Mac got a dispatch call after dark–unusual. He joked that he had been with the Central Otago Sanitation Company since the drivers were expected to dump liquid sheep waste along the road–and he had never received an after-hours alert. Still, he took the call, and dispatch gave him an address. Ten minutes later, his headlights lit up an old red barn and an old tall man hunched over. Mac climbed out, and flicked on his torch.

“Rough time of it?” Mac asked.

“Nah. Just tired. I’m Sam.”

“Mac.”

Sam looked up. His face was covered in blood.

Mac backed up a step, “What’s the problem then?”

Sam looked up and gestured towards the barn.

“Show me what we’re working with, mate,” Mac said.

Sam sighed. He stood and pushed open the door.

Dead sheep lay stacked a meter high.

“Jesus.”

“Wool price is shit, lanolin price is shit, no one even eats lamb anymore,” Sam said.

“Why didn’t you just sell them?” Mac asked, he swept the beam over the pile. Large flies bounced against the torch.

“Cost to truck them, cost of processing, I lose $10,000. The only thing cheaper would be to cut a hole in the fence and let them be my neighbor’s problem.”

“I think we’re actually neighbors, we share the fence by the transmission tower.” Mac gestured towards where the Manapuri hydro station threw its power lines across the island.

“In that case, do you like sheep?” A smile cracked through the dried blood on Sam’s face.

Mac grinned. “My truck’s only certified for liquid effluvia, mate.”

Sam sighed. “Listen, you look like a country fella, someone that knows how to take care of things out here.”

Mac looked at the stars reflected in a ram’s clouded eye. “Sure, but I would’ve brought my flatbed then.”

Both men chuckled. The barn wafted death like a desecrated altar.

“If you can throw in a sixer then I can pop back to the garage and get my flatbed,” Mac said, “after all, we’re neighbors.”

They worked through the night, hefting corpses onto the truck. Their sweat and blood mingled together in a tangy bouquet. Finally they stopped for beer and cigarettes.

“We’re over halfways anyways,” Sam said. He tossed a bottle to Mac.

“Wife’s asleep then?” Mac asked as he popped off the cap.

“No wife.”

The moon had risen, fat and yellow.

“Got a bird then, a girlfriend mate?”

The power lines above them sang with corona discharge. Mac watched Sam’s face light and disappear around the cigarette’s ember. Sam’s eyes were orange-flecked, like a carnelian, Mac decided.

Sam started to stand, and stumbled.

Mac moved to catch him.

Sam caught his forearm. His grip slid down until their hands met.

Somewhere in the barn, a lamb bleated.