Fallout Equestria: Dark God
This is a True Story…
“Hello, Whinneyapolis Wastelaaand. Guess who it is. Oh, it’s no one special. It’s just little ol’ DJ Pon3, coming to you live and loud from the sunny paradise of Tenpony Tower, at least by your standards. I know y’all have been drowning in the drivel that is EQCR – heh, no offense to you, Blue – but cover your ears no longer. Pon-3 is here! Making his Whinneyapolis debut all thanks to today’s sponsor:
“‘The Wasteland Survival Guide’ by Ditzy ‘Derpy’ Doo, sharing helpful advice and anecdotes to make sure you live to see another day. You can pick up your copy of the wasteland survival guide at all good caravans and hopefully all good traders in the near future.
“The author herself went out of her way to extend my signal to that baleful winter wonderland so my cheerful carols may warm the hearts of those frosty wastelanders up there. So, props to Ditzy Doo, and if you see her make sure to give her yours and my thanks.
“Jokes and banter aside, everyone knows life is hard. We live in a wide, wide wasteland full of trouble. Well, for the rest of you regulars who may not know, in the far north, they’re living in a nigh endless winter. It only gets above freezing there a few months out of the year, and getting up there is hard, so they don’t have much contact with the rest of Equestria.
“So, dear listeners, take a moment to give our new friends up north your best wishes. And, to anyone up there who can hear me, my heart goes out to you, and so does this next song. Anyone in the mood for some Songbird Serenade?”
-
The wind howled, blowing the fat gray flakes erratically along the ground. The mare could hardly see her hoof in front of her face, yet she wasn’t discouraged. The shrieking wind and the creaking of dead trees was all but deafening, but she’d endured far worse than inclement weather in her long life and was determined to deliver the mail.
Doggedly, she fought her way through the deep drifts along the forest trail, praying to the goddesses she was heading in the right direction. As she continued deeper into the woods, she couldn’t help but feel anxiety building within her. Every muscle was tensed, anticipating the moment when something would loom out of the dark.
A spark of hope kindled within her when she reached a decrepit sign. She brushed the snow off it, and relief flooded through her as she read ‘Ranger’s Cabin.’ Behind her scarf, her face broke into a triumphant smile, and she quickened her pace as much as she could, eager to finally reach her destination.
The quaint log cabin was situated atop a slight rise. She struggled up the snowpack, then slid down the bank and onto the icy porch beneath the veranda, which had been all but sealed in by the accumulated snow. Mustering her courage and standing straight, she knocked firmly on the door.
“Hello!” she shouted in a shivery croak. There was no reply from inside. She knocked again but to no avail. “Is this Strider’s Cabin?” she asked, now raising her hoarse voice even higher to be heard over the violent wind, adding, “Red sent me.”
“Why?” a low voice answered, but not from inside. The mare started and twisted sideways, slipping on the icy planks and falling over. Her wide, terrified yellow eyes stared up at me in fright. I noticed that they weren’t quite facing the same direction.
“Are… are you Strider,” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. Her teeth chattered, and beneath her puffy jacket, her sides rapidly rose and fell.
I gazed down at her, the magical glow from my visor bathing her in sanguine light. I imagined what she must see and was grimly satisfied. “I am,” I answered, keeping my voice even.
She was clearly afraid of me, yet she remained resolute in whatever mission she’d undertaken and pressed on. “She, Red, said I should talk to you if I wanted advice on how to survive up here,” she replied shakily, her voice muffled by layers of cloth. “That you knew how better than anypony.”
I groaned inwardly. “You made it out here through a blizzard at night,” I observed. “I’d think you’re capable enough on your own.”
“I’m not here for myself. I’m here for everypony else,” she said firmly, rising back to her hooves with some difficulty. I raised an eyebrow behind my mask but said nothing, letting the silence drag on as I surveyed my strange visitor.
The silent staring prompted her to continue as she slipped her way to where she could lean on the log wall. “Uh, I’m– shoot, I’m writing a survival guide to share tips and tricks with other ponies to help them survive in the wastes.” She reached for her saddle bags, only to realize she still had her scarf around her muzzle.
After pushing it down to reveal badly burned features, she reached again, only to pause and turn a wary yellow eye at me, seeming to realize the gesture could be deemed threatening. I remained still and silent.
Taking that as a sign I wasn’t provoked, she withdrew a ragged booklet and held it out for me to see. Her burned face beamed with pride, her cloudy eyes squinting with her smile. The title read ‘The Wasteland Survival Guide,’ and assuming she was indeed the author, she was called Ditzy ‘Derpy’ Doo. A fitting name.
When she was sure I’d read the cover, after a prolonged period where a trickle of snot had run down and frozen on her lip, she put it away, satisfied that I’d read the whole nine words. “My Wasteland Survival Guide,” she said proudly, for clarification.
“Now that I finished the first edition, I figured I should tackle specific regions,” she eagerly continued. “That way, ponies will have specialized, er, localized help, and I can add any useful new tips to the second edition of the general Wasteland Survival Guide. Red said you know how to get by out here better than anypony else and would be the best pony to ask.” She looked up at me with big, hopeful, wonky yellow eyes. They all but twinkled. “So, will you help me?”
“No.”
Her ears drooped under her hood in disappointment, and she sat down hard. “Wha– Why?” she wailed pitifully, “Red said–”
I was going to kill that snoop the next time I saw her. “I’m not interested.”
“But, it’ll save lives,” she begged. “Surely, you know how things are out there.” She gestured out beyond my snowed-in porch. “That ponies need all the help they can get.”
“They’re cold and unforgiving,” I said frankly, “but that’s nothing new. I’m not interested.”
“But things are getting worse,” she implored, scooting forward on her rear to put her hooves on my shoulders. “I know you can tell. Red said you would, and she doesn’t lie.” Red was a journalist.
She was right, though, I could tell. A brutal winter seemed to be brewing. The days seemed shorter, the nights darker, and the temperature colder. With consistent heavy snows early in the season and high winds from the north, the onset had come with a vengeance. I’d had to scramble to get my preparations in order.
“Harsh winters have come and gone before.” I shrugged. “That’s nothing new. Your book won’t change that. It’ll just be used for tinder, so save your ink.”
“But it’s not just the weather,” she whispered, glancing warily into the dark. “Don’t you know what’s happening? Bad things,” she continued in hushed tones and scooted even closer, practically hugging me and looking up at me again.
“Really bad things are happening, and they’re going to get worse if Red is right, and she is, I can tell. Ponies will need all the help they can get. Please, help,” she pleaded, trying to shake my shoulders, but I stood firm, so she pressed her face up against my mask, her eyes refocusing to stare intently into my glowing visor.
I could see in her desperate, goggley expression that she was being entirely genuine. Even if she did seem a little… different, I got the sense I should at least hear her out. Damn. “Fine. Come inside and warm up,” I grumbled.
She beamed and squeezed me in a squishy hug. “Oh, thank you so much, Strider. I really appri-“
I cracked open the door and roughly shoved her through before darting inside myself. Before any more of the precious heat could escape, I slammed it closed behind me.
She didn’t seem to mind the rough treatment, however. She got up from where she’d sprawled on the floor, shook herself off, and started to look around as if nothing unusual had just happened.
It was a small space, yet she studied everything with intense curiosity. Just under half of the main room was a kitchen and dining area, just inside the door. The other was the living space, filled with bookshelves and a record player. The other half of the cabin was divided between an office, a bedroom, and a bathroom between the two.
Studying my guest in the light as she curiously examined her surroundings, I gauged she wasn’t a threat. I took my helmet off and set it on its peg by the door, shaking my shaggy mane as I did so. She was pale gray with a thin, hazy blonde mane, and she was so severely burned she looked broiled. Despite that, she had a sweet, kind, and innocent look to her.
Still, I saw armor under her thick winter jacket and the folded bit of a battle saddle at her neck. I bet, with her eyes, she had some kind of shotgun under one of her wings. In addition to her bulging saddlebags, she had two heavy-looking metal cases on her back. She was definitely more than she appeared.
I realized I was staring, and she could see my expression. She was staring back, however, not seeming to notice as she was doing the same. “You look wolfy,” she said with a poorly stifled giggle, holding a hoof to cover her mouth. “Ponies up here are so fluffy.”
Scruffy dark grey coat, salt and pepper mane, and tired yellow eyes. I supposed she was right, as she wasn’t the first to make the comparison.
I turned a level gaze on her walleyed one before going to pour a shot of warming brandy, my ritual after venturing outside. I kept the bottle on the counter nearest the door so I could go to it immediately after entering. I uncorked and poured.
I felt Ditzy’s presence just standing there, so I turned and gestured to the table in the middle of the kitchen space. “Take a seat,” I instructed before throwing back the shot and staring at the wallpaper.
The walls themselves were simple beige, but along the ceiling, and here, between the kitchen tiles and the cupboards, there were images of loons on a navy background, framed between silver lines. I love loons.
Ditzy obeyed, setting her things down beside the chair and sitting, looking expectant at me, idly kicking her hooves under the table as she waited.
I watched her reflection in the window for a moment as she looked around, then glanced at her over my shoulder. She smiled widely at me, cocking her head and closing her eyes. I scowled, then looked exasperatedly at the loon, willing it, or something, to give me the strength I needed to endure my unexpected guest. It sat with its wings outstretched as it prepared to take flight, its red eye seeming to tell me to take action.
Sighing, I reluctantly pressed the cork back into the bottle and moved to the table to sit across from the mare. “Tell me what you think’s going on,” I directed.
“I don’t think, I know. I saw,” she said emphatically, immediately switching gears. “Lots of ponies going to Equestria City seeking shelter.” That was no surprise if a bad winter was coming. There were always roving scavengers and nomadic traders who would rent rooms or camping space in the caravan area.
“There’s so many that the city had to issue a curfew. Visitors have to leave the city from 6:00 to 11:00 unless they have a special pass.” She withdrew a plastic card and showed it to me.
A Mall of Equestria Super Duper All Access Fun Pass on a pink lanyard. It showed a massively smiling Pinkie Pie in a ringmaster’s outfit welcoming ponies to Pinkie’s Partypaloozaland.
“There’s that many ponies?” I asked, raising my brows in mild surprise.
“Oh yes.” She nodded vigorously, one of her eyes drifting again slightly. I tried not to stare.
She fished around her bag, pulled out an envelope, and then pushed it to me with her mittened wing. In doing so, she revealed a short shotgun. I was right. “Red had me bring you one, too, with her letter, by the way, just in case.”
I nodded my appreciation and pulled it towards myself, placing it in an inside jacket pocket. “You never said you had a letter for me.”
“Didn’t I?” she asked, looking confused for a moment. “Oh, uh, doie.” She tapped her head with a hoof, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes. “She said if I was gonna go see you, I should deliver a letter for her too, to you. So, message delivered!”
She saluted with a wing before continuing. “They’ve set up camps outside the city. At first, it was just tents and sleighs, but now it’s practically a whole town.”
That got my attention. “Seriously?”
“Completely.” She nodded vigorously. “They’re allowed in to trade during the day, but anyone who stays in after curfew gets banished. There are a few Minute Meese who followed along with the refugees who patrol the shanties, but there’s still violence every day.”
I could imagine. Equestria City was as heavily defended as it was for a reason, and if there were that many ponies desperate enough to camp outside, they would likely be desperate enough to prey upon each other. I sat back in my chair, digesting that bit of information. “How hard is the weather hitting the Sisters?”
“Hard, but it’s not just the weather. It’s the darkness,” she whispered, shivering as a chill ran down her spine.
“Are you saying that ponies are flocking to Equestria City because they’re afraid of the dark?” I asked, leaning back in my seat and trying not to sound incredulous. I wondered if it was a mistake to take the strange mare seriously.
“Not the dark. The darkness. It’s not natural.” She shuddered and glanced at the sliver of darkness peeking over the snow piled outside the shuttered windows.
“Nopony knows what it is,” she continued in ominous tones, leaning over the table. “But the days are getting darker, even when the sun should be at its peak. I’m a Pegasus; I know how the weather works, and I’m telling you, it’s not natural. You have to believe me,” she said emphatically, a pleading entering her hoarse voice. “Red does.”
As odd as this mare was, I didn’t take her as one to spook easily, given the conditions she’d trekked through to get here. I guess I’d unfairly thought too little of her. Regardless, I still had my doubts.
Red’s word I judged on a case-by-case basis, so I’d wait until I read her letter before truly considering her input. All in all, though, my gut told me to humor her and just see where things went. I nodded, and an expression of relief swept over her marred features.
“Thank you, Strider. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Her grisly face was split by a warm smile, and she reached over the table to hug me around the neck. My eyes bulged as she squeezed tightly and held me there for an overly long moment, my skin crawling.
When she pulled back, she looked down at the table with a bashful smile as she rocked back and forth in her seat with poorly-tempered eagerness. After a momentary pause, she looked back up and asked, her words nearly tripping over themselves, “So, can I start asking you questions now?”
I sighed heavily. “Alright. Just one second.” She smiled and nodded politely as she began to unpack her things, scrunching up her muzzle as she worked. I went to pour another, larger shot of brandy and, after a brief moment of deliberation, chose not to take the entire bottle back to the table. I don’t usually drink around strangers, but this one was an exception.
I sat down and noted how she’d packed her equipment in such a way to shield the most sensitive bits from the cold. She was clearly more competent than she let on. That didn’t bode well because it meant what she was saying was more likely to have truth to it.
I sipped some of the drink, enjoying the warming sensation as she set the microphone and holotape in place. “I’m ready,” she said, her eye drifting about excitedly.
“Alright, what do you wanna know about Whinneyapolis?”
“Oh, uh,” she shifted awkwardly. “I suppose you’d wanna know what I know already?”
“That might help,” I replied wryly. She fished out a paper and passed it to me with a wing, then proceeded to stare at me with an expectant expression. With a sigh, I pulled it the last few inches to me and began to skim through.
The Sister Cities of Whinneyapolis St. Pone, now colloquially known as just Whinneyapolis, or the cities, for short… the last Equestrian stop along the way to the Crystal Empire. Pre-war, the region around the Sister Cities was Equestria’s breadbasket. The Zebras took a different approach with Whinneyapolis-St. Pone, seeking to pollute rather than obliterate… unique post-war conditions…greater amount of fallout into the atmosphere… remains colder than before the bombs, and is racked by intense storms. What’s worse, they’re infused with radiation… Survivors sought shelter in the tunnels beneath the cities… the vast majority of the underground communities died out… When the radiation above ground fell to survivable levels, most of the remaining communities emerged… the survivor communities banded together and eventually made for the Mall of Equestria.
I hoofed the paper back to her. “Yea. That sounds about right.”
She put it back into her bag and withdrew a copy of The Wasteland Survival Guide. “This is for you. It’s signed.” She tapped the ‘written by.’ “That’s me.” She smiled happily. Her signature was written just below her typed name. Ditzy ‘Derpy’ Doo. I was reminded how it was indeed quite fitting, backing my pet theory of nominative determinism.
“Oh, thanks…” The walleyed pegasus beamed at me as I took it and walked it to my living room.
“So, it’s good? I know it’s rough, but…” she tailed off, twisting around and leaning forward in anticipation, still smiling. Her yellowed and chipped teeth and burned face made the expression uncanny.
“I suppose. It’s a decent summation.” I thought a moment, setting my new signed first edition on the coffee table so I wouldn’t lose it.
I put my thoughts together on my way back, sitting back as she leaned over the table, staring intently. Having both her eyes staring directly at me was remarkably unsettling. “But, you’re trying to include it all at once. If you’re making a handbook, I’d suggest you break it up more. Summarize the history separately from the current key information about the city. Ponies that jus—"
“That’s what I did in the first guide!” she cried out, clopping her hooves together happily. “That means I am good!”
“Yea. I suppose you are,” I replied dryly, hanging my head a bit. I was starting to get a headache.
“So, can I ask you questions now?” she asked, just as eagerly as the first time.
“Yea,” I grumbled. Not adding that we’d already been over that.
“Excellent.” She clopped her hooves together in pleasure. “Just one second,” she said, reaching down for something. I reached for the drink to take another sip.
She hefted up the second metal case and set it thunderously down next to her recording equipment, making me spill, which went unnoticed by the preoccupied mare.
With a massive effort, I resisted the urge to snap her neck. Instead, I grit my teeth and wiped away the brandy with my sleeve, but since it was leather, I only succeeded in smearing the liquid around the polished wooden tabletop. Maybe that was a sign I shouldn’t be drinking against my better judgment. I just downed the rest.
As this was going on, she’d unlatched the case and gently lifted out a typewriter, then proceeded to write out what I presumed was the title, making a heavy chunk, chunk, chunk, sound that had a tinkling metallic ring to its edge.
“If you’re recording, why are you—"
“Typing?” she cut me off. “Oh, I find it sometimes helps my writing to type out my thoughts as they come.” She tilted her head sideways. “But not always, so I don’t always type when I interview, but I like to. The tape is only there to help me when I’m editing. Well, at least it is when I type.” She smiled squintily over the typewriter.
I didn’t follow. “Can you hear over the typing?” I asked dryly. If I got any drier, I’d have to stick my head in the snow.
“Oh, not always.” She tilted her head the other way as she pondered. “But if I typed it out, what do I need the recording for?”
“No idea,” I muttered wryly.
“Me neither. This is my second interview ever, so I still have to figure it out. For the first survival guide, I was writing mostly from experience or anecdotes I remembered. Anyway…” She clapped her hooves together. “What makes furies different from ghouls?” she queried, positioning her hooves over the keyboard.
“I’m not that familiar with ghouls,” I said, and the pegasus looked mildly surprised.
“Really?”
“I’ve heard of them, but that’s it.”
“Well,” she began, a smug look blooming on her grisly face.
“You’re one, aren’t you?” I finished for her. Her ears drooped as the wind let out of her sails. “But you aren’t the flesh-eating monster they’re described as.”
“No.” Her expression shifted from disappointment to one of profound sadness. “Some ghouls are just normal ponies, like me. Others lose their minds and go feral. They become like zombies; they look dead and eat ponies. No one knows for sure why. Maybe it’s the disfigurement, or their brains get fried.” She had a far-away look, and I could guess what she was thinking.
“This is due to radiation exposure, right?” I asked, frowning contemplatively.
The question brought her back to reality. “Yeah. Usually from sudden, high-intensity doses – that’s how I became one – or staying too long in a hot spot.”
“Supposedly, what happens to furies has something to do with how radiation is slowly released by snow,” I said.
Clunk, chunk, tak, clack, went the typewriter.
“It leads to a slow-building radiation sickness that evolves into…” I searched for a word.
“Ghoulification?” Ditzy supplied. It was a lot better than ‘furiated.’
I lifted my hoof in a gesture of thanks. “Into ghoulification over a long period of exposure, like being caught out unprepared in or after a rad-storm. My best guess was that hypothermic delirium has something to do with why they lose their faculties,” I explained as best I could. “But now, based on what you said about your ghouls, I don’t know. To be honest with you, I’d never really considered the furies as being related to ghouls.”
“Oh, maybe you’re onto something. If disfigurement is a factor, and furies are less disfigured by less severe radiation exposure but are more consistently feral, that might be a factor. I couldn’t say, though, but it’s worth considering,” she said with polite intrigue. Schwiiing clackk. She moved to a new line, and I continued as she typed away with her hoof tips, her eyes in two different directions.
“They can still use weapons and speak. It’s more like they become…” I scratched my cheek, looking up as I searched for the right word, “savages, than like zombies. They eat pony flesh, but that’s not so unusual up here. They’re not much different than raiders, really.”
The takking and chunking ceased, drawing my attention back to her. “The raiders here are cannibals too?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” I grinned grimly at her disquieted look.
“Ferals eat other ponies because they’ve lost their minds. You’re saying these ponies do it willingly?” She looked appalled.
I nodded. “Yea. Have you never encountered cannibalism before?” I asked, finding that hard to believe.
“Yeah, but not often, and mostly, it’s just one or two really desperate or mentally ill ponies,” she said uncomfortably.
“Everypony up here is desperate,” I said bluntly. “The climate up here requires a lot of caloric intake to maintain your body weight. If you’re a raider who’s willing to kill someone to survive, eating them to survive is the next logical step.” I shrugged fatalistically.
“A city where all the raiders are cannibals…” She looked sick. “Whinneyapolis might just be the scariest city in the wasteland. Well, save Canterlot.” She shook her head to clear the thought, scrunching her muzzle. “Anyway, moving on from furies and all… that yucky stuff. What do you know about the cult?”
I looked up at her. “What cult?”
“You know, the Cult of Umbrum.”
“I haven’t heard of them,” I replied. “What do you know of ‘em?”
“Not much. Only what Red says, and she doesn’t know much because they’re so new. They worship balefire. To them, it’s a symbol of rebirth.” She spread her hooves wide over her head and said in a mock oratory voice, “A cleansing dark flame, burning away the impure and bringing about a new world.”
“They sound like a cult, alright,” I muttered. “Straight out of a bad novel.”
She nodded. “They’ve established a little church in the shanty town outside Equestria City, and from what the ponies there say they’re kind and charitable. They share food, treat injuries, and so on. Except for radiation poisoning because they believe that radiation is cleansing.”
“How so, exactly?” I asked skeptically.
She looked genuinely scornful, which I didn’t expect from the pegasus mare. “If you are pure of heart, it won’t hurt you. If you’re blessed, you become one of the chosen. If you are impure, you die. They see it as their god’s will.”
“But how do they not get sick?”
“Ahh…” She tilted her head even farther, leaning to the side. Then she tilted it in the other way, still leaning in the same direction, before swaying back to the other side and rocking her head back to the first direction. When that didn’t work, she leaned forward, squeezing her head between her hooves and scrunching her face extra hard. “Ohh,” she snorted in irritation, “I dunno. Nopony really does."
“Thanks,” I replied. “Any other questions?”
“Just the basic survival ones,” she said, perking right back up. “Like, how do you stay warm when it’s really, really cold? Where to look for food? What kinda special dangers are there to worry about? Stuff like that.”
I paused for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. “Anyone who’s not from here should probably know about carbon monoxide poisoning when shut up in a house…”
We talked a few hours longer as I gave her all the survival tips I could think of and answered all her questions. Halfway through, I’d snapped, “Will you please, for the love of Luna, put that insufferable machine away before I lose my damn mind.”
She looked mildly offended but still complied. Something about her slow, deliberate way of typing irritated me to no end, even though I had my own typewriter and found the sound of typing to be rather satisfying, like recoil. But, by the end, she seemed to have lost all interest in the typewriter, thank the goddesses, and to my surprise, I found myself enjoying the derpy mare’s company and the conversation.
By the time we’d exhausted the list of things to talk about, the worst of the storm had passed, and the sun had risen above the cloud cover. She hung around at the door and chattered a bit longer as I stood and listened in silence, occasionally nodding and glancing at the door. She would fit in well in Whinneyapolis. I assumed she and Red got along just great.
Once I finally did kick her out, the cabin felt overwhelmingly silent. The howling wind outside and the creaking and groaning of the old timbers goaded me. I sighed and walked to the fireplace to stoke the embers.
I set a few pieces of kindling and dried wood inside and laid down on the couch, watching as the flames licked at them, eventually creeping up their sides and engulfing them.
The silence was unbearable. I rolled off the couch and trotted to the record player to sift through my record bin. Pegadeth, Ponörhead, Soundpaddock, Neighvana? Not quite what I wanted. Pony Jam was closer. I felt like Alice in Tack, but I wanted something suited to thinking, so I lifted out Jar of Parasprites and put needle to vinyl.
Bobbing my head to the music, I set about stripping out of my armor and making myself some pine needle tea, slicing off some of the brown bread I’d made last night to go with it. It was no longer warm, as expected, and was actually kind of stiff now, but it was good all the same when dipped in the tea to soften it up.
Ditzy was strange, and while she’d initially been an unwelcome guest, I had to admit the visit was amusing, albeit troubling. Her news niggled at the back of my mind even when I wanted to be distracted and to unwind.
With my tea and bread, I took a seat on the couch and withdrew Red’s letter from my chest pocket, unable to put it off. I tore the envelope open with my teeth and unfolded the note inside. With a sip of tea, I began to read.
Strider.
I hope your chat with Ditzy was fun for you. She’s a sweet mare, and I know just how much you enjoy company. Anyhow, I need to ask a favor of you. Truly, this time it’s serious. I know you won’t want to, but please say yes. Refugees have been coming to the city in droves unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and they’ve set up a camp outside. With winter coming, things are going to be hard enough without a crisis. But it’s not just that. Something more is going on here, and it’s bad. I just know it. I can’t look into it myself because I can’t leave Blue on her own when things are like this, and I don’t want to put any more details in here just in case it's as big as I think it is. So please, come. You know I wouldn’t ask this of you unless things were dire. I need you.
– Your friend, Red.
I stared at the letter, a pit opening in my stomach. Red liked to embellish and add flare to her stories, but I believed her. She wouldn’t ask me to come like this. She never had before. Even her script radiated tension. Ditzy’s odd nervous behavior made a lot more sense now, and Red’s account had me deeply unsettled.
On one hoof, I couldn’t help but ask myself, why should I care? I have it good out here. My only issue is the occasional timberwolf, so why get involved in things I didn’t have any part or stake in? It’s not my problem what goes on in the cities. Moreover, what could I do about whatever was happening?
On the other, this was Red. As much as I’d like to, I wasn’t willing to leave her or Blue to fend for themselves if things truly were bad there. I could just bring them back here and forget the city.
My internal debate consumed me for the rest of the morning, and I decided to sleep on it despite having made up my mind. The wind howled all night, rattling windows and gently rapping the shutters as much as the snow let them. I tossed and turned restlessly, drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep. It was only well after midnight when I finally fell asleep. When I woke late in the early morning, I had failed to come up with a justification to refuse Red’s plea.
I groggily made my way to the kitchen, lighting a fire in the cook stove. I had cupboards and cupboards of canned goods and other scavenged foods I’d stockpiled. It would be a long journey, and I was going to make sure I enjoyed my few luxuries before leaving them behind. All of my cookware was dinged up, but I liked to believe that added to the flavor.
I grabbed a can of noodle soup, pried it open, and poured it into the pot on the stovetop, then set to making coffee. I kept a keg of water I’d boiled and mixed with radaway on the counter. I poured some into the percolator and let it heat alongside the soup as I dumped some grounds into the basket. As they both warmed, I set some music on the record player and sat to do a crossword puzzle.
The water came to a boil, and soon, the cabin was filled with the aromas of soup and coffee and driving riffs of Ponörhead. Snagglehoof was singing an anti-war song about some ancient evil king. For Image’s sake, I assume, he said in an interview it was supposed to be about the Caesar, but in a ‘wink-wink’ sort of way that said the criticism was directed at Luna equally as much that still left him ample plausible deniability. There was a shot at Rarity, too, which I greatly appreciated.
Once it was steaming, I poured my soup into a chipped bowl and moved to the table to finish the puzzle and enjoy the last comfortable meal I’d have in a while. After savoring the last sips of coffee, I poured the rest of the pot into a thermos and went to get dressed.
The ranger’s cabin had held a treasure trove of survival equipment, namely, a set of ranger barding. Ironically, not a forest ranger’s, but an MoA Ranger’s.
Sluggishly, I donned the protective plating and kevlar over my flannel and fleece underlayers. Over everything, I wore a leather trench coat. Through careful bleaching and dying, I’d converted the brown coloring to a mottled gray-brown better suited to the polluted snowscape.
I felt a sort of odd kinship with the long-dead buck. From what I gathered, he was a kindred spirit. Out of respect for the cabin’s previous inhabitant, I’d removed the various patches and insignias and left them at his final resting place. The ground was too hard to bury anything, so I’d stacked rocks over his bones and the footlocker containing his personal effects.
His name was Heel, and he'd been involved in an operation gone wrong. He didn’t elaborate in what way, but based on his prescriptions and purple heart, he’d suffered some kind of debilitating injury. He was honorably discharged and found a job working for an MoP nature reserve. After the bombs fell, unable to escape the slow death of radiation poisoning, he’d gone to the shower and ended it the only way he could.
After rechecking my packs and weapons, dousing the fire, and locking the cabin door behind me, I held my helmet and looked down at the mask and sinister red visor. It had become my second face. I flipped the helmet around and slid it on. The talismans came to life.
In place of Heel’s insignias, I’d painted my own: a loon, copied from the one on the wallpaper. The only piece of original marking I’d left was a message Heel had written on the side of his helmet in small, neat script, a warning, and a promise. You will suffer me.
I stepped out into the cold, and began my hunt.
Author's Note
Second time's the charm. I'd tried writing this story a while back as a oral history, modeled on World War Z by Max Brooks, but gave up on it, and since I never updated it I just took it down. But the setting stuck with me, and I had the good fortune of discovering a few things that really prompted my creativity, so now I'm back to give it a go again.
Until I've fully completed the story, I'm only uploading the first chapter. I doubt this story will be long, I'm guessing between 10-20 chapters. As of yet, I have the first draft of 2 finished, and 3 about a third of the way there. The reason I'm uploading one is to get a little feedback. Currently (11/15/23) it's in its second draft stage, so basically done but could go for a few more rounds of polish, so by the time everything else is done I'll have revised this a bit more. I'd appreciate any and all constructive criticism to help me improve this chapter and to apply to the rest of the story. I'll track down anyone who leaves non-constructive criticism and feed them to guinea pigs.
I'm uploading writing diaries to YouTube, where I go in detail about my ideas and goals while writing, as well as talk about the writing process, if you're interested on seeing behind the scenes.
Writing Diary #1
Update 12/17/23: I quickly realized that I'm a dumbass and I've completely missed the point of fanfiction. I'll update with some new chapters soon.
Update 3/6/2024. Now that I'm on Chapter 7 I thought I should probably go back and do some editing now that I have a firmer grip on the story. So, what I did was read the chapter aloud (obvious explanation: that way you have to really give the lines your real attention since you can't really skim,) and rewrote some things to sound more natural. I cut out some exposition that was either unneeded, done better later, or there there basically to explain things to myself since I was coming up with stuff as I went. And finally, reworked things with what knowledge I've gained with hindsight. All in all, a lot of the tweaks seem minor but uffda they make a lot of difference and I'm considerably happier with the chapter now. I'm sure I'll loathe it tomorrow but I don't care.
Update: 8/15/24
I lied, turns out this story will be longer. Editing's a bitch. You think you made something good and then on review you realize it sucks and needs lots of revision. I still wish I'd finished before uploading. Aarghh.