Three Little Pigs

 

In the dark depths of the forest, there was a village. Surrounded by towering walls and made from crumbling houses, those still standing had heavily barricaded windows. The stench of rotting flesh went unnoticed by the three remaining survivors, they had long since become accustomed to it. Each cold night shadows would dart along the streets, howling and cackling. They'd steal any pig who dared to step outside of their home. Anyone would warn you to stay inside. But the wolves were getting hungry. They were desperate.
 
It was early morning, the sunlight signalled that it was safe. The youngest had a hut of straw, tucked away, out of sight. The oldest pig had finished laying down the final brick of his house.
"It's pretty great," the little pig said.
"Sure is," the oldest smiled. Then he looked over at the straw hut with a look of disgust, the younger one felt his cheeks burn.
"Um," he said, "could I stay with you please?"
"I'll think about it," the eldest said with a frown. He glanced away for a moment. After they said goodbye they parted ways.
 
After a few hours, the oldest pig went to the stick house, where the middle brother lived.. He knocked on the door. It opened. Instead of the second pig, he looked down to see the youngest, which made him jump.
"What are you doing in here?" The oldest asked.
"Looking after his house," the youngest scratched the back of his neck, "you know."
"Where is he?" He asked.
"Gone to get sticks," he said. The little pig peeled at the rotting wood.
"Ah," the oldest said as he nodded slowly with narrow eyes, "I'll talk to him tomorrow then."
The youngest simply waved and shut the door on him. He heard the lock slide into place. The oldest returned to the safety of his house.
 
Night fell. The second pig returned home, sneaking through the shadows. His heart pounded in his chest. A sigh of relief as he reached the wooden house. Then he quickly covered his mouth, frantically glancing around. He pulled the handle, nearly tearing it off as it was so rotten. But the door didn't open. A second pull. The pig walked around to the window. He looked inside to see the youngest pig sat inside. He gently tapped on the window. ‘Little pig, little pig, let me come in!’The youngest glanced at him then shrugged. The second pig felt his chest tighten as he stepped back into the cold, dark night.
 
The oldest lay back in his brick house, closed his eyes and ignored the rustling noises outside.
"Come out, little piggy," a wolf taunted at the door. His claws scraped along the sturdy walls. The beast peered through the shutters, his sickly yellow eyes gleaming. The pig ignored him, which made the wolf growl and snarl, revealing his rotten fangs. A large paw swiped at the wooden boards. Then the sound of foot steps. His ears swivelled to the source. The wolf turned his head. He stalked his prey. He leapt. The squealing pig bolted to his wooden house. But the wolf ran ahead. The pig darted back, hammering his fist on the door of the brick house, screaming, begging, for help. But there was no thud of a door closing. The chilling yowls of the wolf and haunting cries of the pig made both the remaining pigs tremble. Then there was silence except for a heavy weight being dragged along the dusty road.
 
The next day, the youngest only dared come out of his hut later. He went to seek comfort from the eldest pig. The sight of a crimson trail on the ground made his head spin. He looked up, to see the oldest pig following the red tracks into the woods.
"I guess you won't need this now," the youngest pig said. The little pig walked into the brick house. He locked the door behind him and decided to wait it out for as long as he could.
 
The oldest pig was deep in the woods. The canopy was so thick, the floor was devoid of light. He found the icy, heavy, limp body of the second pig, surrounded by flies. He reached into the dead pig’s shredded pockets, pulling out rings, gold coins and a silver watch; it still ticked. ‘I guess you won’t need these now,’ he said.
 
A few hours later, the sky deep orange and stroked with purple, the youngest pig heard the door handle rattle and the jingle of metal in a pocket. He crept towards the window. As he crouched on the floor, he could just see through the boards. The older pig was kicking at the door. He glanced up at the window and saw the youngest pig, his wide eyes watching him.
"Oh, it's you," he mumbled, "little pig, little pig, would you let me come in?"
"No," The little pig said and quickly sat down.
"It's my house!" the oldest pig shouted, frantically shaking the handle. The little pig ignored his pleas. Eventually, he gave up.  He went to the only place left and stayed the night in the straw house.
At dawn the road was littered with red straw and scraps of clothes.