Stories of War Ponies

We stood in the dank and dark room (probably more of a closet than anything, listening to the unnerving moans and groans form outside the red door, barred from the inside. I loaded my last magazine form the scattered mess of ammo scattered on the table. My team, an old veteran that amidst the apocalypse still managed to find a pack of cigarettes, a biker with a knack for shotguns, a young-mare that was handy with a pistol, then myself; How the hell have I survived?

Everyone checked their ammo, grabbed a medpack, and gathered around the door. We took the bar of and the door swung open, revealing the late, misty night that was in front of us. We slowly, and uneasily stepped outside. Within a split second the rounds were flying as silhouettes fell near and far. Amongst the chaos no one noticed that the old war vet had disappeared.

It was pretty smooth sailing through the alleyways of East Manehattan. A pack here, and a horde there, but nothing we weren't able to handle. That's when we heard it. A faint, and distant, "Oh, Shit!" We knew it couldn't be good, and after a quick headcount we came to the conclusion that it was the old stallion. We picked up our pace, as the curses became more frequent.

The ground started shaking, which was never a good sign and only meant one thing: "TANK!" We turned tail in the other direction, firing blindly through the giant chunks of concrete raining down on us. Eventually, the action died down as the behemoth fell. Everything was fine until that phrase rang through the streets, "Fuck I'm down, guys hurry up and get me!"

We were on the clock now, we had to hurry, and we ceased being careful, more worried about our friend in need. I rounded the corner and saw him lying on the ground, those things gathered around him beating him to a pulp. But it was too late, he was dead, and soon we were overtaken by the horde. As we fought to no avail, a voice echoed in my head...

"You guys are fucking assholes, why couldn't you get me up!?"