on the arm.

The sound is sickening, wet smacks, the crunch of bone, the tearing of flesh. Teeth grind through cartilage, snapping fingers clean from the hand. Thin streaks of blood, pink and watery from the thaw, bleed into the mud almost as soon as it lands.

I reach for the next piece, a leg this time. The foot flops loosely as I pull it free, the jagged edge of the cut smeared with congealed blood. The pigs are waiting now, their snouts dripping with crimson, their eyes gleaming with greed.

I toss the leg into the pen.

As they tear into the leg, I think back to the hardware store. Clyde smiled as he loaded the bags of feed into my truck, joking about pigs being messy eaters…

“Gotta love pigs,” Clyde says as he heaves the first bag of feed into the truck bed. “Ya’ know they’re real smart, right? Smarter than dogs, even.” He dusts his hands off on his dress pants, grinning like he’s just shared a secret.

I nod, forcing a tight smile. “That so?”

“Oh, yeah. And this isn’t something I learned at my fancy veterinary school, either. My uncle’s got a couple. They say they can recognize faces, solve puzzles, all kinds of crazy stuff. It’s like they’re little furry geniuses, except, ya know, not furry.” He laughs, tossing another bag into the truck bed. “And they don’t stay little for long.”

My eyes flick to the bags of feed, then back to him. “Didn’t know that.”

“Yup. And they’ll eat just about anything. Saw it myself once. My uncle tossed a whole chicken in the pen, feathers, and all, and poof, gone. I swear, pigs are like nature’s garbage disposal.”

His grin widens, oblivious to the dark flicker of interest sparking behind my gaze.

“That’s… handy,” I say, my voice flat.

“I’m not sure about handy, but they can get a little out of control, especially if you don’t keep up with their feeding. That’s important. You don’t want them to overpower you if they’re hungry. It wouldn’t be pretty. I can tell you that.”

“I don’t plan on that happening.”

“Well, if you find yourself low on feed, give me a call, and I’ll get a delivery to you. I’m sure Mr. Tucker wouldn’t mind me grabbing a few bags and you stopping by and paying him when you can make it by.”

I don’t answer him. I really don’t want him nosing around my cabin or getting into anything that’s my business. Clyde doesn’t notice my lack of response. He grabs the last bag and slaps it down with a satisfied huff. He slams the tailgate and leans against my truck, wiping sweat from his brow. “There ya go. You’ll have ’em fat and happy in no time...”

This isn’t just about feeding them. This is a test. If they can handle this, then they can handle the real work later. No evidence. No mess.