Here It Is. Here Is The End

Me and my friends thought we could wait it out in the hills in the countryside when Fillydelphia came under siege from the Changelings. We were the second year class at Fillydelphia's Hall of History, and we thought we knew the patterns of civilization well enough to avoid the crisis.

Between all of us, the reactions were different. Bitter Ginger couldn't stop bawling her eyes out. I didn't blame her, the Changelings set fire to her house and caught her family as they tried to escape, either harvesting them on the spot or collecting them for their hive.

Gerbil, because his front teeth were so big, ate what he could find at Sweet Radish's family farm. He was a big stallion, at the prime of his physical abilities, but that made his appetite just as big. I found it funny when he would apologize for asking for extra hay or carrots, because he felt he was eating too much and we'd soon run out of rations.

Sweet Radish's farm was the best I knew. Her parents were nice, and I personally considered them lucky to have been taken by age rather than face what we saw in the city. I knew Mr. and Mrs. Radish well, and they were practically my extended family.

When we arrived, I felt like I was at home. I had honestly spent as much time on that farm as I did at my folk's house in Fillydelphia, and I almost didn't think about what could have happened to them at that point. I had gotten out with my friends, and it was all I could think about at that point.

For a while, things were alright. It was almost time for harvest on the farm, so Gerbil and I spent most of our time clearing out the barn and repairing the silos to store the crops. In a week, Bitter Ginger was up for doing the tougher chores again. She still hadn't gotten over anything, but at least she could think strait long enough for us to assemble a new silo after a heavy storm blew one down the previous year.

We worked on other little things, too. Mr.Radish had a study room I envied all my life, and original, hoof-written copies of historic books I had only ever studied about. I took to them quickly, reading what was intact and repairing what wasn't. Again, I felt like I was at home.

**************

It was a cloudy day when we had to leave. Not too cloudy, where you couldn't see the sun or blue sky, but just enough to make you look up and think, hey, that's some nice clouds, one even looks like a rabbit.

Anyways, we had to leave on that day. Ironically that morning, Gerbil had told me how he was getting used to life on the farm. He didn't mind that he was away from his family, they lived in Manehattan, and by then we had known that Manehattan was the last secure city in Equestria. He said he could get used to a place to work and eat. I simply nodded and repaired the spine of another book while he talked about everything great about farms.

Bitter Ginger felt the same. She didn't want to go anywhere else, because we had a great view at the top of the hill. In the distance, we could watch the lights of Fillydelphia flicker. We knew they were all fires, probably from burning wreckage, but Bitter Ginger just wanted to imagine things were a-okay in the city.

That's how everything was when we left, a-okay. It started like a nagging thought. Six weeks together on a farm was relaxing, but the things we heard on the radio were too much to ignore. So the thoughts came, and we wondered what Ponyville was like, and Appleloosa, and Vanhoover.

We'll just go look for other survivors, we thought. Maybe we could find some parts to fix up Cart #3's broken wheel, we hoped. Slowly, we took turns leaving the farm. As far as I knew, we all did it in secret. We found out later, of course, but for a couple weeks we were liberated in the night.

For me, I was gone after the first week. I thought I could control myself, keep myself from trotting too far from the farm, but by the end of the week I was coming back only minutes before any pony else woke up. I felt like I was out of place at the farm after that night, when I found a dead Changeling at the edge of the city.

I was desensitized to the whole scene, maybe because it was dark, but after I left the body I could only turn back. I don't know what the others found out there, Sweet Radish never told me. But one thing's for sure, we were all gone before we knew it.

It was weird the day we left. We were already gone, but each of us wasn't aware of it yet. Not surprisingly, we finally explored on the same night, and found each other out on the way back. I ran into Gerbil, who was carrying an overgrown pumpkin on his back.

"What's that for?" I asked, not quite realizing yet that it was the first time I had seen Gerbil leave the farm.

"Secret stash," he told me. We looked at each other for one more moment, before both our eyes widened with a realization that we both had lied to the group, including each other. Young and unable to handle the awkward encounter, the two of us did the sensible thing and ran in opposite directions.

Gerbil ran into Bitter Ginger, so he says, and I collided paths with Sweet Radish. We had questions for each other, most important of them being, "What are you doing out here?" We tried explaining ourselves to each other, and quickly realized that Gerbil and Bitter Ginger had explaining to do as well.

At the farm, we had a long moment of argument. Bitter Ginger accused me of being condescending toward her, and called out Gerbil for hording the best pieces of the harvest. Her words cut deep for Gerbil, who said he only left so he wouldn't take more of the harvest from the rest of us, and he insisted we let him leave.

"I don't do anything around here," he told us as he left, "I just lend a hoof in the chores and move stuff around." He started rattling on about how we'd be better without him when Sweet Radish yanked him back into the farm house and looked him strait in the eyes.

"No pony lasts long on their own anymore," she said to him. "You do plenty of work here, so don't act so humble when you're an essential team player."

Gerbil didn't seem so sure about her words, but by noon his bag was unpacked and he was resting again in his room. I was relieved to have him back, and so was Sweet, but Bitter Ginger still targeted her daily glares toward the stallion throughout the following days.

One day, the glares stopped. Bitter Ginger was done with us, done with whatever feelings she harbored against us. Gerbil blamed himself, and found his escape by eating himself to death. It's true, I had to clean him up when he exploded, his stomach pumped full of guilt and hay.

Sweet Radish and I didn't know what to do after that. At least, I didn't. Somewhere down the line we lost our friends before they lost their lives, and we couldn't help but think of those two as connected.

But, while Sweet Radish worked silently everyday, my mind had to talk its way out of it. "Don't worry, we'll be fine," I'd say sometimes, or "I'll be here if you need me." I thought it'd work, and sometimes Sweet Radish would come at night and lay with me at night, until the bed was wet with tears.

I was ready in the mornings when that happened, with tissue papers and all. After that, I'd tell her not to worry. I thought I could say things like that, even if it was just for my own pride. Just a stallion and a mare on a farm, how much cornier could things get? I felt proud that I was there with her, and even though we were childhood friends something nagged for more.

I thought I could do it, be a real stallion and stand up for her no matter what. That was a inner voice whispering, always nagging at me. But the voice screamed at me to be a coward, another voice telling me what was right. I was a bookworm, a unicorn with books and a way to fix them.

I couldn't be brave and stay there on the farm, hiding from the world with the last pony I cared for. I followed Bitter, I fled from Gerbil, I left Sweet. I was a coward and let the apocalypse consume me. It ate me alive, tore my heart out. I felt it, too. I'd star gaze some nights and fall back into my habits of imagining Sweet Radish there with me.

I turn and there she is, snuggled tight, and then the familiar tears would come. They felt nice, and I'd feel their wet warmth and put my arm around my imagination, as if at any moment she'd take the tears with her and escape my mind.