My Undead Pony

“WHAT? Are you insane?!” Hempy yelped at Pele’s suggestion of stopping for the night.

“Well, we can’t exactly check into a hotel in some town or other. Not that we’re close enough to one,” Bluegrass said

“But in zombie-infested woods? Nonono, no way,” Hempy protested.

The sun was going down over the broad expanse of forest between Woostirrup and Bridle Bay. The trees, which had seemed so lush and unthreatening during the day, were turned ominous by the creeping shadows of dusk. The caravan had come to a stop on the overgrown dirt road which ran through the Wanderbranch Woods. Hempy and Cheer Chime eyed the twisty trees suspiciously.

“No pony’s reported a sighting out here,” said Pele. She unfurled her map on the road in hopes of estimating their position. Hempy stomped his hoof next to the fragile scroll.

“That’s because no pony has survived an encounter!” he retorted. “Oh Celestia, we’re gonna die out here on our first day…”

“We won’t die,” Cheer said sweetly. Hempy looked to her with cautiously hopeful eyes. “At least, we won’t die permanently.” The moment was ruined. Cheer smiled.

“Why do you keep smiling?” Hempy asked.

“I’m smiling? I guess I’m just happy to be on an adventure. Look at us, all traveling together, having a good time…”

“Yeah, all of us dodging flesh-starved monsters and trying to take our very own flesh-starved monster to a city potentially overrun by flesh-starved monsters. Good times,” Hempy grumbled. He sounded more frightened than irritated.

“Come on, we’re wasting the last of the light. We need to set up camp,” Pele insisted. She rolled up the map, tucked it beneath a wing, and went to open the back of the wagon.

“I agree with Pele. Seems like we’re all chewing on our tired wheels,” Blue commented as she unharnessed Cheer and herself from the wagon.

“Tired wheels?” Charleston repeated. He hadn’t quite come out of his state of ambulatory shock since their departure that morning.

“You know, that old idiom,” Blue said.

“I don’t think that’s an idiom though,” said Charleston.

“We’re tired and cranky,” Blue rephrased curtly. She seemed to notice her own grumpiness and cleared her throat. “I’ll help get the gear out.”

Once the large canvas sheet which served as a shelter was draped over the side of the wagon and staked into the soil to the side of the road, Pele brought out the provisions. The ponies gathered in front of the tent, passing around hunks of bread and cans of peaches and green beans. The last rays of the sun cast a dismal gray vagueness over the group. Cheer began to shiver as the chill of night fell upon them.

“Are zombies afraid of fire?” Charleston wondered aloud. He drew his legs more tightly under him where he lay. “I only ask since it’s getting so dark and cold.”

“I’m not sure,” Pele said between bites of syrupy peach. “I know a fire would be really nice right now, but if there is anything in these woods, I’m not sure they wouldn’t be drawn to the light. Then again, the smoke could cover up our smell, and wild animals are supposed to keep away from flames.”

“So, can we build a fire? Please say we can build a fire,” Hempy pleaded.

“And then we can tell ghost stories!”  Everypony looked at Cheer with a mix of exhaustion and confusion. Cheer suddenly looked sheepish. “I mean, since it would be a campfire and all…”

“Let’s just build a little fire and see what happens. We’ll keep somepony on watch for a couple hours and then switch. Keeps back animals and the cold, after all. And we haven’t seen a single sign of the infected all day,” Blue suggested.

The others agreed and soon, thanks to Blue’s skill with flint, a small fire burned in a ring of stones a few feet from the tent. Charleston, his generosity intact regardless of context, volunteered for the first watch. The other ponies curled up beneath the canvas shelter with their blankets, keeping close for warmth and that rare sensation of security which comes with physical contact. Charleston took his post between the tent and the fire. Though his heart pounded, he tried to control his breathing. He imagined his breath was fueling and calming the small clump of flames near his hooves. When would he know to switch the guard? Time felt meaningless in the darkness around him. He concentrated on the sounds of insects in the trees and the crackle of the fire. The noises made an organic rhythm, up and down, popping embers, buzzing cicadas. How long had he been out there? Minutes? Maybe it had already been an hour, but he hadn’t noticed. The flames had died down even further. When had that happened? Had he drifted off? Whatever the case, the fire needed more fuel. Charleston stood and stretched his cramped legs. With quiet steps, he went to gather dry sticks from the roadside.

A muted knock behind him caused Charleston to flinch, nearly dropping the sticks he held with his magic before him. He looked over his shoulder at the vague outline of the wagon and wished the fire hadn’t gotten so low. As he stood there, frozen, he realized the nocturnal creatures of the forest had gone silent. His fur lifted. The knock came again, and he could tell it was from inside the wagon. Leaving the sticks behind, he made his way at a painstakingly slow pace toward the back of the wagon and wondered how he’d come to be part of this and why he wasn’t waking up the others. He reassured himself that Splicer was safely locked up. If something were wrong, he’d wake up the others.

One door cracked open and Charleston tentatively peeked inside. The thick darkness made him want to rub his eyes, but he knew it wouldn’t help. The soft thumps had turned to dull clanks. Charleston stepped up into the wagon, hating himself for doing so. The closer he got, the better he could see and the more frequent the clanks became. He could make out Splicer’s silhouette through the bars. She was facing him, clearly staring right at him. She drew back and fell forward over and over, knocking her head and teeth into the metal. Her efforts seemed drunken and weak, but her goal was clear. She knew Charleston was there, and she was determined to get at him.

Pele had briefed him on zombie care, so the unicorn lifted the lid from a box near the cage to access some of Hempy’s dried, crushed plants, luckily prepared weeks previously for the alleviation of non-zombie ills. His magic illuminated Splicer’s bloody, hungry face and he winced. He lifted some of the crushed plants and moved them over the zombie. He let them drift over her pale blue-gray face and catch in her tangled black mane. She snorted and stumbled back a few feet. Within a few minutes, the plants had clearly begun to sedate her and she slumped against the wooden wall.

Charleston realized he’d been holding his breath. He closed his eyes and caught his breath, trying not to think about the zombie in the cage mere feet from him. His heart rate slowed. All seemed well.

Until a stick snapped outside.

Charleston went rigid. He gasped at air for a moment before whispering, hoarsely, “hello?” Haltingly, he moved toward the back of the wagon to peer outside. Everything was still and silent in the shadow-wrapped woods. He couldn’t believe he wanted to stay in the wagon with his zombie friend. He couldn’t stay there, though. He had to get back to the fire. Perhaps one of the others hadn’t gotten up to take care of business or something. Charleston took a deep breath and stepped outside.

Nothing. No movement or noise. Charleston sighed and carefully returned to the sticks he’d left near the front of the wagon. Though his heart was still pounding, he finished his chore. It was strangely relaxing to collect the dry twigs and stack them in the air. Once he’d gathered enough and calmed his breathing, he turned around the take them to the embers.

He tried to scream, but only a dry squeak came out. He forgot to maintain his magic and the sticks dropped with a clatter on the dirt and leaves at his feet. The filthy orange and green pony not ten yards away growled and took a clumsy step toward him. The zombie’s eyes were nothing but festering, oozing pits in his face. The thing was blind, but obviously not deaf. He lurched toward Charleston, who couldn’t command his hooves to move. When the reeking creature was mere steps from him, the unicorn finally jumped away and raced to the other side of the fire. He searched frantically for some kind of weapon.

The zombie had stopped and cocked his head to the side, listening. He slowly moved in a circle, having heard the retreating hoofsteps. By now, Charleston was hyperventilating. Even his magic seemed to tremble as he levitated a glowing hunk of wood from the dying fire. The other sticks collapsed inward with a hiss and a small spurt of sparks. The zombie moaned and twisted his crooked head toward Charleston. He hesitated, and then charged directly for the horrified unicorn. Charleston whinnied in alarm and reared up to launch himself in another direction only to discover his trajectory was blocked by another infected pony. In a lucky impulse, he dashed the burning wood in her rotting face.

“Help! Pele, somepony, help!!!” he screeched before tripping backwards and crashing to the ground. The blind zombie was over him in an instant, roaring and spewing bloody spittle in his face. The undead predator lunged for Charleston’s throat, his teeth nearly reaching the tender flesh. Charleston closed his eyes, turned his head, and waited for the pain.

The pain never came. Just a whisper of steel and a wet thump. Charleston opened his eyes and yelped to see the disembodied head of his attacker lying inches from his nose. He panicked. “HELP!” he cried again, flailing his legs. The jaws of the head snapped, causing Charleston’s screams to escalate. A blade plunged through the holes where the eyes should have been, and the zombie head stopped moving.

“Shhh-shh-shh,” hushed Bluegrass. The brown and blue pony stood over him with a hoof on his shoulder, trying to keep him still. Charleston writhed and gagged and finally gained a little more control over himself.

“Please get it out of my face, oh Celestia, please,” he croaked. Pele removed her blade and Blue kicked the head into the embers. Somewhere in the distance, a growl was cut short by another whish of metal. Blue pushed the orange and green body away from Charleston and helped him up.

“I think it’s time to go.” Pele nodded at her own understatement before picking up her double-sword to wipe it clean.

“Agreed,” Hempy said. He went about wiping his ax down as well, hooves shaking all the while. “I think I’m going to need some of what she’s been having,” he added, gesturing toward the wagon.

Cheer trotted up to the rest of the group, panting around the hilt of her hooked sword. To everypony’s surprise, she was smiling.

“It’s like you’re Splicer or something, sheesh,” Hempy commented. “Before all the, you know…”

“I always kinda wanted to go on a camping trip like this,” Cheer said, joining the others in rubbing leaves on their blades. “Beats standing around in Woostirrup, waiting for zombies to attack our whole town. Finally, a real adventure, not just fear!”

Pele shook her head and laughed once. “At least you’re acting a little more like yourself. Somber you was getting creepy.”

“Not that current you isn’t creepy,” Blue said. “Let’s pack up and get out of here. Can’t know how many monsters are in these woods, but those screams are probably drawing them in as we speak. Let’s go.”

The embers were extinguished, the canvas was rolled up, and Bluegrass and Hempy Hooves took up the harnesses. The ponies hurried on through the Wanderbranch Woods, fueled by adrenaline and a distant hope of better times.