Periphery

Lucky Bit always kept a loaded revolver on his wall, next to the liquor. For the day he couldn't afford another glass, he'd joke. But usually, he drank at Bram's Dram, where the booze never ran out.

There weren't many attractions in New Appleloosa, so the town's only tavern was always lively. Ponies of all stripes crowded around the bar, sipped at the establishment's unique homebrews, and raised their voices in cheer, revelry, and sorrow, like a scene from an old song. The tavern's proprietor, Bram, set a pair of mismatched bottles on the counter and tapped a hoof.

“On my tab, Bram,” Lucky said. He ripped the plastic film from the bottle's neck and drank deeply.

Bram looked around. “Where's Hook? I assume that one's for her?” he said, pointing at the second, unopened bottle.

“Went to take a leak.” Lucky took a another sip. “We should ride Railright's ass more, get some proper toilets. I hate lumbering out into the wastes every time I gotta drain the tank.”

“You'd piss less if you drank less,” Bram said with a laugh. “'Sides, priority's probably power and clean water first. So hold it or get walkin'.”

Lucky finished the bottle and slid it toward Bram, then eyed the second bottle with care. “Or I could just do it out back.”

The other stallion glared. “I don't care how much money you toss in my lap. You piss in my backyard, I'll ban you.”

The mare on the seat next to Lucky leaned over. “Did you say she went out there alone?” she asked. “At night? Aren't you worried about slavers?”

“No.” He raised an eyebrow, then, without looking, reached over and unsealed the second bottle. “They wouldn't come this close to town, and they'd never be able to catch her anyway. Not a thing alive can outrun Hook.”

“They've been getting bolder. And busier. Seems like they're snatching every pony that passes by now, and they're shipping them out by the train-load.”

Lucky grunted, and through a mouthful of beer said, “You seem to know a lot about them. They lining your pockets or something?”

That ended the conversation. In New Appleloosa, slavery was a touchy subject. Nopony liked it, but nopony fought it. Landing on either side of the issue was inviting trouble.

He finished his drink and ordered another. His senses dulled and time slipped by as he waited for his partner to return. Lucky had no aversion to drinking alone, but it could be boring. Bram wasn't the sort of bartender who kept up conversations, not even the paltry half-conversations that always buzzed in the tavern's background.

Soon the evening crowd thinned. The bar was wiped down, glasses were collected and submerged.

“Last call, Lucky.” Bram sounded apologetic.

Lucky shook his head and raised his near-empty glass high. “Hookline's not afraid of a few slavers. They could never catch her. Nothing could ever catch her.”

Bram nodded and waited patiently for Lucky to finish his last mouthful, then swept the glass behind the counter.

“I bet she's waiting for me at home. Probably finished most of the liquor. Hah. Probably passed out in bed already.”

“You know her best, I suppose.”

Lucky tapped a hoof on the bar.

“One more for good luck?” Bram asked.

The town was dark and quiet when Lucky finally staggered home. He fumbled with the lock, cursing his cotton-stuffed head and clumsy hooves. He sank into bed, alone, and stared at the ceiling. The walls spun.

It wasn't long before the fitful sleep of the drunk and terrified found him.

Mornings weren't Lucky's thing, but the next day he rose before dawn. His head thundered and bile stained his mouth, but he moved with purpose. He scanned the room and found himself alone. Still alone.

He retrieved a faded coat that lay crumpled in one corner of the room and shrugged it on. From its place above the liquor cabinet, he grabbed the revolver. It had lived there, mounted on the wall, since the day he and Hookline moved into town. New Appleloosa wasn't dangerous like the wasteland at large, so it had been relegated to a wall ornament, a conversation piece. The setup to a dark joke. Lucky didn't even own a holster or belt to carry it in, so he walked out the door with the revolver clutched awkwardly between his teeth.

He attracted more stares with each passing minute. Weapons were a common sight on the streets of New Appleloosa, but Lucky's stride, the determination in his eyes, and the inches between his tongue and the trigger drew notice. Murmurs swept through the town with such speed that by the time he reached the gates, the sentries were expecting him. Lucky nodded to them as he passed. They flinched as the barrel in his mouth slid past them.

“Wait!” shouted somepony down the street.

Lucky kept walking. He couldn't afford to waste another minute. Hookline could already be gone.

“Son of a bitch, hold it for a second.” Hooves pounded through the gate and slowed to a canter.

“Don't you have a bar to wipe down?” Lucky said without stopping.

Bram ran up beside him and matched his pace. He struggled to catch his breath. “You're going to Appleloosa,” he said.

Lucky growled past the gun metal. “Don't make me shoot you, Bram. I don't have many bullets with me.”

“Not gonna stop you. The opposite, really. Seem like you could use some company.”

He slipped the revolver into a pocket of his coat. “I'm flattered, but no thanks. I've never had much interest in cock anyway.”

Bram flinched, but he didn't stop moving.

They walked in silence by the train tracks, their eyes on the road ahead. This part of Equestria had always been a wasteland, an empty desert, long before the first bomb fell. Apart from an uneven blanket of magical radiation, it was mostly unchanged. The air was bone dry and furnace hot. It sucked the moisture from between Lucky's teeth and left his mouth and throat burning. It was still morning; the day's heat had only just begun.

“What's the plan?” Bram asked.

“I'm going to find Hook.”

“And?”

“And we'll all head back to the Dram and have a few.”

“Not much of a plan,” Bram remarked.

Lucky fixed his coat, where the weight of the revolver had shifted it askew.

“No,” he agreed.

It was past mid-day, and they were near the mountain's summit. Both stallions were starting to struggle, but Lucky kept his pace, and Bram followed a step or two behind.

“Didn't pack any water, huh?” Bram said between laboured breaths.

Lucky winced. It felt like his throat had been turned inside out. “I was in a hurry.”

“I get that. Still, charging out into the desert without any supplies is pretty stupid.”

“And yet here we both are,” Lucky said. “You're welcome to turn back. You could be there by happy hour, if you hurry.”

Bram was silent for a moment. “If you and Hook die, I might as well shut down. You're half my business, most days.”

A dozen silent steps dragged by.

“You ever been to Old Appleloosa?” Bram asked.

“Yeah, once. Hook and I found an old storehouse full of manabatteries. Looked like they hadn't been touched since the war. Red Eye offered us the best price around.” He coughed, then shuddered as the motion tore at his throat. “It's a shithole, but it's better than Fillydelphia.”

“An entire storehouse? No wonder you two are loaded.”

“Well, we've been trying to convert it to all to booze, one bottle at a time, but it's been slow. You should raise your prices or something.”

The ground finally leveled off, and the world fell away in front of them. Bram lumbered up beside Lucky and rested a hoof on his shoulder. “We should take a minute. I'm about to keel over.”

They settled down on a stretch of flat earth, away from the train tracks. Bram dropped to his stomach and began a series of slow stretches. Lucky withdrew the revolver from his coat pocket. He turned it over, opened the cylinder, and popped a bullet free, then snapped the gun closed.

Bram stopped stretching and watched, tense.

Lucky aimed to the sky and pulled the trigger twice, nodding at the crisp cracks of the hammer, the smooth rotation of the cylinder. He opened the gun again and inspected the bullet from all angles, slid it back inside, and carefully rotated it into position.

“Ever fired that thing before?” Bram asked.

Lucky shook his head. “Never needed to. I hide, Hook runs. Neither of us shoots.” The polished silver barrel glowed in the muted sunlight. “But I knew that one day I'd need it.”

Bram cracked a grin. “For the day you can't afford another glass,” he recited. “I always figured it was fake. Just for display, you know. But I guess those are hard to come by compared to the real thing.”

Lucky stowed the gun and rolled his shoulders. He scanned the horizon and peered down the hill before them. Soon they'd have to resume their trek, or they wouldn't get there before dawn. He rose, and Bram followed suit.

They were less than a hundred yards down the mountain when the sound of groaning wheels, pounding hooves, and grinding steel billowed over the summit. The two stallions spun and crouched, ready to dive for cover. Seconds later, a giant blur rushed past them in a blast of air and sound, and they were both left stunned and reeling.

Lucky stumbled toward his companion. “Train,” he muttered.

Bram growled. “Bastards couldn't stop and offer us a ride? They must have seen us on the way up.”

The speeding shape grew smaller and smaller as it careened down the slope. It would be at the slaver town within the hour.

Lucky prayed that it was just a shipment from New Appleloosa, some dried meat or cases of booze. If slaves were sent on to Fillydelphia by rail, they would have no hope of catching up.

Wind blew around them and raised a vortex of dust. It ripped at the ends of Lucky's coat. He snagged one side with his hoof, drawing the revolver close to his body.

He set his shoulders and walked.

Lucky slowed to a trot when the town came into view. He looked to both sides of the path, then veered off to the east. Bram followed without comment.

“They'll have lookouts facing the tracks,” Lucky explained. “It'll be easier to sneak in from the other side.”

The earth beneath Bram's hoof gave way, and he skidded several feet down the incline. “So there is a plan.”

“No, but I think intentionally charging into machine gun fire crosses the line between 'suicide mission' and 'suicide attempt'.”

They picked their way down the mountain, slowly at first, but they found a rhythm before long.

The sky's light dimmed quickly, and the air cooled. The stallions' gasps and grimaces subsided and were replaced by squints and curses as their hooves tripped over dark and uneven ground. The same distance they covered in a matter of hours earlier in the day took them half the night, but finally they reached the base of the mountain, and two hours later they crouched just beyond shooting range of the town's rear.

“So we just… walk in?” Bram asked.

“Not exactly. Move slow, keep your head down, and watch your step.” He paused. “Oh, and if someone starts shooting at you, think happy thoughts, cause they'll probably be your last.”

He started forward, and after a moment's hesitation, Bram trailed behind.

“I don't suppose I could convince you to let this one go? Plenty of fish in the sea and all?”

Lucky sighed. “Bit late for that now. We're already here, and I don't think we'll make it back without something to drink.” He felt the weight in his coat pocket. “Besides, I've done all the dramatic build-up. It would look pathetic if I backed down now.”

“Good a reason to throw yourself on the fire as any, I guess.”

The east-facing side of Old Appleloosa was a solid black wall at night—one large, blocky, misshapen shadow. Forty feet from the buildings, Lucky froze and squinted at the ground ahead. Large divots, most around four feet deep, were scattered at random intervals. “Stop,” he hissed, and pricked his ears. Silence, and then, a low moan from the edge of the town.

Lucky's mouth formed a tight line. “Minefield.” His gaze wandered up and down the town's perimeter.

“Hah.” Bram planted his hooves and gestured forward. “This wasn't in the plan.”

“Nothing was in the plan. There was no plan.” Lucky winced, then took a step forward. When he didn't explode, he stepped forward again. “I think I can… see them. Hold on.” Behind him, Bram backed away.

Hoof by hoof, and inch by inch, Lucky worked his way toward the town. There were a few close calls, where the ground gave way and tossed dirt across the surface of a mine, or when he came to one explosive that disrupted the regular pattern, and his hoof landed only millimeters from the pressure pad. Minutes that felt like hours later, he took a final step and relaxed. The terrain ahead was smooth and undisturbed. He turned and waved. Bram muttered a quiet curse, then followed in his steps.

The moan rose again, more subdued than before, and strained, as if its source was trying to keep quiet. Lucky turned toward it. The moan came a third time, and Lucky approached cautiously. An indistinguishable lump lay on the edge of a crater.

Hope rose in his chest, and he did his best to stamp it out.

“Hello?” Lucky whispered. The lump didn't respond, and he moved closer. He reached out and gave it a soft prod, and was answered by a raspy hiss.

The shape shuddered, and in a choked, rattling voice, said, “Kill me… or… fuck off.”

Every time the lump moved, Lucky could distinguish more of its anatomy. No horn. Not Hookline. An earth pony, missing three legs and most of her pelt. His stomach lurched, and he jerked away. “How… what happened?”

“Mines.” Each word was a horrible production, wrought from gasps and clicks and coughs. “Minefield.”

“I saw.”

“Who… are…?”

“Just a passing barfly.” Lucky glanced up. Bram had only passed the first two rows of mines. He would be waiting a while longer. “Does it hurt?”

A blood-filled cough. “Like a bitch. Med-X?”

“Sorry, I don't have anything like that.” He felt the weight of the revolver in his coat. “I have a gun.”

“Spare a bullet?”

Lucky withdrew the weapon and checked the cylinder. His throat tightened. “Okay. You'll just have to owe me one.”

“What?” The mare looked up at him, a faint pool of light on one side of her face and concealing darkness on the other.

Lucky shook his head. “A joke. Sorry.” He bit down on the grip and aimed. His teeth chattered, and he moved in closer, until the barrel was inches from her skull.

“Thank you.”

He thought of the sound the gunshot would make. It would alert anyone within a mile, probably bring the whole town running. Bram was dancing between mines. If he was startled…

“Thank you,” the mare said again. She closed her only eye.

He pulled the trigger. Blood splashed over his face and the tips of his hooves.

Far away, Bram shouted something in alarm, but there was no second explosion. Lucky glanced at the revolver and imagined the white smoke pouring from the its barrel. He was tempted to open the cylinder, to check that the bullet had really fired, but they had to move. The gun returned to his pocket, and its weight was suddenly less than a feather.

The piercing ringing in Lucky's ears faded into the lower, deeper thrum of absolute, perfect silence.

For an unknowable time, they hid on the edge of town, not twenty paces from the minefield. The town remaned silent and motionless, just as dead as the mare beside them. When the first hints of dawn peeked over the horizon, Lucky finally shifted. “Nopony's coming. Let's go,” he said. The day continued to take its toll, now in fatigue and exhaustion, and their hooves slid gracelessly through the dirt into town.

The pre-war town was grim and downtrodden compared to New Appleloosa. The box cars and scrap metal cages that made up half the buildings fought with the ancient wooden structures beside them. It looked more like a junkyard than a place where ponies lived. A liminal space, a crossroads, where slaves were stored before their destinations were determined and they were shipped away to be used.

The faint light painted the town in frigid shades of blue and white, which gave the blood puddles and corpses a kind of ghostly glow.

They both froze mid-step at the sight. Lucky waded into the massacre, his eyes wide and his jaw clenched tight. The dried blood on his hooves crunched and flaked against the red soil. Dozens of bodies, all armed, all dead. The revolver in his coat felt lighter than ever.

Bram walked up beside him. “What the fuck could do this? Raiders?”

“I… I don't—” Lucky shook himself. “No. Not raiders. Look, the bodies haven't been touched, not even their guns. And…” He turned to take in the whole town, each nook and cranny. “It's too quiet. Nopony's here at all. No slavers, no slaves.”

“Think somepony took them?”

“None of these guys look like slaves to me,” Lucky said. He moved closer to one of the bodies and suppressed the urge to gag. “Let's split up and look around.”

“You just said there's nopony here. We should just—”

“Nothing alive, but… If she's dead, I'd like to find her body. Just to know, you know?”

Bram stared at him for a long moment, searching for something in Lucky's eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

Checking the dead became harder for Lucky with each new corpse. Each time he would find a unicorn, his heart would freeze, and was certain that he'd see Hookline's face when he rolled the body over. When, each time, it wasn't her, his heart would freeze just the same, and he would be certain that he'd never find her, never learn what happened, never see her face again. That would be so much harder.

He met up with Bram at the train platform. The stallion greeted him with a silent wave. They sat and stared out across the desert, to the tracks that ran across it and up the mountain, and at the tiny dot trundling along them. “I guess we're not done yet,” Bram said.

Lucky shrugged. The train would pass New Appleloosa in a few hours, and after that, it could go anywhere. “We can't catch up to it.”

Bram shifted and lifted something from the floor beside him. A pair of glass bottles. He offered one to Lucky. “Found some beer. I think it's beer.”

“You would know.” Lucky accepted the bottle, popped the lid, and took a big gulp. He gagged. “Think it's gone off.”

Bram sipped, grimaced, and shook his head. “It's beer. Beer doesn't go off.”

Lucky chuckled and downed the rest of the beer in one go. He tossed it, and the glass shattered against the rail tracks. Bram reached down again, and the telltale hissing of a radio flickered to life. An old, familiar song lurched into the air.

Miles away, the train car disappeared over the mountain's summit.

“If you were caught by slavers, what would you do?” Lucky asked.

Bram squirmed, and after only a moments hesitation, swigged from his beer. “Escape.”

“And if you couldn't? If you couldn't open your cage, or they put one of those fucking bomb collars on you. What then?”

“I'd wait until I could escape. Until I could figure something out, or until somepony else came to help me.” Another sip. “What would you do?”

A small smile played across Lucky's face. “Pop myself in the head, first chance I got.” He fidgeted with his coat pocket. “Life's shitty enough as is. Being a slave… that definitely pushes it over the line.”

Bram turned, and set down his beer, and gave Lucky his full attention. Slowly, thoughtfully, he said, “Seems like suicide's your answer to everything.”

“Hah. Yeah, well… It's a pretty versatile solution. Not much it doesn't solve.”

“Got its downsides though.” The music reached a crescendo in the background. Bram reached out and lowered the volume. “Is that why you shot that mare?”

“She wanted me to shoot her.” Bram opened his mouth to reply, but Lucky interrupted him. “She knew it was a minefield. There are big warning signs on the edge of town, if you'd look. She just mistimed it, or the explosion wasn't quite big enough. She wanted me to finish the job. Better than being a slave.”

“Damn.” Bram took a slow, tense sip. “What about Hook? What would she do?”

Lucky's smile widened, but his eyes were wet. “Where'd you think I got the joke about the revolver? 'For the day we can't afford another glass.' She was always the witty one.”

Ray by ray, the sun rose. The song reached its final notes, and static filled the air.

“I saw inside the gun, back on the mountain. Only one bullet.”

Lucky popped open another beer.

“It's a big gun. One bullet's all it takes.”

Their journey home was slow and silent. They carried bottles of water found in Old Appleloosa, and they stopped to sleep atop the mountain, yet the walk was even less comfortable than before.

The sun was past its height when they reached the gates of New Appleloosa. Even from outside the walls, it was obvious that something had startled the town into motion.

“Something happen?” Bram asked one of the stallions by the gate.

The two sentries exchanged a look. “Seems like Calamity and the newcomer took our slaving friends by storm. Railright's had a hell of a time figuring out what to do with all the slaves. Former slaves.” He frowned.

“Refugees,” the other sentry offered.

Lucky was already advancing through the gate and into town. He wanted to break into a run, to relieve the horrible tightness in his chest that grew less bearable every second. But he didn't, because he also wanted to savour those last few minutes of hope. Bram moved at a trot to keep up.

Ponies cantered through the streets and buzzed between buildings, their backs laden with food, clothes, and items less explicable. Their hooves tossed dirt and sand into the air, lending the town a dusty red haze. Lucky wasn't an especially social stallion, but he knew most of the faces in New Appleloosa, and that day he saw a number of new ones. Scared, nervous, pained, and, above all, tired faces. Ponies who had survived their time in Appleloosa.

He turned to a passing pony, stopped them with a firm hoof. “Excuse me,” he said. He recognized the mare. She was often behind him in line at Ditzy's. “Have… have you seen Hook?”

She frowned. “Hook? Hookline? Um… no? Is she missing?”

“S-slavers.”

“Oh.” She looked around pensively. “I haven't see her. Maybe ask the others? Railright's got 'em in one of the old boxcars at the edge of town. If she was on the train, they can probably tell you.”

Lucky mumbled a thank you, and they started for the slums.

New Appleloosa looked like a proper town from most angles, even though the buildings were just repurposed train cars. In the slums, that illusion broke. Old cars were scattered, many upside down, dented, or sheared in half. Ponies never stayed there long.

They found the slaves in the first car on the lot, and they weren't welcomed. Ponies lay on the floor, wrapped in thin felt blankets and sipping lethargically at bottled water.

“You were all in Old Appleloosa?” Lucky asked. “Did any of you see a pink mare with a yellow mane? A gust of wind for a cutie mark?”

Blank stares answered him.

“Please. She's missing.”

An emaciated stallion near the boxcar's door shook his head. “They sent the last batch of slaves out a week ago. If she was kidnapped since then, she'd be here.”

“Are you sure?” Lucky stepped inside and looked for a familiar face. Ponies shifted toward the boxcar's walls, away from him. “Nopony died on the way back?”

“Just slavers.”

Lucky worked his jaw, trying to think of another question, when an older mare at the back of the car raised her voice.

“I saw her. On the way to Appleloosa, she was with me.” The mare's eyes were sad and sympathetic. “A couple of the meaner stallions took a liking to her. Last I saw, they dragged her away from the group. Heard some grunting, maybe a fight, then a gunshot. The stallions came back, but she didn't. Don't know why they'd kill a perfectly healthy mare like that.” She offered him a kind smile. “I'm terribly sorry for your loss.”

The confusing mix of emotions that had plagued Lucky since waking up alone the day before finally crystallized.

“Thank you,” he said. He hoped some of his money would find its way into these ponies' pockets. They deserved it more than he or Hook ever had.

The streets were just as busy and dusty as when they'd arrived, but to Lucky they seemed strangely serene.

“She could still be alive,” Bram said. “One bullet, would that really put her down?”

“If it was a big enough gun.”

They passed Lucky and Hook's home. Lucky didn't break his stride. Bram let out a sigh and fell back into step beside him.

At the Dram, Bram paused and caught Lucky's shoulder. “Come on. I've been closed for two days now, and I can hear my piggy bank squealing. Some of that manabattery money would be great right about now.” He pushed open the door.

Lucky shook his head. “Thanks, Bram, for everything. For being a friend. But I'll take a rain check tonight. I'm sure your piggy bank can survive one more day without my caps.” He clapped Bram on the back and continued down the street.

Alone for the first time in days, he let out a long, shallow sigh. His hooves trudged through the dirt, and his eyes rested on a building across town. More of a stall, really, but three of its walls were solid.

“Evenin',” said the proprietor when Lucky drew close. “What can I getcha?” He eyed Lucky's torso. “Think I've got a battle saddle that'll fit.”

“Just one bullet.” He rested the revolver on the counter. “Whatever type this takes.”

The stallion raised an eyebrow. “One bullet? I don't… not sure I even have 'em in singles.”

Lucky rummaged through the pocket of his coat and produced a hoofful of caps. “I'll pay extra if you have to break up a pack or something.”

The merchant swept the caps up and, after a quick search beneath the counter, dropped a bullet in their place. He licked his lips. “You, uh, doing okay?”

“I've been better,” Lucky said with a small smile. He thanked the stallion and left.

The sun was beginning to set when he stepped inside his home. It felt like a foreign place, like somepony else had been living there for weeks, or months. He dropped his coat in the corner and settled into a chair against one wall.

With great care, he loaded the revolver, spun the cylinder into place, drew back the hammer.

Something across the room caught his eye. The liquor cabinet, and the bare wall above it.

Lucky set the gun down and opened the cabinet. Empty bottles stood in neat rows, labels of all colours and designs. To one side stood an untouched sixth of dark liquor. How about that.

He grabbed the bottle, closed the cabinet, and fetched a glass. He sat back down, this time facing the door, and sipped. His throat burned, his chest glowed. Tears pricked at his eyes.

She had until he finished the bottle, Lucky thought. An hour or so, maybe a little less. Plenty of time for her to come home.

Until he couldn't afford another glass.