Cheap Company

The bloomers kept coming. They mounted a valiant defense, but the ballista ran out of bolts, so they moved onto pikes and stabbed their way through until the heads snapped off. They used the broken wooden staffs to beat back the bloomers, whacking away until they were left with the unicorns putting up a wall of electrified mana trellis as a last-ditch resort.

Ruby Beacon was grateful when she heard the key rattling through the tumblers on the grate behind them. She filed the twenty-five or thirty ponies left through the portal of the tunnel, and then pulled the thing shut herself, snatching the lock from the guard to ratchet over the clasps. Ruby stepped back and watched the trellis collapse, and the mass of bloomers rush forward in a small tide of two dozen or so.

They snapped their jaws, flung their hooves and screamed in terror, anguish and rage, all pale imitations of real emotion. Not people anymore. Puppets. The scream of pain behind them was very real, though. She tilted her head and paled. One of theirs—she saw them go down during the fight, thought they died. Evidently not. They couldn’t move—covered in bites and bruises, with broken bones jutting out. The bloomers ignored the poor sod. Why? Just kill him, please, you animals. Please, for the love of Celestia, he doesn’t deserve to be left to bleed out like that.

Field Surgeon’s horn glowed its muddy-gold colour, and with a quick snap, the broken-bodied stallion’s head twisted, and he went silent. Ruby flinched and turned to look at the dirty unicorn beside her. She sported a tired look and gave a little dismissive shake of her head. “Nothing we could’ve done,”Field Surgeon proffered, as if trying to comfort her. Ruby felt numb.

Field tugged on Ruby’s ear and pulled her along. The junior officer staggered alongside her while the guard led the way at the fore, often pausing to itch at her leg and neck, sitting to scratch with her back leg behind an ear like a dog. Field Surgeon paid it no mind after a quick look of disappointment that she washed away in the instant she remembered Ruby was still watching her. “They did that, the grifs. I watched them do it during a war with… the minotaurs or the yaks, I think. I was an observer.” She stroked the back of Ruby’s head with a foreleg and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Point being…” Field trailed off. She paused in tandem with the column as their guide went to sit and scratch again, watching her with hawkish eyes. “Never mind.”

Don’t have much to say, do you? Ruby let out a little huff, forcing the exhaustion out her throat with pursed lips. “So, where exactly does this lead, miss…?” Ruby piqued up, finally feeling the need to gather intel. The guard flicked her eyes back at Ruby, and she swore for a moment the mare looked so indignantly mad she might fly into a rage. She didn’t, though, and instead paused, tilted her head, then let out a long ‘uhm’ before explaining herself. It’s a causeway, leads up to a surface access somewhere on the north-ish side of Manehattan. We send ponies up for supplies sometimes, it’s the only way we can really eat.

Calling it a refugee camp seemed an understatement. The rear entry they trotted up to was guarded with a decently built fortification of two wooden barricades by spear-wielders—not ponies, diamond dogs. They had iron helmets and cloth sack masks on. On closer inspection once they were nary a few yards from them, Ruby noted a flintlock pistol in the waistband of one of the guards. Wonder how he got that. Those things aren’t exactly common.

“New ponies?” One of the dogs rasped to the aqua-green mare. She nodded. Yeah. Royal guards, here to help apparently! The dogs didn’t share her excitement, or at the very least didn’t emote it. Ruby couldn’t make out their facial expressions behind the sack masks. She cleared her throat.

“We’re here to assist any refugees as best we can.” The dogs didn’t reply. Ruby felt sweaty under her leather shawl and brass peytral. The dog with the pistol in his belt shrugged.

“Soldier ponies go help, then. We dogs stay guard, make sure no stupids try leaving through back door.” Can’t exactly blame you, there. The guide, whose name was still lost to Ruby, led past the tunnel. The room opened into something between an atrium and a quarry pit. The Manehattan drainage system was a mess—the city elevated steeply to the center of the island. Ruby wagered they were somewhere around there, at the bottom of the extensive network of drainage pipes that were built under the streets. Looking up into the causeway, Ruby noted it was less of a causeway, more of a central chamber. It was what she imagined the central spire of a changeling hive might look like; careening upwards with tunnels dotting the walls leading down toward the ground where the entry tunnels were. Here, it wasn’t much different.

The refugees had built little one-shack ‘streets’ into the tunnels, with massive blockages placed at the far ends to prevent any bloomers from sneaking their way in. Water still seemed to flow through from cracks, but they had built around that, too. Everything was on walkways, like a city built on stilts. The thing was about three “storeys” high, with a tunnel or two in every direction on each, though she did note walkways at the very top that led off to doorways. They had string lights hanging from walkways to light the whole affair as best they could. At the bottom where they were, a deep trench down the center of the room had originally split the floor into quadrants, but two had been dammed off and boarded over to make walkways, leaving a sort of river down the middle where gaunt refugees bucketed up water to shuffle up toward their camps with. She knew ponies from Manehattan—that sense of community resonated here. Even in dire circumstances, urbanite city dwellers will stick together. It was something she never really saw in Canterlot. Ruby blamed money and moved on. Their guide was rambling along about the place.

“… and at the top tunnel that used to lead into 4th and 36th where the bank used to be, we have an extensive kitchen set up, although recently it’s been hard to find food. We can’t enter a lot of the tall buildings because the bloomers like to be in the dark, and while by now a lot of them have started to, uh, get all wilty and stationary, like proper dead, uh, well, uhm, they still leave spores and, like, all that stuff. Oh!” She bounced on a metal sheet that had been placed over the “river” at the bottom, hearing it warble with some amusement. “We get all our water from the runoff from the river, like the settlers first did. Isn’t that neat?”

Ruby frowned at the river and the cagey refugees that scattered like bugs once they entered, watching them from behind corners, stalking almost. It set her hackles arisen. She was thirsty, though. She went to dip her head toward the river but Field pulled her mane back. Ruby let out an abrupt curse as the senior vet pulled roots. “Gh-! Field, what the hell are you doing?” Ruby snapped, harshly whispering with a scowl. Field Surgeon had a grim look on her face that wiped the anger off the junior officer’s face. She pointed to the end of the “river,” the source of the flow. It was a grated pipe like the one they had just walked through—but more cramped. Her blood went cold when she saw an eyeball and a patch of bloated meat glinting in the dim light. “… Thank you,” Ruby begrudgingly whispered. Field Surgeon didn’t reply. She turned to the ponies and passed the order down not to drink the water.

The guide got them set up with some grimy tents, which Field Surgeon and the rest of their unicorns thoroughly disinfected with a bit of magical trickery before setting up and settling in for a rest against better judgement. Off to the side, in a red tent, the under-strength platoon’s two commanders laid on sleeping mats across from one another, faces mired in physical and mental exhaustion. They didn’t have a plan for this. They expected a refugee outpost or two in the drainage tunnels—sure, they anticipated it. The abandoned supply cart on the other side of the river was packed with informational pamphlets—which, of course, Field Surgeon was quick to remind Ruby were propaganda—notes on how to recognize infection, how to disinfect and cleanse one’s living space, quarantine procedures, and what to do if one was infected. Ruby felt an ugly pit in her stomach when she read the grim instructions.

If you suspect yourself or a loved one have contracted the Everfree Infection, it is crucial that you instate proper quarantine measures. Ruby remembered passing the houses on the southern side of town, boarded up at every exit and entry with the uncomfortable white and red X’s painted onto every side of the building. If the bored spores have not been removed within an hour’s time of infection, the chances of recovery are slim, but present. A lie, according to Field Surgeon. “There’s no chance of recovery,” she began with a mirthless laugh, “once you’ve started coming down with the first stage symptoms, your best bet is to drink a tincture of rat poison and sleeping medication. You’ll die painlessly in your sleep, long as you don’t wake up.” Ruby’s face twisted with indignation at the notion but found only an exhausted sigh escaping her muzzle.

“They’ve been drinking tainted water. There’s bound to be spores in the air—how long have they been breathing it in, do you wager?” Field Surgeon gave a weary shrug of her shoulders as she sprawled out on her sleeping mat, inspecting herself with a fine-combed gaze, plucking small bits of debris out and cauterizing the areas with liberal dosages. She barely had any fur left on the areas below her knees, on any four legs.

“Not certain. We supposed, or rather my and my fellows supposed there would be colonies like these.” Colonies. Dehumanizing them, I see, Ruby pondered inwardly. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a lot we can do for them aside from… well.” She gestured with a hoof, slicing it across her neck and making a “Khk” noise with her mouth. Ruby frowned at that. There has to be something we can do, Field. These people are sick, we can’t just—A hoof held up. “Ruby Beacon, you’re a junior lieutenant in the Solar Guard, you can’t be this naïve.” That patronizing tone. Ruby’s ears folded back with anger. Field Surgeon gave her a sympathetic look. She averted her eyes for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I know we haven’t been on good terms throughout this… thing, they’ve told us to do. Salute the rank, not the mare and all that.” She ran a hoof through her mane. Field Surgeon bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but Ruby cut her off.

“I get it. It’s clear to me they’re your ponies and they don’t have much respect for a junior lieutenant whose only qualification was passable marks in cadet school. I get it. I like to think that’s why I haven’t been fighting it. I’d rather keep the illusion of power.” Ruby sucked her teeth. She swallowed the mass of anxiety in her throat. “I think we’re better off this way, in any case. You’ve got the experience to keep our ponies alive, and I don’t.” Field Surgeon looked like she wanted to argue but stopped herself. She nodded a few times in a pacifying fashion.

“Okay.” That’s it? Just okay? Ruby frowned. Field continued. “We’re both adults. We’ve both seen bloomers at various stages, they aren’t… people, anymore.” Field shook her head softly and rubbed her face with a hoof. Ruby nodded along.

“I know,” she mumbled. “I know, Field Surgeon. Just wish they didn’t have to be…” she gesticulated with a hoof. Field nodded along. Ruby sighed. “Let’s just get a few minutes rest before we have to act on our mission parameters. Delay the nightmares and whatnot…” She put her head down. Field Surgeon kept her head on a swivel as the junior officer rested.

2000 hours.

Windy Slope clutched her leg as she perched on a fire escape in an alley, panting heavily. What the hell are those things? Minotaurs? Diamond Dogs?! Celestia above… She was still bleeding heavily from the wound on her leg; it wasn’t too bad, but the blood coming out didn’t look right. She just needed a moment to rest, to—

Tap. Tap. Tap. She turned. A pair of eyes, a mangled face, a cracked hoof tapping on a window. “Water?” Windy Slope stared at the thing, listened to its rasping, muffled voice. The milky white eyes stared. The hoof tapped harder on the glass. Then the eyes looked down at the latch. Windy Slope followed its eyes. Its hoof moved to the latch. Windy Slope threw herself off the fire escape. Her wings beat quickly, and she heard the foreign tongue of the barking bipeds below. So much for a moment of rest.

Unterofficer Faris Quirke led the front, in a light jog. Riflemen Gefreiter Urbain Marie and Gefreiter Armand Malvina were behind her, Urbain with his carbine and Malvina with his shotgun. Hauptegefreiter Nat Zahariev taking up the rear with her flamethrower, the demure form of Kalin Rylee and their revolver existing in her shadow, reserve fuel tanks sloshing on their webbing.

Humans are persistence hunters, Urbain, Faris said to the rifleman when he complained that they would never catch up. The thing is bleeding like a stuck pig, leaving a trail for us, ever so kindly. It’s tiring out, too. When she said it, she was expecting to find the thing stopping, giving her a dim look with the same animal eyes like so many prey had before.

But it didn’t. It looked at her with terror, its face emoted that terror and it cried out in all too human a voice as it fled. A sinking feeling was beginning to fill her gut. Faris kept her unease to herself.

They followed the winged horse for hours. It wove through narrow alleys, wide open streets and past several abandoned and toppled tram carriages. The twitching silhouettes covered in dark slick and with beady eyes prompted them to pause and torch the thing before continuing their hunt. Darkness was overhead by the time they made it to the end of the blood trail.

The winged horse ran into a building that loomed above them. It had big, blown-out glass windows and a burnt-out interior. There were the charred remains of corpses scattering the floors, save for a single clean spot in the center of the room. Suicide bomber? Faris shook her head. No time to worry about that. The sick colony would have to burn first. The only door left had a bloody print on its handle, and indicated a maintenance access leading underground. With only furtive glances over their shoulders and the anticipatory anxiety of being alone in a place full of flesh-eaters, Faris barked a whispered order, and they filed in. She was at the front of the column. Nat behind her, then Kalin, Urbain and Malvina at the back with his shotgun. Nat shared words with Faris, begged her to tread lightly. Faris ordered her to train her flamer on the first thing they saw and get it ready for a burst.

The hallway careened and zig-zagged, with side passageways blocked off by debris or entirely walled off with cement and clay. The sound of voices eventually met their ears. Faris steeled her resolve and hung her carbine in its sling in exchange for her service revolver.

The blood trails they followed led to a door, whose handle dripped with black-tinted viscera. Found the den of wild pigs… Faris thumbed the hammer on her revolver back. Her left hand went for the handle, pushed it down as she shouldered her way through. Nat came up behind her, and as ordered, the flamethrower’s pilot light went click-click-click.