A distant and muffled crack waked me up in a start. My head reeled horribly. My vision was flooded with stars and my body was carried away by the incessant wobbling of the wagon. Again I had slept in a bad position. Around me, the atmosphere was thick, clammy and stressful. I heard the helmets of my teammates clattering together. Bayonets dangled on our saddlebags, twinkling in the dull light the red lamp flashed intermittently at the end of the truck. I could record time with this blink. And it was passing by slowly.
The wagon itself was deadly silent, apart from the metallic clatter. Everypony were mouth shut, waiting for the end of the travel, or maybe only waiting for the end. Another loud boom echoed far away above us. The lintels of the roof of the train shook and screeched. I listened... Ponies were swallowing their saliva around me. I did so as well. I felt fear; I could nearly taste it in my shrivelled mouth. I had not been given water before the departure, two days ago. And my rations had been running dry.
The wagon reeked death. I knew that some of us had not made it out, or would not. The stench was poignant, a mix between the infuriating smell of sweat dripping on the faces of stressed ponies, and the ineffable odour of death. It was making the air thicker than it already was. I gave a look at the dozens of anonymous friends around me. All watched blankly at the emptiness standing between their eyes and the casqued heads right before them. All the stares were deprived of will, as if their true souls had been sucked out by an ungodly creature, Despair.
I held my rifle tighter, its cold bore bit the bare fur on my belly. I had not been given protection there. I could only brag that I had a plaque on my torso. At least, I would... I might survive a charge. Unfortunately, we were the front line, the meat shields. We had only few hopes to survive the first minutes.
I could confess, I was frightened, terribly scared. I knew our destination so well. The name of the city did not matter as for the names of my comrades. Names were irrelevant where we were heading. Deep within our souls we knew we were waiting inside a mad train rushing toward Hell.
I was lucky. I had taken position near of a window. A fresh but unsettling breeze was whistling on me through the cracks of the glass. The exterior was as black as our transport. It was a simple wall, armed with rows of copper wires. Sometimes, we passed by a backup lamp, casting its dull yellow light. The cracks, booms and thumbs coming from over us was imperceptibly intensifying. We counted the seconds passing by. We prayed silently the goddesses that had abandoned us, as a lot of ponies said.
The underground where the train was evolving was connected to the surface through endless networks of evacuation pipes. The echoes always came to us distorted, disfigured and somehow, scarier than they should be. Was it because nopony was talking? That a deadly silence was numbing our minds.
I heard a remote whistle, coming from a pipe above us. An explosion burst out on the surface and I was deafened. The wagon, even protected under the earth, trembled on his tracks. For a second, I even thought we would derail. Ponies gasped and held back screams as the wagon tip-toed on the rails. Fortunately it continued its race toward the surface. But… somehow… I could not repress the thought that it was also making us unfortunate. The ride had to go on.
Through the windows I could see chunks of clay and rocks falling from the ceiling of the tunnel. The earthquakes did not slow our pace. The explosion that boomed above us, and the ones that followed were more powerful than ever. Ponies tensed around me. I hear sobs and I lowered my gaze. My eyes were watery too. I should not cry, but in the darkness and the filthiness I was at the moment, I could not feel the tears running down my cheeks.
I gave a look at my saddlebag. It was heavier than the packages of my mates. But I had my reasons. Ransacking it, I took out an old and dusty object. In spite of the noise I was making, nopony stared at me. We were all sinking in our own abstract thought. It was an instrument. It was my accordion, a bayan type. I always remember the face of my friends and ponies passing by as I drew out my instrument. It was strangely shaped and somehow seemed so much tricky to play. Playing it, I created smiles on random faces and spread queries in ponies’ minds. The melody that came out of it was so alien, strange and irresistible it blended within the spirits and awoke the greatest passions.
My accordion was my voice and here, squeezed between my comrades, I could not voice, I could not vent. I could not scream that feeling running beneath my skin. A series of noisy booms crackled far away. For the first time I heard the characteristic clinking of a flying bullet when it crashed on a wall of concrete. I wanted to forget that sound so much, as much as the whistling in the air as they drifted by.
The wheels grated on the racks and the brakes squealed. Underground, the train slowed down and stopped. Some ponies agitated on their aching hooves. Standing straight was difficult, and this sudden stop was enough to make the pain reach their brain. I heard complaints and cries. A long wait ensued and the stress increased as time flowed away.
Then the ride started again. But everything was different. A loud rattling began and I felt the train slopping. It felt strange. The only sensation and sound that came close to it was the ascension of a truck toward the top of a roller-coaster. And we were all sitting there, waiting for the next step of the ride... The downfall.
*clack* *clack* *clack* *clack* *clack* *clack* *clack*
The ascent lasted long, too damn long and when the first beams of light slithered through the windows I winced. My eyes hurt so much. I heard dismay around me and I thought the outside was silent. Damn me for being so naïve. I had just been deafened again by the pandemonium playing around the wagon.
The dusk light shone in the west. But the true light came from the uncountable explosions roaring around.
Fog of war, bullets, blood and fire swamped the landscape. The low clouds were blackened by the smoke rising from the abandoned buildings, the scorched streets and burning bodies around. Shades of red and orange reverberated on this cover, acting like a heavy lid over our head. The atmosphere was reddish and yellowed, as if a layer of the fire’s colours had been applied to the city. In the distance I saw a statute. It shocked me... Six fillies dancing around a dried fountains that had been set on fire by an unceasing bombardment. I felt sick and held back a gag.
My hearing came back in a rush and I understood my plight. The air was overwhelmed with cracks of guns, whistling and explosions. I felt crushed under the pressure of the hell playing around outside. My ears popped constantly. I vomited. And now only one idea flooded my mind. Survival.
A pony cried out an order I never understood and the ramps burst open on the sides of the wagon. I ran, ready to take cover. I carried my weapon high, not sure if I was ready to fight. I had never been a good markspony, neither a good fighter. I ran, I stumbled, I stood up again and a sour pain blasted my neck. I fell and bite the dust.
The sky was hellish, red, pink, yellow and orange. A waterfall which water had been replaced with liquid fire... watching over me, not like a lid, but like a horridly warm blanket that would swallow me whole. I reached my saddlebag with my hoof, and hiccupped. Where is the medic? I screamed... tried to. My vision was blurred. Somepony fell on me and blood splattered my eyes. Squeezed, crushed.
Left alone...
Another body fell over me. I was being buried by fate. I cried. Why is everything so black? Why I am so sleepy?
I want to scream.
“Daddy, why are they so many skeletons around here?” a squeaky voice intoned.
“One hundred years ago a great battle happened here. And a bomb settled it forever. Many ponies died here and down here. It’s now nothing but an abandoned place. Death’s shrine,” a raspy and voice answered.
“What are you searching for?” the filly asked, bouncing around.
“Scraps, as always and... oh, oh, oh! Look what we’ve got here?”
The stallion had pushed two wrinkled and withered cadavers over. Below dwelled a small and wrecked pony’s body. Its hooves were contracted on an accordion. Silently the stallion put his left forehoof on the corpse’s neck and with his mouth grasped the mangled leather strap of the instrument. He snatched it off, breaking off the neck of the pony, and ripped off one of its forelegs. It stayed tensed on the object.
“He must have loved it…” the young filly supposed.
“He has no use for it now, and it might be valuable. Don’t you want to eat tonight?” the stallion berated.
“Well... duh, but...”
“Then, shush. The dead are silent, and in the realm of death silence and oblivion are king and queen.”
They away from the cadaver. And after casting a last look toward its crooked limbs, the filly smiled and nestled up to her father.
They would be able to eat tonight.
