Pigoons

Chapter 461,222 wordsCompleted

The chapter opens with a fragmented childhood nightmare of five‑year‑old Jimmy (later Snowman) sitting at a kitchen table, staring at a grotesque peanut‑butter‑and‑jelly “bread” while his mother is absent. A scraping sound from the wall, a distorted clock and crumbling plaster plunge him into terror before he awakens, cursing the intrusion of past trauma into his present and reminding himself to “live in the moment.”

In the present, Snowman finds himself inside the battered gatehouse he survived during the earlier tornado. The interior is littered with rubble, a broken bullet‑proof window, a dead intercom, and a slot for micro‑coded documents. While inspecting the damage, a large land crab with a single massive pincer emerges from the debris, apparently seeking shelter from the storm. Snowman throws an empty bourbon bottle at it; the bottle shatters, the crab retreats into a hole, and Snowman secures the inner door to keep it out.

He steps outside onto a freshly scoured, pearly grey‑pink landscape. The ground is covered with twisted metal sheets, uprooted trees, and littered leaves. The air is cool and fresh, a sharp contrast to the dank smell inside the gatehouse. Snowman decides to head for the central mall to find food—he carries only a few SoyOBoy sardines as a last‑resort snack.

Before he can get far, he encounters a first group of seven pigoons (engineered pig‑goat hybrids) materializing from nowhere. They stare at him, ears forward, then begin to advance. Snowman retreats back into the gatehouse, slams the door, but the lock is broken. He hears the pigoons outside, realizes they are escape‑artist creatures capable of prying doors open.

He rushes through a series of doorways, attempting to barricade himself, but each lock fails. The pigoons multiply; a second group of eight or nine appears farther ahead, effectively cutting off his escape route. Snowman returns to the gatehouse, barricades a reception desk, and looks out through the bullet‑proof window as the first wave of pigoons reaches the doorway.

The pigoons—boars and sows with sharp tusks—push against the door, sniffing his scent, gnawing at the wood, and waiting to force their way in. Snowman notes the sheer number—twenty to thirty—pressing against the entrance, ready to break through or starve him out. He scans for the land crab, but it has vanished back into its burrow.

Faced with overwhelming odds, Snowman muses bitterly about needing a burrow of his own to survive. He acknowledges the pigoons’ relentless nature and their ability to coordinate attacks, concluding with a resigned, profanity‑laden line: “Honey, you’re fucked.”