Let me start by wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas. I hope everybody gets everything they wanted, and is able to spend some time with their loved ones. If you’re military or in emergency services, and will be unable to spend Christmas with your loved ones, thank you for your service.
I AM (contd.)
He knew the answer to that question, or he thought he did. The Co-Op where he worked served over a hundred and fifty family-owned farms in central Nebraska who were being threatened by a number of large corporate farms that had managed to lower their operating costs.
No one could figure out how they were doing it. They were still regularly buying the same amount of supplies as before, with the same discount and pricing structure. Driving by their fields it was obvious they were using the same amount of labor they had in the past, more so as it seemed there were a greater number of overseers striding upright among the groups of workers bent to their task.
Among those in the co-op the rumors spread fostered by an equal share of not knowing. Some claimed the corporate farms were using undocumented workers and paying next to nothing, holding out the promise of citizenship in exchange for a few years of hard labor. Others suspected they might be using prison labor; hence the reason for the greater number of overseers who were actually prison guards being paid by the state’s taxpayer.
None of the rumors had even come close to the truth.
The hum of the tires subsided, replaced by the sound of gravel stirring beneath the tires as the container in which he rode tilted to the left, indicating that they were turning off the main highway.
He tried to call out, his mouth as dry as a sheet of sandpaper, his throat sore as a sharp pain throbbed along his neck. With his hand he probed the side of his neck, finding several stitches in the puckered flesh of a healing wound.
What did they do?
The vehicle came to a stop and restlessness washed through those around him. From the black depths came the sound of a latch being drawn back. Cold air washed through the container as light spilled into the emptiness. A door was pulled open and for the first time since awakening he could survey his surroundings.
To his left and right, above and below, there were others packed in with him. His neighbor to his right grunted and Gus turned to confront the vacant stare of a man who appeared to be in his early twenties, drool traced a wet line from one corner of his lips as his gaze wandered about.
“Let’s get em out,” someone yelled. Booted feet rang on cold steel, gates were drawn back, rough hands reached in and yanked him from where he sat. He was propped up onto his feet, the steel floor cold against the soles of his feet. Other bodies were crowded around him, naked flesh pressing against his own as they were driven from the confines of the container towards a large barn whose oversized doors stood open.
Like cattle they were driven from the steel container, across a gravel lot with sharp edged stone cutting into tender flesh, and into the barn. Their captors wore the traditional garb of a Nebraska farmhand, bib coveralls over a flannel shirt with muck boots riding as high as mid-calf. They carried cattle prods and he noticed that those around the edges of the naked crowd of captives were falling prey to the buzzing heads that left scorched flesh in its wake.
Richard Schiver 
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