They held their collective breathe as the herd passed them by, eerily silent save for the sound of their broken hooves against well-worn tarmac. Help was several hours away, this they were painfully aware of as flurries of texts were sent between the three homes, each separated by a few metres and a neatly trimmed hedge. Each praying they were quiet enough to let the herd pass in relative peace.
The world around them was old farming land and the herd had already made sure they were the only moving life out there, slaughtering the handful of cattle too slow or too stubborn for the barn. It would be hell to clean up afterwards, though blood does help the grass grow.
The putrid ichor that seeped through the fur of the herd in place of sweat would stain the land for decades.
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