The John Oates Saga

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Chapter One: Meet John Oates

It was night, it was foggy,  and thank Her for that.  The train cut through the dense atmosphere like an assassin's blade,  the horn, though loud, served as a calming reassurance that the nightmare, for however brief a moment, was over.

John Oates lied on a makeshift bed made out of bags of fertilizer. John Oates was is a tall colt with light grey coat and a flowing blonde mane. He also sported a slight goatee, however his beard had grown in during his days on the rails. John Oates was abnormally handsome with a chiseled jaw and dire, yet inviting features. His blue eyes had slayed many fillies, but now they were tired and could hardly remain open.  On his flank he had a peculiar Cutie Mark (though his really was more of a Lethal Mark) , a Remington 700 Sniper Rifle. He was only in his mid twenties, but had already lived many lives.

John Oates was once a member of the President's Secret Service; agent Double Oat Seven. He had been on many missions, but after the last one he went AWOL, never to return.

"No secrets here." He muttered, as he let his eyes grow heavy. The crickets played him a lullaby and the train's slow and steady rhythm rocked him into a deep sleep.

He awoke suddenly but knew not why. The last moments of his dream still persisted in his mind's eye; her face, covered in blood, Deadly Strike smiling at him as he ascended in the helicopter, the ocean racing at him as he fell. When he finally hit the water, he felt a presence in the box cart.  He knew he was not alone.

Part of him wanted to call out, to introduce himself, but years of peril and intrigue had left him wary, like a predator who's den is being infiltrated. John Oates slowly rose from his bed of fertilizer and positioned himself along the wall to his left. He was still weak from his last encounter and had no weapon on his person, other than himself of course. His heart was pounding; he had not felt like this in so long, he had been in worse situations, surely, but he had not expected any complications during his retreat from his old life.

A shadow slowly arose in the open door of the box car. He couldn't make out exactly the nature of the intruder, but as far as he could surmise, it was a large male. The figure did not make any sudden movements. John Oates leaped onto the interloper, he found that his enemy was a great deal lighter than he had expected and that the bulk of his girth was from clothing. He held the figure down, his head hanging out the cart as the train sped on. He heard a loud thud as his enemy fell on his back.

"Who are you," He shouted. "Who sent you?" He heard only laughter coming from the man he held down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the approach of bluffs that hugged the track so narrowly, it was miracle the train could fit through such a gap. "I'll let you die, I'll kill you myself. Those bluffs sure look hungry and it looks like your head's on the menu!" His threat was met with a new tone, but not the fear he so desired.

"Young sir, please don't end my life so!" his enemy cried out. The bluffs were now nearly upon them. John Oates could have killed the man right there, but he could feel the age in the man's voice. The bluffs were mere feet away from them now. John Oates did what he knew to be right and pulled the man into the train. He slammed the unknown foe against the wall opposite the door way.

As the light of the moon fell upon his enemy's face, he saw a toothless old mule staring back at him, the creature didn't seem to understand his peril. The face was grinning insistently back at John Oates. He relaxed his grip and let the old coot fall to the floor.

"Damnit old man, why did you not say anything when you came aboard?" John Oates said.

"Well, I didn't want ta wake ye." Said the old man with the most twisted form of hill-folk dialect. "Yessuh, I reckon ye was a'dreamin' whilst I came up on this train. Good 'mount ee time passes, and all o' sudden I'm about to be a new coat o' paint fer yon bluffs." the mule laughed and cleared his throat. "Course I ain't afeared of death none, but I kin tell sure as shit you is." John Oates was taken aback by the sudden insult.

"And what led you to that conclusion, gramps?"

"A body don't threaten t'kill 'nother that he has no cause ta fear n'less he's afraid hisself. That's you, I kin tell ye too, ye'll be in sore shape less'ee learn te trust others a might more, about the friendification o' others."

"Friendification, huh?" Snorted John Oates. The old mule raised his eyebrows and winked in response, reaffirming his point.  "Friendship never got me anywhere, they always turn on me, or..." He closed his eyes, in defiance of some unwanted emotion, "disappear." The mule nodded, smiling in mocking insincere agreement.  John Oates let the insult pass.

The old man turned to his bag, John Oates found a strange mark on his flank, either his cutie mark was a buck shot wound,or the old coot had had his fair share of fire fights. The old mule produced a can of sardines and undid it offering John Oates one of the morsels. John Oates was as hungry as he had ever been, but the pungent odor of the fish caused his stomach to turn.  The old mule threw him a bag of dried dragon meat, enough for several days.

"Yessuh yon suh, I may be a crazy old man, a child of these train tracks, but these tracks learnt me more than any school. I knows who you is, I knows ye more than ye mammy n' pappy, I reckon. Yessuh, ye'r a killer, a man o' secrets, but still a hero. Ye be  a colt o' great power, I don't know ya see, but the rails have learnt me o' why a pony'd be ready ter give it all up and take on a new life. I reckon you are a'runnin from some deep dark past, a secret horrifyin' stupifyin' and crucifyin'."

John Oates was unsettled by the old man's strangely accurate description of him.  Maybe the old man was not as crazy as he seemed, he may even be dangerous. John Oates knew better than to let a man with such a skill for perception think on another for too long, soon the old coot would deduce the number of hairs on his head, or maybe he already knew.

"Alright, old man, ill give it to ya, that you're pretty wise; but what the hell is someone your age doing out on the rails?"  The old man looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I ride these trains because they take me somewhere new each time, it's a big world yun suh, and no matter how much of it ye seen, there aint no way te find out whats coming next. I'm a travler same as you, wantin' te learn more of ponykind, of the griffins, n' dragons no less. Powerful thirst drives me yun suh."

"Who are you?" murmured John Oates. The old man leaped to his feet spry as a pony in his twenties.

"Name's Shotgun Blast, and I must be saying g'night yun suh." He motioned with his head toward a glowing city beyond the desert, Los Haygas. "Remember to trust a bit suh, love a bit, hate a bit, build and destroy, do it all as much as ye cain!" He was now hanging by one hoof about to leap from the train. John Oates began to approach him, surely the old mule didn't mean to jump the train, miles away from the city, he would surely die. "Again yun suh I say build, yes; but destroy too, destroy well! You've got Sun and Moon warring within ye!" He now hung further out, of the train car, the train was now going across a narrow bridge hundreds of feet from the ground. John Oates could take it no longer he sprinted to save the old loon. "Pick ye posies while ye mae!" John Oates was a fraction of a centimeter from Shotgun, but he was too late. The old mule was falling toward the shallow ravine below. The old man was saying something as he fell but John Oates could not make it out.

"Fuck!" he shouted, banging on the floor of the cart, so hard in fact that the floor board actually fractured. John Oates did not mourn the old man, but still felt as though he had lost something; maybe something important. The old mule was the only person whomever knew him at first glance and didn't recoil in fear, or see him as a threat. He found and lost a kindred spirit in so short a time. He pushed the thoughts of woe out of his mind and found his eyes once again growing heavy. Sleep was upon him and, mercifully, no dreams came.

He rode that train for seven days and seven nights. Eating the pieces of dried dragon he was able to procure from his previous engagement. He was heading out of the south toward a more temperate land, the days were not so hot and the nights not so bitterly cold. With that also came rain and the cart leaked the cool water on him. He saw for the first time in what seemed like an eternity a sign of life. At a turnpike he saw a sign in between the two divergent tracks. Written on the right side was 'Mulewaukee' On the left it said 'Ponyville.'

Oh, how he hoped the train would take him to Mulewaukee, with the great Hayse Ball Stadium and countless bounty. He remembered Mulewaukee all too well, the endless nights spent at Ponchambo, on the east side drinking with the haypsters. Ah yes, from Hay View to West Stallions Mulwaukee is truly a country of paradise. Ruefully, the train went left, to the unknown town of Ponyville; though it was not wholly tragic, this no-name town should finally offer him some real peace and quiet.

On the seventh night there was a great storm. One greater than any in memory of his. He felt as though the train may be torn from the tracks and thrown upon the fields on either side. He heard a titanic bolt of lightning, loud as any grenade explosion, and felt the train shake. He struggled to open the door of the small cart, cursing as the freezing rain spattered his face. He looked out to his horror. The Back of the train was on fire the engine where two boys, no older than fifteen, would shovel the coal, alas their flaming corpses could be seen, a hideous sizzling of pony flesh cut through John Oates's mind, hideously, he could not say this was the first time he had heard that sound.

John Oates came to a terrifying revelation, this train is transporting fertilizer, a highly explosive material, and they were only moments away from the town he hoped to live the rest of his days out in. He had to stop the train. The cars were not connected in any way, he had no choice but to crawl atop the train and run to tell the conductor. He pried himself up on to the top of his own train car, almost slipping to his doom more than once. How he wished he had some of his old gadgetry, the slew of toys and tools he had access to in his old life; it felt like some far too real fantasy, especially now that he needed them so desperately. He found that he could not run as the rain had turned to sleet and the tops of each cart were as slick as a well waxed floor. He slowly trotted across, taking extreme care whenever he had to move to the next cart.

Twenty carts down, only two to go before he could finally warn the conductor of imminent annihilation. As he reached the final cart before the conductor's cabin, yet another lightning bolt hit the head of the train he heard the blast. He was hit by a small off-shoot of the bolt and collapsed. He heard another blast behind him, the fertilizer was catching and the train was burning and heading to his new home, the lighting still held him down, the wind began to freeze him and he felt the cool, calm touch of death ever nearing. He closed his eyes and waited for oblivion.

Unknown hours passed.  John Oates forced his eyes open and found he was among the twisted burning wreckage of the once peaceful train. He found that his back legs were immovable. He Dragged his battered body across the blasted landscape in hopes of finding aid, feeling the internal bleeding caused by the blast. His hoof landed on a metal bar, before he could react an entire cart fell upon him. He was not damaged however, only encased. It was the conductor's cabin, he only knew because the charred body of the conductor lied before him staring hideously with lidless eyes. The conductor's body was a blistered atrocity covered in black flesh and boils from the heat. He was a fat pony, and his fat oozed too reminiscently of so many food stuffs that caused John Oates to wretch.

Clutched to his chest was a box made out of leather, a blasphemous fabric used only by the barbarians and ancients.  On the fabric was stitched and stained, presumably in blood, three triangles. The conductor's corpse held on to the box as if he was still alive and the box were his most precious possession.

John Oates found the curiosity too tantalizing, and he crawled to the conductor's body, whatever he had, it was more important than just some fertilizer shipment, more precious than mere money. He crawled close enough to the conductor to truly see him. The corpse smelled too nearly of the dragon jerky he ate not a half day ago, he wondered if ponies tasted as good, but then tried to push the thought from his mind. He began to pull on the box finding that the skin of the body had grafted to the box. John Oates tried to be graceful, but found that dead is dead, and ripped the box out of the corpse.

When tearing the box from the body, the skin came from the corpse with a sickening sound like ripping duct tape from a roll. The body convulsed and cried out with some unnamable sound, there was a screech from the throat where the trachea had been ruptured, as his mouth had been melted shut, and the chest sprayed a hot stream of blood and digestive juices on to John Oates's face. John Oates screamed and laid his forehead into the conductor's, collapsing the skull and ending the pitiful quarter-colt's life forever.

He crawled from the cart into the woods dragging the box with his teeth. He found that a freakishly large apple tree had fell on to the tracks stopping the the train. That tree saved the entire town from certain destruction.  Once he was several yards away from the rubble he lay in a meadow on his back panting, he was suddenly very thirsty, and his wounds began reporting in. He let the box out of his mouth, he realized he was dragging it by a flap of the conductor's charred flesh. The pain became unbearable and his vision began to blur. He didn't know why he lived these final moments just to die in the meadow.

His vision was all but washed out in a pallid white, when he noticed something dart over head. It blended in with the sky, but seemed to command all colors. He heard a muffled voice as the thing descended upon him. He couldn't make out what it was saying, he just heard a dull pattern as if it was miles away or being played through some archaic speaker.

In his mania he found himself repeating over and over, "I need water, I need water..." He felt forelegs around him and he began to ascend with whatever it was. His plea ended, he felt the thing speeding along faster than he had ever travelled. He now knew what was happening. He had been taken by the angel of death, and his sight was gone so that he could not know the way back to the land of the living, lest he become some vile ghost.

He remained aware enough to hear the voice. It was now louder, but not more clear. There was a strange sensation as if the flight were being pushed back upon; was this Her will, barring him from the gates of paradise? The resistance became almost unbearable, he felt like he was compressed on all sides converging toward a single point in space, infinitely small yet unending.

Just as he was sure he was to be liquified, he heard a blast unlike any other. The veil of white was lifted as a kaleidoscopic mixture of every color and depth of each color dazzled him. His synapses fired and he felt an exaltation unlike any other, were this all he experienced in the land of the dead, it would be too great a reward for a life as tarnished as his. Gradually he felt calm, the white began to drown the colors out, but the white was pure, no longer the sickly ichor-colored veil. He heard the voice clearly now, the blast had brought the voice closer.  When he finally understood what the voice said he came to a horrifying realization.

"Don't die on me!" It repeated, like a mantra, "You're gonna be ok, handsome!"

John Oates knew now, that he still lived.