This Little Piggy

by Craig McGray

This Little Piggy

  by

  Craig McGray

  This Little Piggy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  by Craig McGray

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Gray Skies Publishing

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  e-mail: authorcraigmcgray@live.com

  This Little Piggy

  Where the hell am I? Is my leg supposed to bend that way? My head is killing me. What happened to my ass? I’ve never had my elbow this close to my face. Where is this tunnel going? And that stench, my God, what is that stench?

  James woke up in an unexplained and magnificent stupor with only the attention of one eye as the other seemed to be on strike and unwilling to help. The moment he tried to move his legs, he realized the answer to at least one of his questions: no, it's not supposed to bend that way. Glancing down, his kneecap sat in its proper place, but his foot was twisted well beyond its normal limits.

  He brought his right hand to his head but only in his mind. In reality, his shoulder moved his upper arm, but his lower arm and hand remained pinned between the back of his skull and the grooves of the metal cylinder encasing him. Investigating the various lumps on his head with his willing left hand, the contusions were clear indications as to why he had no memory of where he was.

  The ribbed metal under him continued to throb. Whatever had happened down there wasn’t good. James rocked back and forth, attempting to ease the pain, but it was too much. He had to try to get his ass off whatever he was sitting on. Of all his injuries, this was his most concerning. His mind screamed that this was a serious problem.

  As James absorbed his surroundings, his mind raced. I'm in a stinky fucking tunnel with one eye, my leg is wrung out, and my arm is in such a queer position I can’t even figure out what the hell’s wrong with it. Not to mention my head is killing me!

  Somewhat regaining his senses, he thought rationally about his dilemma. Though he had no recollection of how he landed in his current position, he must have earned it because it would have taken quite the effort to end up here, wherever that was.

  After contorting his way onto his hands and knees, he moved toward what appeared to be the opening of the hellhole. After progressing only a few feet, a stench assaulted his nose, and his stomach reacted with a showing of his last meal. Though he wasn’t sure where he’d eaten that last meal, it had an Italian theme for sure, and he recognized the chicken Parmesan and Budweiser; they were old friends.

  Having a diminished use of his left side proved difficult. Every inch of progress felt like a marathon. The next outstretched hand grabbed something peculiar. James leaned down, and the origin of the stench became abundantly clear. A badly decomposed chunk of broken skull sat rotting at his fingertips. The stench from the putrid mess permeated his nose again, reaching into his stomach and extracting what was left of the Italian meal. He attempted to erase the vomit from the corners of his mouth and chin, but stopped. What was the point in cleaning vomit from his chin with a hand full of shit, or rotten flesh; in truth, it was probably at least both. James shook his chin free of the dangling strand of puke and continued.

  Desperate to find the end of the hellhole, he became numb to the fact that every other handful he grabbed was most likely spoiled human flesh and bones. Close enough to the gaping hole at the end of the tunnel, the full moon’s light shone like a ray of hope. The remains became clearer as he schlepped his twisted body through the potter’s field.

  Moving toward the mouth of the pipe, he realized that if someone put him in here, they might be waiting outside. James was in no condition to fight anyone off, nor was he in any shape to stay where he was.

  Once he reached the opening, he remained concealed in order to regain back some of the energy he lost during his freedom crawl. If he were to have any chance at fighting off an attack, he was going to need more energy than he had at that moment.

  Time crept by, and though he had no idea of how long he waited, he had to take his chances. Extending his left arm out, he waited for the painful acknowledgement of a watcher; there was none. After deciding the coast was clear, he struggled his way clear of the metal casket, flopping out and into a shallow stream at the mouth of the culvert.

  The full moon supervised as he made his way to the rocky bank. His body drained, he drew in a series of painful breaths. His eye was heavy, and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins earlier had long since run its course. James was exhausted and hurting. I’ll close my eye for a minute. Just a minute.

  James woke up under the still-watching moon. Though his body was failing him, his mind had brushed away the cobwebs. His brow wrinkled as the memories of the night flooded back. The pieces of the puzzle shuffled into place and James recalled details from the night’s misadventure.