Ghosts Under the Sun

by Blue Horizon

Rating: everyone
Tags: Dark, Tragedy
Length: 388

History is carved into stone. It is left to the future to read and interpret it.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-04-24 21:16:32 UTC

Chapter 1

A slithery reptile entered the room followed by a golden pony. The smell of rotting corpses clung to the air, seeping through the protective mask. The moonlight peered through the tattered curtains. The room was nothing special, just another abandonment of the past.

The pony began opening the drawers of a nearby dresser. Empty. Empty. And empty. She moved to the next. Inside the top drawer was a darkly checkered and folded piece of clothing. She picked it up. The fabric felt soft and cool against her hoofs. She violently shook the cloth, dust flew through the air. Nothing fell out. She stuffed it into her saddle bag. She opened the second drawer. Clattering silenced the silence. She slammed the drawer shut and turned her attention elsewhere.

In the far corner of the room an overturned cot rested on sleeping bones. Tainted glass shards reflected the night's light. With each step the mare took dust rippled along the creaking wood. A soft emerald light lifted the bed.  Behind the bed there was an opened book among other rundown things. She carefully slid the book avoiding the powder that coated the floor. She set the bed down and read the open page.

"I can hear them arguing in the other room. One of them said that what's happening is spreading. Ponies are dying- everything is dying. This wasn't my fault. I know it wasn't. I did exactly what she said! I swear I did! This wasn't my fau" there was nothing else on the page.

The pony closed the book, only "ti  e le's  iary" remained on the cover. She slid it into her saddle bags and returned to the hallway where it was cold and dark, with the exception of her dim light. She moved onto the next room, further away from the stairs. The stench was stronger. She opened the door. Black soot coated the floor. Scratch marks lined the walls. The room was otherwise empty. She continued on, only two rooms remained and one of the doors was open. A siren erupted from her bag. The mare jumped. "Four hours until sunrise. Four hours until sunrise. Threat level medium-high, exposure can cause severe mutations or death. Four hours until sunrise," the alarm droned on.

"One of these days--" the mare groaned, "come on Firo, we're leaving."