I was puzzled as to its origins.
I couldn’t decide whether it had been a normal piggy, somehow protected from the bombs but eventually mutated, or – and this is where skepticism and science-fiction appear – if it had beenin the grocery’s inventory; some butchered carcass given unholy life by the eerie effects of radiation and bacon-ranch flavoured chips.
But man, was it ugly.
Tentacles sprouted where tusks might have been. They writhed horribly, crumbed with a recent meal of potato chips. It couldn’t have been more horrifying if it were covered in blood and guts.
Slowly, I lined up Bessy’s sights on the thing’s forehead. It didn’t seem to mind. I was about to take the shot when the cans I was crohcing on shifted. As I fell, the shot went wild, annihilating one of the few bags of bacon-ranch chips to have survived the end of the world.
The pig-thing bolted, leaving me alone in a light snow of weirdly-flavoured potato fragments. I kicked angrily at the pile of cans – no spam for me. Ham was for dinner.