The Manehattan Anomaly

There were two slow knocks on the door. Before I had even set my book down, Petticoat was there, putting on a sing-song voice. “Who’s there?”

The voice at the door held back immeasurable glee as it responded, “Orange…”

Petticoat was already giggling, too. “Orange who?”

“Orange you going to let me in!?”

My daughter squealed with laughter, and almost fell flat on her rump before she found enough strength to jump for the doorknob and welcome our guest. “Sunny!” she cried, as she leapt at the young mare’s neck.

“Petty,” she grunted, “you’re too heavy! I’m gonna fa-a-all!”

“Timber!”

The pair crashed to the floor, laughing and gasping for breath. Any time one of them found enough energy to speak, they’d say something that would make the other laugh, and then they’d laugh, and both would be left breathless again. I was content to let it continue for another minute or so until I heard that tell-tale “chi-ki-chi-ki” noise, and suddenly Sunny Dew’s laughter turned to desperate pleas for mercy.

Petticoat was on top of Sunny Dew when I approached. “No tickling,” I said, trying to sound like I hadn’t been laughing along with them. Petticoat whined a little, but she dutifully stopped, and climbed off. I helped Sunny Dew up with a forehoof, and closed the door behind her.

She was a bright, vivid yellow-orange earth pony with a deeper orange mane, kept medium-length and tied back, in contrast to my Petticoat’s pearly white coat and messy, lemon mane. It had only been six months since I’d seen her, but she was taller than me, now, and managed a young professional style that wouldn’t look out of place on a racetrack or in a courtroom. Or maybe that was just me…

“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Sunny,” I said, as I led her and Petticoat back to the living room. “I totally forgot they had the day off…”

She smiled brightly. “Oh, it’s no problem at all. High schools are out too, so I would have been staying home anyway. And I love the little tykes.” As if to prove it, she mussed Petticoat’s mane. My daughter just sat there and smiled like a loyal puppy. Conspiracy, I mused.

“They like you too,” I said. “And it’s been a while. You’re a senior, now, right? Top of the pile?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“How’s it treating you? Any big changes?”

Sunny Dew opened her mouth, but then closed it, tilted her head to the side, and furrowed her brow. “Eh… It’s mostly the same, I guess. The classes are a bit harder, but the homework is still about the same, depending on the teacher.” She glanced down at Petticoat. “We do get a free period now. It’s like a big recess where we can do whatever we want.”

“Wow!” Petticoat gasped. “Can you play games?”

Sunny Dew nodded. “Yeah, of course. But, you know, we can also just leave the school, if we want to.”

Petticoat looked between me and Sunny Dew, as if she wasn’t sure that that was allowed. “Really!?”

“Yeah! As long as we’re back before our next class starts, they don’t have a problem with it. It’s pretty nice.”

Sunny Dew’s eyes widened - even wider than they were before - and she hopped in place. “Ohhh! I wanna go to high school!”

That made me smile, and gave me an idea. “Sunny Dew, do they give every pony in high school free periods?”

She immediately saw what I was doing, and responded, “No, ma’am; it’s only for students with good grades.” Sunny Dew looked at Petticoat as she continued, as if she was relaying a secret, “I had to work really hard, but it was totally worth it.”

That got Petticoat thinking - I guessed she was torn between the horror of hard work and the potential reward of more free time in school. While she wasn’t looking, I glanced at Sunny Dew and nodded. She nodded back.

That filly… If there was anypony else I trusted with my kids, it was her.

“Hmm…” she hummed. “Where’s Rushleaf?”

“Here,” my son’s voice echoed through the door to his and Petticoat’s room.

“Ah,” she said. Then, quieter, “Sick?”

I shrugged. “He’s fine. In a bad mood from some stuff that went on at his father’s. They… don’t always agree.”

Sunny Dew nodded to that, then seemed to judge what to say next carefully. “Um… How is Iris, these days?”

Oh, right. Sunny Dew wasn’t around for… all that. A dozen things flew around my head, a dozen ways to start, but, at this point, I was just tired of it.

“The same,” I finally answered, lamely. “Sorry, Sunny. It’s done, we’re separated, but it’s still a mess. Maybe we can talk about it later.”

She nodded seriously. “Alright. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” I waved her apology off with a hoof. “How about you? Anything new with the parental units?”

The filly smirked at the label. “Not much. Mom’s doing her thing. Dad - well, you know how my dad is with his work.”

I did know. Foggy Dew was a police officer of some variety for the city, and took the job pretty seriously, often working long hours. He could be a bit scatter-brained when it came to family stuff, but his heart was in the right place, at least.

Not something I could say about some ponies…

I shook my head, and smirked. “Stallions.”

Sunny nodded sagely, and agreed, “Stallions.”

“I know you’re talking about me out there,” Rushleaf commented through the door.

I raised my voice: “We were just talking about how much of a pain in the flank you are!”

Sunny Dew joined in, “Yep! And you’re smelly, too!”

There was a bit of laughter in return, and Rushleaf said, with a bittersweet tone, “Hi, Sunny.”

I was about to just continue the small-talk with Sunny Dew - she really was such an impressive young mare - but between the hall to the bedrooms and the living room, I glanced at a clock. It was nearly ten already.

“Oh, gingersnaps,” I swore. “I really need to get going. Um, money’s on top of the fridge, there’s some extra if you want to get food or go to the movies or something-”

“Movies!” Petticoat cheered. “Yay!”

At the door, I quickly surveyed the apartment, trying to think of anything I had forgotten, but nothing came. I settled once more on Sunny and Petticoat, and shrugged. “Be safe.”

“Will do!” Sunny Dew saluted, and Petticoat mimicked her. “Bye, Daffodil!”

“Bye mommy!”

“Bye, kids,” I called back, and then I grabbed my saddlebags and was out the door, ready for work - a bit later than usual, but still ready.

It always pained me to leave my kids behind for work, especially when I only got to spend half the month with them as it was, but such was life. I supposed myself lucky that my working hours were as flexible as they were. I could take on more work while they were with Iris so I’d have more time with them while they were with me. And, if there was any sort of emergency, I was usually close at hoof.

My first three stops were on this very floor. I proceeded counter-clockwise, arriving at unit 309, and counted off the keys on my ring. Unit 309, Porcelain Clay’s apartment, had the key with the number ‘309’ on it. Easy enough to remember.

I knocked, announced, “Cleaning!” and then unlocked and opened the door, making my way in. Porcelain Clay was usually not home this time of day, even on holidays, so I didn’t worry about barging in on anything. I barely knew the stallion - I’d seen him on a few occasions, spoke to him once or twice - but that wasn’t a terrible thing, in this line of work.

He mostly kept things clean, if a little disorganized. After checking all the rooms, it seemed all I had to do was make his bed, put away some dishes, and clean the kitchen counters. One down.

The next unit, 307, matched the key with the number worn off from decades of wear. Easy to remember in a different way. I knocked, waited just a moment, and entered.

Pike’s home was cluttered, crowded, but beautiful, giving the sense of a museum display - like the office of a historical figure preserved to the last detail. Stacks of newspapers from a bygone period; cases full of figurines and knick-knacks; textiles in foreign patterns. Some evidence of everyday life, like an assortment of dirty dishes stacked next to the sink, only enhanced the effect.

She was in her bed, sitting upright with a book in her claws, as usual. The book was thick-bound, a foreign title visible in small gold print on the spine, and the radio on the adjacent night table played soft, exotic music through a layer of noise. She looked at me, over her tiny round glasses, and there was a smile on her beak.

The elderly griffin didn’t need much help cleaning, but I was happy to help her lift or move things, double-check her medication, and just… keep her company, for a while, almost every day.

She wasn’t a fluent speaker, and I knew better than to ask all of the questions on my mind, but she’d often tell me stories from her old country, from a time before I was born. I got the impression she was a veteran of some part of the great war - the long rifle hung over her bed looked the part - but she never spoke about that. Only the good times, before the war, or the more interesting times long after it.

Another impression I got was that Pike didn’t have anypony else. She had shown me many photos of her relatives and friends, but I had never seen or heard of any of them visiting, if they could. So, in turn, I would tell her about me, my kids, my day, anything I could think of that I thought she’d like to hear. I didn’t know if she was genuinely interested in my mundane stories, but she always seemed happy to listen.

Before leaving for the day, I chanced another look at the rifle. It was clean, heavily engraved, and pointing away from her, in a fashion, pinned to the wall above the left side of her large bed - the side she made but never slept in.

I could imagine a fragment of a story, there, but that was one of those things I didn’t want to just ask outright. Maybe, one day, she would tell me.

My last stop for this floor was unit 305. The key didn’t have a number, but a spot of blue paint where the number would be, which I remembered because blue was the fifth colour of the rainbow. Not as easy to remember as the others, but it helped that 305’s occupant was named Cobalt Spark, and he - like his namesake - was blue.

Cobalt Spark was one of those clients I was likely to run across, because of his work schedule, but I didn’t know him to be very personable. A very head-in-the-clouds sort, only half-involved in any conversation, his mind always working on some problem in the background.

“Cleaning!” I announced, after knocking, and I waited for a response for a little longer than I usually would have. After nothing came, I made my way in, assuming nopony was home.

What I saw was shocking. Cobalt Spark was not the neatest of ponies, not by a country mile, but his home typically didn’t look like a bomb had gone off in it. Furniture and papers were thrown all around the living room and kitchen; piles of some kind of brown fuzz littered the floor, overflowing from a big shipping crate; and there were even some holes punched through the plaster walls.

I… didn’t think this was within my job description.

But I ventured further into the unit, wondering what exactly had happened here. A violent tantrum? A robbery - possibly in-progress? I hadn’t heard anypony in here, but the possibility remained frightening.

Making sure I had a clear path to the open door behind me, I called out, loud enough for anypony in the unit to hear me, “Cobalt? Is anyone here?”

Soon afterwards, a crash came from Cobalt’s room, followed by a gag or a coughing noise. My blood ran cold, and there was no time to second-guess it or say anything: I ran into his room, turning the handle and pushing the door open with my shoulder mid-charge, to see what was happening. I didn’t even think about why I was moving, but as my purpose turned to conscious thought, I realized that he might have been choking or having a seizure.

I did not expect to see Cobalt Spark hanging himself.

I was frozen, taking in the scene, even though I knew in my mind that I had to move. The crash I’d heard was the night table nearest him. It had been kicked over, probably the same moment he had committed to the act. The rope came down from a hole in the ceiling - freshly made, judging by the pry bar and plaster debris on the floor beneath. And Cobalt hung there, his head tilted oddly, his eyes bulging, his shoulders tense and his forelegs spasming downwards. His eyes caught mine, and he made a gurgling noise, which shook me from my panicked state.

I had to get him down from there.

To reach him, I righted the night table and jumped up onto it, reaching up to the knot around his neck. It was a classic noose, pulled tight around his neck by his own weight. I tried tugging on it with my teeth, not caring about pulling on his mane, but that didn’t do anything, and I couldn’t carry him very well from here, either. I just didn’t have the leverage, or, for that matter, the raw strength.

There was the next option - should have been the first, if I was thinking straight. I ran out of his room and into the hall, hopped over an overturned chair, headed into the kitchen, and tore the cutlery drawer open. It broke free of its slide and fell to the floor, the contents crashing with a painful noise, but I didn’t care.

Along with forks and spoons, some serrated knives landed in the pile, and I grabbed one in my mouth and ran back to the room. I might have cut my face on a blade, somewhere, but I still didn’t care. Back on the night table, I grabbed Cobalt Spark, set the knife against the end of the knot as close as I could get to the back of his neck, and started sawing.

It was slow. Too slow, I soon realized. Cobalt’s shaking and choking gradually slowed and grew silent over what felt like only the next minute. In another few minutes, with the rope only half-cut and holding strong, the only sign of life was his barrel heaving in an unnatural, silent rhythm.

He wasn’t dead, yet, but nearly there, irreversibly close. In those useless minutes, I could have found some help, could have found somepony else to lift his body as I cut or freed him from the noose. There was a phone in the kitchen, I could have called in an emergency. My breath caught - I realized I was crying only when my tears overflowed and stung my eyes.

Cobalt… I barely knew him, I didn’t even like him, but now, in my panic and stupidity, I was responsible for his death.

The moment did not come as I expected. The odd movement of his body gradually slowed, and there was an ugly sound as his bowels and bladder emptied themselves, the excrement falling past his legs and hitting the floor. I felt a splash on my legs, and stepped away onto thin air, tumbling down to the floor, into the filth.

The stench assaulted me, but more than that was the feeling, the awareness that I was in it. I coughed, spat, cried, threw up, right where I fell. I thought I might have been dead, for a moment, or else that I’d wake up just then and realize it had all been an intense nightmare. For some time I hoped that was all it had been. But no. It was real.

Some time passed. As I came to my senses and my vision cleared, I noticed something peculiar, even though I didn’t want to look at any of this.

There was movement next to me. Near the discarded pry bar, through a crack in the floorboards that I hadn’t noticed before, a dark, thorny tendril slithered up the wall. It was gently corkscrewed, and flailed around in slow-motion as it heightened, until it made contact with Cobalt Spark’s corpse, the back edge of his right hoof. It seemed to stick there, and coiled around the leg as it climbed further. Another tendril climbed out from the floor in a similar motion, and stuck onto the other hoof.

I wondered if this was just what happened when somepony died, but I knew better. I felt a sudden urge to cut the tendrils before they could do something bad to Cobalt Spark’s body, but I had lost my knife in the fall.

Instead, I crawled around the filth, as best as I could, and found the pry bar, and stabbed at the tendrils with it. In one movement the tool plunged through the plaster wall, severing the first tendril near the base, and the second was severed just as easily. But three more came up within seconds. That wasn’t effective. I needed to cut them off at the source.

I stuck the bar into the crack in the floor, and pulled, and the whole board popped off easily. I peered down and aimed the tool towards where the tendrils seemed to lead.

It was down there, visible in its own light. A smooth black thing the size of a bowling ball with a hole in the top. The tendrils grew out from the hole, with bands of faint red tracing up and down where they crossed from outside to inside. I figured there had to be something delicate in there, and I leaned forward, trying to angle for a good stab, when I saw it.

The germ.

Then something changed. I dropped the pry bar, stood up, and went to the bathroom to clean myself up. I considered some things: the pile of knives; the keys in the saddlebag; the gun on the wall; the germ under the floor; the faces of children.

There was more work to do.