The worst part about guard duty wasn’t the long hours, or the uncomfortable attic, or even the fact that you’re going to be the first one getting shot at. Instead, it was trying to stay focused when nobody around you wanted to take it seriously.

“I’m bored, Red! Give me a go!” my younger sister whined, stamping a hoof.

“Not now, Yew. Dad’s in the middle of something...” I refocused, staring out at the edge of our little homestead. Normally, Dad chatted with Mr. Stable, the boss of the local bandits for a few minutes, gave him some of the white lightning from the still, and everypony left, right as rain. But this time…

I took a few breaths, trying to control my heartbeat. The sight picture was jumpy enough with three anxious bored foals, and I didn’t need my neck shaking in anticipation. I resighted, making a lollypop out of the front sight post and the huge armored pony looming over dad. The wagon wheel cutie mark wasn’t helping much. My brain kept flashing between the different meanings of driver. Caravan and slave.

“Though I suppose teamster isn’t as bad and means about the same…” I muttered around the firing bit. I never try to get over focused before firing. Getting tensed up and worried just meant less accuracy. And, with what looked like a solid half inch of plate steel armor, I’d need to hit something vital, and that helmet wasn’t going to make things any easier, even if the horn looked like it was compensating for something.

“Yew, can you ask mom for the .308? I’m not sure if this varmint rifle will do...” I said, Yew jumped to it, taking the stairs four at a time, excited to do something. It looked like the negotiations were failing, judging by Dad’s face turning red and the raider squaring off. They were still quiet, apparently not willing to get anyone else involved, but it was starting to look ugly.

The other 3 raiders, all nearly as massive as the first, were starting to pull out melee weapons. Guess they think their bulk can stop bullets. I chuckled, before stopping to think. Assuming that the plate was as thick as it looked, yeah, there wasn’t much that could get through. And, considering general markspony skill, clubs and sharp pointy sticks was probably enough to take on most farms.

I switched off the safety, and started calmly breathing in and out. I opened my right eye and let it unfocus, taking in the entire front yard at once, noting every movement the raiders made. At a gesture from the largest pony, the rest of the raiders had put their weapons down, but Dad wasn’t looking any happier. I wasn’t close enough to try to make out the discussion, and the wind was wrong for hearing it well, but judging from the way they were gesturing at the wagon, they were demanding a lot more payment.

A few minutes later, Dad shook his head vigorously. The raider looked offended, then he started looking really angry. Glancing back at the other raiders, who started pulling out their weapons, he stepped forward, practically crushing Dad underfoot. He reared up, and Dad crossed his hooves in front of his face.

I reacted reflexively to the sign. Hooves in an x, make a dot. I fired at a measured pace, working the bolt and making sure that my sight was realigned each time. Two bullets, aimed at the head, and then I started working the other hostiles. I thought I saw a bullet hit the first pony, but I couldn’t be sure. I needed to try and keep them away from Dad while he ran to the house. Aside from the crack of my gun, all I heard was my pounding heart and the litany of curses running through my head.

When the magazine ran dry, I dove for the floor, hiding behind the sandbags, fumbling for a moment with a spare clip. I hadn’t really practiced shooting that many targets before, and shoving the clip into the internal magazine was always more fiddly than I liked. Especially as it sunk in what had just happened and my hooves started shaking.

Suddenly, noise returned. The raiders were screaming in pain and anger, and there was an uncomfortably loud metallic noise. At least one of them was carrying a long range weapon. And a bolt that loud usually means automatic and military.

“Stop!” a deep booming voice roared. I ignored it, and finished reloading, thought the raiders stopped everything, not even complaining about their wounds. “I have your father. You have one minute to come down here and surrender. If not, well, it won’t take much force to crush him alive.”

The raider was strangely articulate. Normally, somepony along that point in the muscle mass scale had traded early, or any, education for an intensive buffout addiction. I peeked over the sandbags.

Dad was on his side, the raider standing there unafraid, a hoof on dad’s neck. Blood was streaming freely down the raider’s face, his eye a gaping ruin. That didn’t seem to bother the raider much, he was grinning madly. Oh dear… I thought, starting to shake.

Not too much I could really do. If somepony shrugs off an eyeshot, shooting them again probably won’t do much. I was lucky as hell to get something that debilitating in the first two shots anyway, and even if I wanted to try for the other eye, there were three more raiders to deal with. They might be less disciplined or less dosed on Med-X, but a killshot with a .22 was pretty unlikely. Plus, I thought getting to my feet, I’m shaking like a leaf.

Still carrying the rifle, I walked, concentrating on taking one step at a time and trying not to think about what ponies said about raiders.

Wonder if I’ll be raped before they dismember me. my brain dredged up, failing entirely. Still, not as if I have a choice. When four raiders show up, shrug off bullets, and have a family member hostage, they sort of can dictate what happens. Hopefully everypony else had the presence of mind to run away.

I pulled open the trap door in the roof, and headed inside. Deserted. I took a deep breath before I opened the door, and walked outside. The scene hadn’t changed much, other than the articulate raider was now licking his own blood as it ran down his face. I kept the rifle pointed at him, though it didn’t seem like it would do much good. I crossed the yard, and walked through the gate.

“Can you get off my dad?” I squeaked.

The raider’s good eye swiveled and focused on me. “Excuse me?”

I coughed, “Can you get off my Dad?” still slightly muffled by the rifle’s bit.

“Of course. But I must ask, what do you intend to do with that tiny rifle?”

“Worked pretty well against your eye.” I muttered, planting my feet and aiming at the other one.

The raider laughed, “This? It won’t stop me from crushing you into paste.”

What can you say to that? I kept my rifle on him anyway, and slowly approached dad, helping him to his hooves. “Get back to the house, I’ll handle this.”

“No, you should-” He started coughing, one forehoof going to his throat. I nudged him, and he started slowly walking, obviously hating each step he took.

The raider waited until Dad reached the gate than trotted over, looming overhead.

“Now, your dad owes my boss a couple years worth of harvests. He’s really behind on his taxes. You can take that shot, and I’ll crush you into paste, burn down your farm, rape the rest of your family, and execute them with a rusty saw, or you can get into that wagon, pull out the manacles, and don’t make a noise. Hey, I’ll tell you what, I’ll consider your family’s debt null and void.”

Well, damn. Slavery or death. I have always been a fan of the idea that it’s not over until it’s over, and it seemed like shooting meant that it was over. “Mind if I pack a few things?”

“Bring whatever you want, not as if it’s going to matter.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded slowly. Not too much that could mean. Well, at least it would be over quickly. Nevertheless, I walked back inside, put the rifle back in its place, dropped the makeshift armor on the floor, and gathered up some supplies.

Canteen, multitool, compass, blanket. Well-worn overalls. Cap. Tools inside of a canteen sling, I tied the blanket into a roll over my shoulders, then shoved a few snack-cakes inside. I looked around one more time, but nothing really presented itself. I debated for a few seconds on a book, but shook my head. Dad watched sadly, then moved to pick up the armor. He had the .308, and looked ready to shoot if the raiders decided to attack anyway. I nodded to him, and headed back outside.

The raider grinned, enjoying my weak attempts to stay alive, and pointed to the wagon. I walked there, hopped inside, and found the box of manacles. One of the other raiders, a mare with bulging neck muscles, clamped the manacles onto my hooves and locked them tight against my fear taught muscles.

When she looked away, I relaxed my forehooves and the “tight” manacles loosened a bit. Not enough to get out, but enough to be a little more comfortable. Leaning back, I looked at the sky, thinking. First, it was always nice to know a little more than the ponies around you, doubly so if they’re trying to kill you. Second, these raiders didn’t know much about being slavers, even if they have the equipment to do it. New to slaving? Or is this something else?

Author's Note

Hey, thanks for reading!

This is my first published thing in a long time, and I hope it's interesting enough for you to want to read more.

Right now, I'm planning on updating every Sunday, around noon EST, but I'm sure words like that have been written on pretty much every fanfic, so let's see how well I keep to that.