The Big Bad

I injured my hand bad, or else I would've grabbed my younger boy before the pack could close in and swallow him. Teeth clenched, I didn't even have the strength to pick up my gun from the snow.

"Pa!"

They covered him, grunting and squealing, tearing him apart, nothing cute about their pink skin or snorty noses. They probably banded together from every farm in the area. I sobbed but couldn't stick around. They could smell my bloody hand.

We were wrong to kill off the wolves when it was the pigs—intelligent, ubiquitous, and insatiable—who would lead to our ruin.