When Pigs Fly Coach

By Krazydiamond

Orwell knew it was going to be a wretched day when the hot slop came hurtling at him over the diner counter.

There was a beat of silence among the diners, wincing in sympathy for the demise of a rather nice trouser and waistcoat to the oozing splotch of greasy food before they returned to their plates and general conversation. Orwell sighed, there wasn't much else he could do about the situation now, not with hot grease seeping into the fine silk weave of his tailored vest. Lucy was appalled, attempting to sop at the mess with her already stained apron.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Speck," she babbled, wobbling on too thin heels around him until he was certain one more turn would send her toppling to the ground.

"It's quite all right dear," he said, trying to keep the grind of his back teeth out of his voice. Lucy had impeccable service and as a rule was genuinely kind to him, it was just his luck today. He missed the first tram of the day, meaning he couldn't stop for the morning paper and breakfast. Food was more important so he'd opted straight for the diner. Barely three bites into his meal and he was dripping. The grease mingled with the morning sweat brought on by the crowded tram, leaving the faint odor of hot garbage.

There was no time to run home and change, not if he was to catch his flight, which meant he would perform his inspection smelling like a landfill.

"At least let me comp you the meal, sir," said Lucy. Perhaps this wouldn't be such a bad day after all.

"Thank, my dear, that would be most helpful," he said, catching sight of the time. The traitorous hands indicated he had barely half an hour to trot to the station. Leaping up with an indignant squeal, he bade Lucy an apologetic farewell and raced off, pattering along the cobblestones at top speed.

He should have stayed in bed, wrapped in his blankets.

The central station was abuzz, passengers packed snout to tail as they made their way through ticketing and customs. Orwell skidded into the express line, fumbling for his official papers in his vest pocket, dismayed by the smear of grease over the city seal. Oh, dear. Mr. Perkins would have a conniption when he saw the state of his paperwork.

He placed them before the porter, apologizing for their condition as he launched into the breakfast fiasco.

"And then the poor girl slipped an a stray peel and--"

"Please place your hand here," said the porter, his expression one of boredom.

"Oh, er..." Orwell placed his hand beneath the scanner, praying Mrs. Tally properly updated his information for the system.

The porter frowned at the screen. "I'm afraid there was a discrepancy in setting up your accommodations Inspector....Speck. In light of that, we unfortunately overbooked first class. We can still place you on the waiting flight, but I am afraid you shall have to take a coach seat."

Truly, it was a wretched day.

A flight attendant in a too small skirt and jacket led him through the ship, giving him a longing glimpse of the roomy seating arrangements and private booths contained in first class. The aisle abruptly narrowed, forcing both of them to squeeze their combined bulk into the trough lined benches. Orwell sneered at the worn bench, the economy seating far below the cleanliness standards of the first class. He heaved himself to the window, because he'd be damned if this already piss poor arrangement forced him to the middle of the bench. Pouting he kept his gaze out the circular window, ignoring the grunts and snorts of the other passengers packing themselves in like fish in a tin. His beady eyes rolled as a gentleman who required the space of the first class rolled himself in next to Orwell, his bulk smooshing the poor inspector's face against the concave bubble of glass. Orwell gave a short squeal of protest.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," sputtered the portly gentleman, a fleck of spittle landing on Orwell's soiled vest.

The inspector bit back on his angry retort, unwilling to start a row with the slob as the ship's engines kicked into gear. A lurch in his stomach and they were air born, the city falling away beneath them as the dirigible's engines puffed and bellowed to gain the necessary height for the wall.

The portly gentleman beside him leaned into him. "Hydrogen power, eh? Safest way to travel, if I do say so myself."

Oh no, thought Orwell, a conversationalist. He could see the trap waiting for him. Don't answer, don't answer! Luckily, the ship crested the city wall, giving his neighbor a distraction.

"By god," murmured the fat gentleman.

Ah ha, a first time traveler. One could always tell by the reaction to what lay over the wall. Orwell ignored the murmuring around him and looked down at the crawling mass. These were the non-contained ones, a writhing mess of bodies, fighting, mating, eating, and everything in between. It was a miracle the wall kept them at bay, or they would spill into the streets of his city, consuming everything in sight. That was their nature, and despite the various methods of pest control the government employed to keep the horde in check, every few years their numbers would ramp up again. He wondered where creation went wrong to produce such a being.

His destination in one of the walled central regions of the country made a point to study them, to gauge their weaknesses and strengths, if any. The Genos Facility produced many experiments on the creatures. One of the more troubling theories was the possibility of the horde possessing untapped intelligence. A worrisome theory for sure, any government official worth his salt would quiver in his boots at the thought of an organized horde.

Orwell's superior claimed the Genos Facility submitted several lax reports of their latest round of experiments, prompting a 'surprise' inspection. He snorted at the thought. Undoubtedly it was more of a surprise for him than it was for Genos. He was certain he would be a laughingstock among those white coats when he should up rumpled and covered in slop. The thought made him grind his teeth until the ship landed in the central region.

If one thought the coastal region was crowded, central felt like an unending cattle drive. His destination was on the direct opposite side of the region, hugging central's far wall right at their back door.

By the time Orwell was spat out by the herd at the Genos Facility gate, he was even more of a hot mess, muttering darkly to himself when there was no guard to greet him. He harumped and stumped about t he gate for half an hour before ducking under the post and stomping for the front door.

The grounds were eerily silent. Through the front glass panes, he caught a glimpse of the lobby desk, also empty. What was going on here?

Orwell nosed his way inside, his steps clicking on the linoleum floor as he walked through the halls. Not a soul in sight. A right puzzle to be sure until he caught sight of a suspicious rust colored smudge along the wall. The short bristles along his back stood on end as he slowed his progress, peering around corners before he took them. A strange smell permeated the air, teasing his nostrils with a scent that made him salivate as much as it disgusted him. Something was terribly wrong here.

Orwell froze at sound of footsteps, except these steps were flat, slapping noises, fleshy noises. He backed against the wall, ready to bolt when she came around the corner.

At least he thought it was a female. He'd never been so close to one of the horde before, never mind one of their young. She couldn't have been more than four feet tall, with long wild blonde hair that fell in fat curls down to her waist. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, cradling, holding a crispy strip of meat in her other that she nibbled as she walked. She stopped when she saw Orwell.

"Hullo Mr. Piggy," she said, nibbling the strip of meat with a grin.

It spoke! Orwell blinked at the youngling, shocked into temporary silence as they studied one another. There were more rust stains on the girl's plain cotton gown, and her fingernails were suspiciously dirty.

"Um, hello little one," he paused, at a loss with how to proceed. Clearly the facility was more lax than his superiors feared, if their subjects were wandering the halls in unseemly get ups. "Pardon, where are your handlers?"

He winced at her frown; she clearly didn't appreciate the word. Orwell groaned internally. Of all the theories that could have been right, Genos had to be right about the horde animals' supposed intelligence.

"They aren't around anymore," said the small female, nibbling on her meal with a creepy smile. He could smell it now. It gave off the same tantalizing and nauseating smell that wafted through the halls.

"What are you eating?"

Her grin grew wider. "Bacon."

Orwell frowned, confused. What on Earth was bacon? The small female crouched in front of him, ripping a chunk of the meat away with small white teeth. She chewed it with relish before looking him dead in the eye.

"Oink oink," she said.

Cold terror washed down his spine as clarity stole over him. Orwell backed away from the female, his feet clicking on the ground. He was so mindless of his direction he bumped into a metal waste bin, knocking it over. The metallic clang echoed down the hall as its contents emptied across the linoleum.

A head spilled out, leaving a smear of blood along the floor as it came to a rest at Orwell's feet.

"Oh!" Some sick bastard stuck an apple core in the head's mouth. Orwell managed to tear his eyes away from the grisly sight as the hall filled with the sound of rushing thumps.

"I would run now, Mr. Pig," said the little female, dispassionately prodding the head with her toe. Orwell didn't need to be told twice. He bolted down the winding halls, trying to find his way back to the entrance. He had to tell someone! He had to alert the authorities! How many bloody test subjects did Genos house in this facility? How had they gotten the upper hand on trained scientists? Were they really as intelligent as the scientists claimed?

Orwell skidded and tripped along the halls, realizing he was thoroughly lost in the facility's endless maze of identical hallways. It couldn't get worse than this, he bemoaned to himself, turning another corner.

He spoke too soon, cursing the laws of the universe that rose to the unspoken challenge. Instead of finding the front door, Orwell managed to find the back. It took the space of glance to understand what happened to Genos facility. They had played with fire, drilling a hole into the wall to extract subjects directly from the other side instead of waiting for them to be properly tagged and caught in the wild. The shielding doors to the tunnel hung off their hinges, busted open, giving the horde a direct route inside.

Where they devoured the Genos staff.

The yard was crawling with them, lazily gnawing on the porcine remains of the wall guards. A swarm of humans who would kill and devour him in a heart beat. Who would descend on central to consume it all.

Orwell backed away, praying they didn't notice him, praying just once, something about this disaster of a day went right. He backed right into another damn trash bin.

Every shaggy head swiveled in his direction, licking their lips at the sight of him. Orwell squealed and ran for it, the horde of humans hot on his heels.

It was a very wretched day.

The End?