The Pony I Killed

by EpicSPAR

Rating: mature
Tags: Tragedy, Dark, Sad, Gore, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 2606

[i]The pony I killed; he was young, my age, I guess. He sat with a grin on his brown, crimson stained face, eager to see me, like it made his day. He was, I think, learning to be a doctor, back home far away from me. Before me. Then, he was told to c

The pony I killed; he was young, my age, I guess. He sat with a grin on his brown, crimson stained face, eager to see me, like it made his day. He was, I think, learning to be a doctor, back home far away from me. Before me. Then, he was told to come kill me, and that was all he needed.

This story was inspired by a short story from Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. This story was designed to set the stage for a greater universe I hope to create, and as you can see also to be rather sad. If you don't like sadness, I don't recommend you read it; other than that, critiquing is appreciated, I'm working on learning how to improve my writing as this is my first story. I'm also waiting for some cover art, and buddy, if you're reading this, no sweat. I'm in no hurry.

Thanks to Keetasari for the first comment on the story after pre-reading that just made my day. For real, it really made me happy.

To Darksonickiller, who gave me an offer I couldn't refuse, and for pre-reading. I promise I'm working! I just need time!

To my close buddies ArTic, and Vinyl Moon for being awesome guys.

To Astral Blaze for pre-reading and giving some good advice.

And to the runaway, a former author here that helped inspire my writing style, and gave me some excellent advice. Wish you could have stayed with us buddy. Also, the comments are old, and I'd like to believe I fixed most of the problems, but if you spot some, please let me know.

Published 2014-05-01 05:40:06 UTC
Last updated 2014-05-01 05:40:06 UTC

Madness

The pony I killed; he was young, my age I guessed. He sat with a grin on his brown, crimson stained face, eager to see me, like I had made his day. He was, I think, learning to be a doctor, back home far away from me. Before me. Then, he was told to come kill me; and that was all he needed.

______

We snuck through the Bush, the name we gave to the world as we knew it: Dark vegetation, harboring shadows, which in turn harbored the worst of intentions. There were other names to: Hell, or perhaps Bumfuck Equestria, but the Bush always prevailed in the end. To traverse the Bush meant to trot into uncertainty, to carry with you an air of premonition. The mares and stallions that carefully imitated the steps of those leading understood that each of those steps brought them closer to death. For some, the Bush was immediate, for others, it followed after multiple stages of denial; yet the refusal to accept the obvious, sooner or later, would drive anypony insane. They would simply trot through foliage, attempting to cling to the false ignorance that pushing the Bush away would bring, and that, brought false bliss, which brought false comfort. But the Bush was always there, and they'd move through soon enough. It couldn't happen to me, nah, not me. Never.

We were kind of like a caterpillar. The pointpony, or the one up front leading would hold his hoof up and we'd stop, lay on our bellies, and listen. As I watched the shadows in the night, trying to deduce anything in this sea of blackness and vague silhouettes, I heard, what I believed to be, some kind of music, or perhaps something different I'm not sure; but it was definitely a constant, muffled droning or mumbling off in the back of my mind that slowly ate at my sanity. The Bush sang. My beating heart and ragged, suppressed breath helped keep the rhythm. Everypony's song was different, but they heard em' to; and it made all of us uneasy. The Company was a timid creature. Leeches crawled up our legs, and fell from the trees to greet us. We responded to their hospitality with stomping applause. They enjoyed our Company, and we knew they'd stick around.

Just the creeps, false alarm, the word would spread down the caterpillar, the bunched up group of ponies would relax the segment, and move forward with the rest. One, two, three... One hoof in front of the other, rifles cradled in our forearms. Follow the shadow. We stared ahead, knowing that the secrets of the forest would have to found, and killed.

We were fools.

The pony I killed, was happy. As a colt, his dad would take him to the theaters where he could watch and listen to the stories about the president. He loved his dad, but he loved the president more. All he wanted was to make the president happy, he wanted to be a doctor so he could help his people, and make the president happy. He sprinted towards me, and then he was dead.

______

We walked along; painfully aware of the fatigue, but ignoring it nonetheless. Mud covered our bodies as we lay on the ground again. I quietly grunted as I felt the jungle rot sores on my legs open up. Blood and pus oozed out and mingled with the mud on my fatigues, I must have smelled awful. But I had long since ceased to notice. Or care.

The music played, but we didn't listen, focusing on the trees, and grass that engulfed us. Consumed us. We were in the belly of the beast; the beast was the Everfree. Everfree, we are everfree.

The pony I killed was excited. He wore his flag on his shoulder, and proudly displayed its colors. Everypony else was doing the same, and they were just as ecstatic. They stood with massive grins as they were told what they needed to do. And after he graduated, he died.

______

I looked to my right, at the pony next to me. He looked back; his face, dirty, wounded, gave me an empty smile. His expression, was that of a pony that was already dead.

I could feel the madness; I wanted sound, anything but the jungle ambience and song. Not knowing what was going to happen terrified us. It was like a constant stabbing pain in our sides, and at the bottom of our stomachs; It tunneled from our minds into the rest of our bodies like a parasite, tearing at the insides around the midsection, and carving a path of anxiety. I wanted to vomit.

Just another fucking alarm, but that small fact did nothing to assuage the stabs of anxiety that filled my insides. My friend must have noticed because he gave me another weak smile and placed a hoof on my shoulder. He said nothing, but that was fine because the gesture spoke for him. Hey, everything's goin' to be fine he used to tell me. He knew better; we all knew better, but I greatly appreciated the small, small gesture. It was so simple, but in hell often the small insignificant kindnesses seemed like miracles. I took a moment to let the feeling warm the cold foreboding that filled my body; I smiled for the first time in weeks.

We kept moving, and it started raining. This was better, yet worse at the same time. The sound of the heavy rain smacking against foliage, and our helmets eased my mind somewhat because it made us more difficult to hear. Yet, I was aware that at the same time, it also made anypony else out and about harder to hear. I was still scared.

Finally, we reached our destination. It didn't seem so special, just a random part of the jungle: leaves, grass, thick, wet foliage. I knew this was where we needed to be because after consulting the map and compass, the lieutenant ordered the halt. About fifteen minutes later we were once again, laying on our stomachs. Only this time we weren't getting back up until the morning. A wire was strung out through our position, we used it for communication. Three tugs to check in, two to signal an alert, one to open fire.

The Bush waited, we could feel its anticipation. It couldn't wait to bury us.

The pony I killed was joyful through a guise of pain. He didn't care; the aches, jungle rot, and leeches reminded him of why he was here. His unit carried on with the faculties of a zealot. And he'd follow them to the end of the world

______

As I lay there, I realized that I never really new just how heavy your head could get as I struggled to remain alert. And at that moment, I wondered if death was comforting. I felt accustomed to the idea of death. No fear, no worries, nothing. The dead had nothing, but they didn't seem to mind. The bodies, flies at the mouth, stiff, cold, and bloated, seemed peaceful in a way. The peace that was born of nothing sounded good right now; I had to fight to keep my rifle trained on the tree line, trying to see. Just a pull, a pop, nothing...

I recall being told that hell is an artificial creation, something we bring upon ourselves. As we laid on our stomachs for what seemed like the hundredth time, and the strange music returned, there was little doubt left in a place occupied by terror.

I looked towards my friend and he looked back, smiling again. And just like that the silence ended, and the air around me was filled with a cacophony of dangerous sounds as his lower jaw was ripped from his skull. I was struck still by the blood that spattered my face, and the writhing form of my friend on the ground screaming a gargling and choking wail, and groping with his fore hooves for what remained of his muzzle. Another pony grabbed his gnarled, screaming body and dragged him off as the wire strung between us all was tugged frantically. The blood on my face seeped into my mouth, and I tasted iron. I vomited.

The dark rain filled night was lit up with orange and green tracers that sliced through the rain and whistled past my ears, and muzzle flashes that illuminated every individual for a just a split second, it was mesmerizing in a livid way. Somepony smacked me across the head and screamed at me to get my shit together; I grabbed my rifle and fired into the jungle in the direction with the most muzzle flashes. We couldn't see each other well, everyone in my platoon fired at the angry shadows in front of us, but we couldn't be sure we were hitting anything. Mud splashed around us as the rounds struck dangerously close.

My mind raced as I did my best to understand the situation, one-hundred and forty-three ponies, splayed out on the line felt the same way: screams of pain and orders being shouted out, the pouring rain, gunfire and explosions. My senses were filled, and it just went on and on; neither side would give in. We wouldn't call a retreat and neither would the enemy. I couldn't tell how bad our casualties were, or what was really going on, but when the fire subsided a bit and this order was relayed up and down the line, I knew things were getting a whole lot worse.

Fix bayonets! Fix bayonets! It bounced around in my head for a full second when I realized it also applied to me. I scrambled for the bayonet sheathed on my chest, and I dropped it a few times as I tried to screw it on. Finally, blade on the barrel and ready, the deafening roar of dozens of stomping hooves filled my ears. I felt cold inside as I watched the wave of charging ponies sprint towards our line through the rain and scream. A few pegasi flew above the wave, and some of the unicorns held their bayoneted weapons with their telekinesis, but the majority of the ponies, earth and pegasus, held them in their hooves and deftly sprinted as their well trained hind legs carried them. They hit us hard, it was awful.

Whump! Was the sound I heard as ponies struck ponies with the butts of rifles. Crack! Followed by groans and screams as their heads were caved in. Wet smacks and the rapid pops of automatic weapons as ponies fired into ponies to dislodge stuck bayonets. Chaos. There was no order here, just the primal dispositions of cornered animals and savage predators. And yet, there I was, sobbing into the mud and laying there as I waited for somepony to spot me. I didn't want them to find me, and I just laid there holding my rifle and shaking as my platoon died around me. I recall thunder, and the jolt of fear that raked my spine, and the smell of urine. I was so scared. I wanted to live.

Or die. If it ended the noise, it was welcome to me.

As I looked up, the shape of yet another charging stallion among the dozens that followed on either side filled my vision. He ran with a zeal I had never before seen and a wild look on his grinning face. His young face. He couldn't have been older than nineteen, and still he ran, and I was still scared. He ran towards me; and now I was carried by instinct, fear fueled the reaction.

I jumped up and met him a fourth of the way, our rifles collided as we struck out at each other. We moved with grace as we danced this dance of death. Crack! Smack! The sounds of our fight were lost in the mess of pain and chaos around us. I hooked my foreleg in between him and his weapon as we stood and pushed at one another, and I jerked it away. Stunned, his head lurched in the direction that it flew, watching with disbelief. Then pain. The bayonet met his lungs, past the ribcage; then the gut. He fell back, leaning against a rock as I savagely stabbed at his body with the blade, and shot it, screaming in fear and in fury. His face curled into a smile and his chest ceased to move on its own, and I just kept killing. Over and over, stab-pop, stab-pop-pop, stab-pop.

I sobbed as I maimed his body; and I only stopped when a couple of my platoon mates grabbed me and pulled me towards the ground. I just laid there, sobbing into the mud. The medic came by, he checked me over and gave me some water, a cigarette, and some chocolate. He told me drink, and he told me eat, he told me to stop thinking. My platoon mates stood a few feet away, and spoke in hushed whispers, trying to keep me from hearing. But I hear anyway.
Holy fuckin' shit! You see his guts fall out?
Yeah, you could paint a deuce-and-a-half with that much blood.
Least we know not to fuck with this guy.
Yeah, I'm glad he's on our side.
No shit.
I just sat there in stupid bewilderment as I stared at my hoof work.

The pony I killed was still. He leaned against the rock, and stared into oblivion with a dead expression. He thought of the ponies he killed, and how happy the president would be. And then he sat there, and then he thought nothing. His life left, and with it took the goals, the aspirations, and ideas of the living, abandoning the husk it inhabited with a defiant smile.

The battle was over. I sat with a blank look on my face as I stared at my blood stained hooves. Then, I averted my eyes towards the jungle canopy, and then towards the sky. The moon was indifferent, I knew that, but somehow I felt that if the moon and sun knew of the atrocities being committed here in this Celestia forsaken forest, they would dim and silently weep. Like hurt parents. I couldn't cry anymore, but my jaw trembled anyway.

The enemy was routed: We killed them, they wouldn't surrender. The medic wrapped a rain poncho around me and walked off to tend to the wounded, as I watched him go, I wondered what would happen now. The bloodied, ragged mess that was that pony's chest gleamed in the moonlight.

We packed up; the sound of the nearby choppers filled the air. They landed in a clearing we made, then departed with the wounded, and the dead. The mortar fire that followed their departure pounded my ears, and added a new beat to the song. The shockwaves made my nose bleed.

Today is a good day! Hours later the battalion commander congratulated my company over the radio, promising that Equestria would know of our exploits. I glanced at the pony I killed, he smiled back. I wondered why it all felt so pointless, with the point right in front of me. I continued to stare at the pony: Ponies like him were the point, I realized without a feeling of any sort of closure. We finished packing up, and off we went. Deeper into the jungle, deeper into the madness.

Author's Note

Hope you guys enjoyed it, this is my first actual story, so any criticism is appreciated.