Ponyville is not safe. Not anymore. Everypony has been pretending that nothing’s changed, that nothing ever happened. But I know the truth, even if nopony else wants to acknowledge it. But, as I already know, such sensibility died the day the dead woke up. Everything else pretty much followed.
******
Quiet. All is quiet. That is the first thing the creature notices, even though it has been this way for a long time now. She is a wretched creature, an angel fallen from grace. Her once-lustrous cyan coat is dirty and ragged, her muscles wasted and atrophied by hunger. Her magenta eyes, once brilliant and glowing with life and energy, are dull and faded, haunted by the unspeakable horrors she has seen. Her ragged outer appearance mirrors her cracked and weathered psyche, battered and beaten by the unholy atrocity that plagues the land, relentless.
She is only one of the few who have managed to survive, although the number seems far too many to be anything but damnably cruel. Anypony who survived the first Outbreak was condemned to an even worse fate. She has been alone for a long time, and sometimes she thinks she has forgotten what another pony looks like, until she catches a glimpse of her reflection in a puddle of dirty rainwater and sees her own face, gaunt and hollow with eyes constantly wide, a hunted look in them. Then she is reminded that this is the face of reality now, the face of a survivor. There is nothing beyond her suffering; others suffer just the same, and the nightmare continues.
Rainbow Dash; that is her name. She clings to that shred of memory like a lifeline, like it might hold some pathetic chance of bringing back what once was; laughter and sunlight, happiness and life… But of course that is impossible, and reality stamps its cruel hoof in her face once more. She tosses her head, shifting her dirty multicolored mane out of her eyes. Once she had been proud of her mane, with its brilliant rainbow colors and lustrous sheen that would make even Rarity jealous at times, but now she can barely stand to look at her reflection, let alone her mane.
But all of that is gone now, destroyed like a fragile tower of blocks by a colt’s clumsy hoof. It was all destroyed when the first Outbreak began. Her memories are frayed and torn, with gaps in between, but she holds onto these memories like life itself. She does not want to forget her friends; they are what keep her going, even though she is sure they are dead now. Most survivors choose to forget their old lives, from before the Start, simply because it’s easier that way. It’s easier to live without bitterness if you can pretend you never knew any different.
But Rainbow Dash was always a stubborn pony, and she holds tight to her memories. They’re all she has left of her friends. Friends… The word is almost foreign now. In this world she has no friends, only predators and fellow prey. She dares not speak their names except in the most crushing of situations. Their names are precious, practically sacred, to her wretched self. Her depraved mind seeks something to treasure, and the memories fill that space.
Sometimes she will whisper their names when it is dark and all is silent (for the moment) in a voice so soft she can barely hear herself, just to remind her that it wasn’t all a dream, that it actually happened. That she was happy once, a long, long time ago. It keeps her from going insane, knowing that it isn’t (well, wasn’t) some falsity made up by her mind to cope with the sheer strain of being a survivor, constantly on guard and looking over her shoulder with every other step.
Her hooves make a dull, muted noise as they impact the cracked, bleached ground, though it isn’t much considering her emaciated frame. Gravity coupled with her lack of strength makes her wingtips drag on the ground as she walks, though her head is held high, ears pricked and eyes wide, constantly searching for any sign of the monsters that have destroyed her world and shattered her reality.
The desolate streets of Ponyville are devoid of life, as they have been for almost… how many years has it been now? She cannot seem to remember exactly, but all the same it seems it has been an eternity. Rainbow Dash falls into her usual routine, which has become almost second nature whenever she leaves the relative safety of her shelter.
She is utterly silent. That is the first, unbreakable, rule. Never make any unnecessary sound. Zombies have unnaturally good hearing and are incredibly fast, but of course they are predators. Any kind of sound can alert them, and the second you lose sight of them is when you know it’s over. You’re dead before you can scream. It is for this reason that her eyes are always open wide, her head whipping back and forth to see in all directions as she makes her way down the eerily silent streets, the atmosphere weighed down by emptiness, as if the weight of the sorrow and misery the world has experienced is a physical force pressing down upon it.
Second, she never goes out in the open if she can help it. The silent expanses of cracked streets may seem empty, but she knows all too well that a zombie could be hiding anywhere in the cityscape. In that shadowy alley, behind that abandoned fruit cart, inside that empty, destroyed building; they could be literally anywhere. Her thin, small frame is easily hidden by an overturned dumpster or a cloak of shadows cast by a dilapidated building, and it is only in these places that she feels a mild sense of security. Zombies are almost completely blind, but their hearing is excellent, so she avoids any kind of open space, where her hoofsteps echo in the emptiness.
The third rule is the most important, and Rainbow Dash must remind herself of this each and every time she leaves her shelter. Never, ever lose your self-control. Panic is not an option. Panic and death are pretty much synonymous nowadays, and Dash never questions it. Who would, if it meant taking a chance with their life? Even if she spots a zombie (or ten), she must not panic. It has happened before, and Rainbow Dash does not make the same mistake twice. No survivor worth their cutie mark does. It is one of the subtle, unspoken laws of the world they live in, and again, Dash does not question it.
(RAINBOW DASH)
I am very careful as I approach the edge of the alleyway I am in, my current safe haven. I take great care to set my hooves down lightly, making as little noise as possible. The edge of the building nears, and I press my flank against the rough brick, folding my wings tightly against my sides. I cannot afford to mess this up; I haven’t eaten for five days, and I need this food.
I know there are other ponies in the building I’m currently staking out, but that’s only a minor obstacle. They’re probably just rogues, other survivors just like me, trying to scrape by without too many zombie encounters. My real worry is the zombies. The bastards are too damn stealthy for anyone’s liking, especially for something that’s just a reanimated corpse. If I can get in there and steal some food, my biggest worry is getting out of there before the zombies can catch a whiff and start hunting me. Of course, if all else fails I can take to the sky, but that’ll alert anypony within several miles of my location, and I know there are ponies out there who wouldn’t hesitate to track me down and raid my supplies.
Not that I have that much, but I’m better off than most survivors. I have a place up high, which is pretty damn lucky. Most ponies, especially earth ponies, are ground-bound and therefore easier to catch. Zombies can climb, but it slows them down, and in theory I’ll have enough time to get the hell outta there before they can rip me to shreds.
My stomach growls and twists painfully, and once again I am reminded of my urgent situation. I can smell the mouthwatering scent of bread, meat, and even apples, a rare delicacy. Any kind of fresh fruit, or fresh food in general for that matter, is a rarity, and I don’t see it often. But I’m definitely going to try to snag a few of those apples. I can’t remember the last time I had any, even though I’m sure they won’t be as good as Applejack’s. Sweet Apple Acres had the best apples, always juicy and crisp…
No! I quickly force the thought away. I have to focus right now, and my stomach is distracting enough. I can hear the sound of faint hoofsteps, and even from across the street it is apparent that there are more than a few ponies inside. My gaze travels upwards to a broken window, where a flash of a dark ginger coat catches my eye for a moment. I can’t identify the pony, but that’s probably for the best. I don’t want to know who I’m starving and probably, indirectly, killing by stealing this food, even if it is for my own survival. It’s easier to live with myself if their faces are blank to me, their names nonexistent.
It’s sick, I know, but like I always tell myself: a pony’s gotta do what a pony’s gotta do. It’s not that bad after a while; you just get used to it, I suppose. My ears are pricked forward as I listen intently for noises from both inside the building and out. The sound of something crashing from inside the building makes me focus intently, but not so intently that I forget to keep an ear out for zombies. It becomes a habit after a while, listening for two things at once.
I hear angry yelling and a shrill whinny, meaning there was a scuffle. This is good for me; their anger will dull their focus and distract them for a little while. This little while is my window of opportunity. I can sneak in and back out in fifty seconds flat if the food is where I’m betting it’s at. Though it’ll probably take longer than that, considering I need to stock up for a few days. There’s gonna be a storm; I can feel it. I was a part of the Weather Team back in the time before the Start, so these things come naturally to me.
Suddenly there is a piercing scream coming from the building, and hysterical shrieking and begging follows. I tense, ready to flee at any moment. The shrieking continues, and though I can make out none of what the hysterical mare is saying, I can tell it’s not anything good. There is a tension in my stomach, a tightening feeling inside me, that is urging me to run.
Almost subconsciously, my legs begin to move, and I am slowly backing away, step by step. What am I doing? I ask myself. I need food, so why I am I walking away? A part of my brain is telling me to stay put and get this food, but the other part is becoming increasingly urgent in its cries to leave the vicinity as quickly as possible. I don’t know what to do, but I think—
BOOM. I never get a chance to finish my thoughts as a massive explosion makes the very air tremble. My body is thrown backwards like a rag doll, along with chunks of metal and brick ranging from shrapnel to the size of my hoof. It’s disorienting, being blown fifty feet back by an explosion, and strangely enough I feel almost nothing, physically and mentally.
Just another sign that I’ve cracked, I suppose as my body hits the ground with jarring force, my mind numb so that I feel no pain. The heat wave is searing, blasting across my flesh like an oven, and I have the sense to close my eyes so they won’t melt in their sockets.
It’s gone as suddenly as it came, and in a matter of seconds everything is dead silent again. Dully I realize that I am lying on the ground, staring up at the sooty gray sky. The acrid smell of ash and burning rubber hits my nostrils, and I start to come back to my senses. The gravel beneath me is rough and painful, especially to my left flank…
With a start I sit up, if a bit shakily. What the hell is wrong with me?! Now that my mind is back in its rightful place I know that I need to vacate the area as soon as possible. That explosion had to have been heard for miles around, and zombies will flock to find the corpses, if there’s even anything left of them after that stunt.
My ears are ringing from the blast, and I’m dizzy standing up. My balance is shaky, and I tap my hoof firmly on the ground to make sure I’m not deaf. I feel a surge of relief when the noise comes in loud and clear, though the ringing in my ears has not yet ceased.
Thank god or whoever still cares about this damned world that I’m not hurt any worse than I am. My worst injury is a scrape on my left flank from hitting the ground, and aside from a few cuts and bruises I’m fine. If I had broken a leg or a wing, I would have been zombie bait for sure.
My legs are still shaky, but I manage a brisk trot as I head in the other direction. I would gallop, but I don’t have the energy. Five days of no food has taken its toll, and already I’m starting to feel dizzy. If I can just get back to the shelter, I’ll be fine, I tell myself, visualizing my crummy but familiar home in an abandoned studio apartment. The reason I picked this particular place was because a) it was off the ground and b) it was mostly inconspicuous. The staircase that leads up to the second floor is collapsed, so the only way to get in is either to climb or fly, and a very limited number of Ponyville’s current habitants can do either.
I swallow hard, taking note that the sky is an ominous gray. Even though the sky nowadays is pretty much always a depressing shade of gray, this particular shade promises a storm, and a bad one. I can smell the rain already. Rain definitely isn’t what it used to be; instead of that fresh smell, now it just smells like bitter, wet ash and harsh acid because of all the biohazardous discharge leftover from chemical experiments that was dumped and eventually leached into the river and the lake.
What all that crap basically means is that, thanks to the chemical waste in the water, it not only storms very violently, but it storms acid rain. And not mild acid, either. The kind of acid that can burn the flesh off a pony’s bones.
Real freaking convenient, right? On the bright side, it burns zombies too, but usually all pain does to a zombie is make it angry.
Feeling suddenly uneasy, I force myself into a gallop, darting around the corner of a crumbled building and across the block to get back under cover as quickly as possible. It’s tighter in the alleyways, but safer, and I know I’m close to my safe base. I know these buildings; the cream-colored stone wall to my right is leaning just a tiny bit outwards, the three trash cans near the edge of what used to be a convenience store are always knocked over, and the reddish brick building that holds my little safe house is tantalizingly near. Just one more alley to cross, then I can fly up to the broken window that leads into the adjacent apartment and slip in through the hole in the wall that leads to my place.
But, as I might have mentioned before, you can’t trust anything to go as planned in a world where the dead are walking. A hideous screech rips through the air, freezing me in my tracks. More screeches and roars sound off in reply, and I suddenly feel cold.
A low, predatory hiss cuts through the air like a knife, and a shiver goes up my spine because I know exactly what it is. The zombie slithers into view with a grace that by all laws of nature should not be possessed by the dead, its jaws open with its black, rotted lips drawn back in a snarl. Bulging, milky-white orbs empty and at the same time full of bloodlust regard me in much the same way a spider appraises the helpless victim caught in its web, and I don’t dare to move a muscle.
The black, rotting flesh hanging from its body is riddled with scars and open wounds alike, some still oozing a substance that I can’t and probably don’t want to identify. It’s an older one, judging from the deteriorating condition of its body, and it clearly knows how to survive. That’s how it’s stuck around for so long. The flesh on the body is so decayed that the cutie mark is obscured, the mane and tail thin and lank, colorless. This is good; I don’t want to risk recognizing one of my friends. I don’t think I could bear to see them like this, a monster that should not exist but in the realm of nightmares. If at all possible, I want to remember them as they were, not like… like this.
Those forever staring white eyes are hideous, but they have an almost hypnotic quality to them, and I wonder fleetingly how such a strangely beautiful feature could be present on such a hideous, nightmarish thing. Its rotted wings flare with a sickening crackle of broken bones and sticky, decaying flesh, and three other warped and emaciated frames are birthed from the shadows, which seem to cling to their blackened and twisted limbs like the remnants of some satanic egg sac, giving damning life to a creature that has no right to it.
Their broken jaws gape at unnatural angles, and the hissing sound coming from the back of their throats is not at all reassuring. These four are on the hunt, and right now I’m their prey.
I realize I’m trapped. There’s no way I can outrun four hungry zombies, especially in my current condition, and I don’t have enough energy to fly long enough to lose them; they’d just wait me out wherever I landed, even if it was up high. Fighting is not an option. There’s no way in hell I can take on four of them at once, and the winged one looks like a tricky little bastard.
It’s four hungry zombies against one half-starved me. I’m alone, still hungry, and cornered. What a way to go. This is not how I envisioned myself dying. It involved a lot more flying, heroics, and one kick-ass Sonic Rainboom. Oh, look, they’re getting closer.
Shit.
