Bad Apples

by Lidocaine Varnish

Big Red's Escape

Bad Apples

Big Red’s Escape

“Hey, Stump! Big Red’s askin’ ta see ya.”

“Stump” looked up.

“He’s in the ‘Infirmary.’”

Stump shrugged, and started trudging toward the patch of dirt that was referred to as “The Infirmary.”

Dirt stretched for acres and acres—to the horizon. In some directions, the horizon was a stockade wall.

There had been trees at one time. All that was left now were the trunks, stripped of bark and branches. Some of the stripped trees looked unnaturally bright and bleached against the trodden soil. Some were surrounded by loose soil, having been dug through to get at tender roots. A couple of the “trees” had even been upended, baring their wiry balls of roots to be chewed on by the prisoners.

Stump had been digging for roots when he received Big Red’s summons.

Stump had only been at Andersonville for a few weeks. He’d been a big, strong pony (earning him the nickname of “Stump”)—but starvation was stripping him of his muscle. He was visibly thinner, but not yet rickety.

He spent most of his time digging up roots. Some he ate, but most he gave to those too enfeebled to dig.

The “Infirmary” was on the downhill, downwind, downstream corner of the enclosure—the most foetid part of the “camp.” That was the corner everypony went to shit, and the ground was foul and swampy.

Most in the Infirmary were dying of dysentery, and it made perverse sense that the ponies producing the most diarrhea should be housed the closest to where the waste would have to be carried. Unfortunately, it left the sickest ponies occupying the unhealthiest atmosphere the entirely foul camp had to offer.

Breathing through his mouth was little protection against the stench. Stump’s eyes began to water. He began to salivate, swallowing frequently to fight the gagging that was constantly rising up within him.

He didn’t want to lose any “food” he might have in his stomach, and his saliva was probably cleaner than any of the “water” they had to drink.

“Hey old timer,” Stump said, sounding funny while talking without using his nose.

He was greeted by a ghastly fit of coughing that served for laughter. Big Red was lying on the ground, on top of a sodden blanket. He was coughing into the scarlet-stained hoofkerchief he kept held in front of his mouth.

“Good ta see ya, Stump.”

“You, too.”

“I’m surprised to be seein’ anything anymore,” Big Red muttered, almost to himself.

Big Red was a hoof-full of years older than Stump. They looked strikingly similar, however, even with the flesh withered off them as it was. They were both red, quite large, and of very similar build. Their manes were nearly the same color. They could have been related—could even have passed for siblings. But they weren’t.

“You know, they’re going to start processing us and releasing us soon, now that the war’s over,” Big Red began, but had to pause for a chest-rattling fit of coughing. He spat some blood off to the side.

Big Red continued, in a much quieter voice, “You know, word ‘round camp is that you’re Big Mac.

Stump was silent.

“Anyway, I was thinkin’…I’m prolly not going to make it out of here.” He motioned, indicating his bloody hoofkerchief. “And after a week or two more in this place, you’ll be able t’ pass for me.” Another fit of coughing laughter racked his chest, and he spat a up a bloody gob of phlegm.

“So, if ya think ya might have some trouble getting discharged with the papers you got, I’m more’n happy to swap with you. Even if I won’t be able to march out of here, I figger my name can.”

Stump took off his hat. “I’d be mighty obliged, old timer,” he said solemnly.

Big Red smiled. “Ahm mighty happy to do it…partic’larly because I won’t be able to do much with m’ freedom if Ah ever git it back.”

They exchanged identification papers. Big Red’s cutie mark was a green tomato that’d been cut in half. The cutie mark on his ID papers was a crudely scrawled approximation of his cutie mark, done in black ink with no indication of color.

Stump’s own papers were forged, and they weren’t a very good forgery, at that. One of the wax seals was missing, and another was distorted enough to give the impression that it’d been removed from a different document and transferred. The paper wasn’t of very good quality, either—inferior to the paper that would be used for any important documents.

“I won’t write to nopony ‘til I’m sure you’re away,” Big Red said. “If you run into any of my kin, tell ‘em what happened.”

“I will,” Stump replied.

“Big Red?” repeated the Solar Army Pegasus in the corporal uniform, eyeing Big Mac skeptically. “Ain’t you the one they call ‘Stump?’”

“Ain’t nivver said ‘Stump’n’ any a’ my papers,” Big Mac said, keeping his eyes as wide and vacant as he could. He had his blanket draped over him, covering his back and his cutie mark.

Calling it a blanket was being generous—it was worn through in a number of places, and looked as though soaked with grease. It was too thin and tattered in a lot of places to even take a patch, and hung lankly off him like a piece of rotted lace. The green of his cutie mark was visible through the tears, although there wasn’t enough blanket missing to identify the green apple that was his cutie mark.

The Corporal squinted at the paper, as though staring at the letters would cause them to transform into words he’d recognize. He rotated the paper ninety degrees.

“This ain’t yer cutie mark,” the Corporal said.

One of the Pegasus guards beside him rolled his eyes.

“’Course it is,” Big Mac said blandly. He stepped his back end around sideways, bringing his blanket-covered cutie mark closer to the table. The Corporal and guard ponies made sour faces as the smell of the blanket wafted toward them. “See? Take a look!”

“Ugh, weren’t you issued a blanket when you got here?” said one of the Pegasi, suppressing a gag.

“This is the one y’all issued me,” Big Mac said blankly.

“Smells like’t was taken from a corpse.”

It probably had been.

“Ga head—take a look,” Big Mac repeated.

The Corporal’s lips pursed and his cheeks filled briefly. He looked appalled at the very thought of touching the dank-looking cloth.

“Celestia’s gash, Perce,” groused one of the Pegasi guards. “Line ain’t gittin’ any shorter.”

“Ain’t gittin’ na earlier ‘n’a day, neither,” the other guard muttered, wiping his forehead with a foreleg. The sun was beating down on them, making everypony irritable and fidgety.

“Always figgered you hill ponies had t’ be stupider than any of t’other mud ponies,” the Corporal growled, rotating the paper another ninety degrees so that he was now looking at it upside-down. “Ain’t nothin’ ‘n them hills….”

Big Mac was itching to reply, ‘Y’all should come up t’ th’ hills sometime…we’ll show ya what we’re all about.’

Instead, he kept a blank, stupid look on his face. ‘Don’t rise to the bait,” he told himself. ‘Gettin’ out’ll be your revenge.’ He repeated it to himself over and over.

“Whatever,” the Corporal glowered, inking his stamp and stamping what he erroneously took to be the bottom of the page. Unseen behind the Corporal, one of the Pegasus guards face-hoofed.

Big Mac had to stop himself from wincing at the error. He had to play the bumpkin and get himself discharged; he had to keep his head down, play stupid, and not do anything that might get him noticed or remembered.

The Corporal handed the paper back to him. Big Mac took the paper, and stood blinking at the Corporal.

“Well git the fuck out of here, dumbass!” the Corporal thundered, indicating the gateway out with a sudden pointing thrust of his hoof. One of the guards moved back to avoid getting hit, and swayed queasily. The guards were barely better-fed than the inmates.

Big Mac nodded as though he was used to being spoken to in that manner, and trudged off toward the gates. He wanted to break out in a full gallop…but didn’t want to look suspicious. All the other released ponies had trudged out. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure how long he could sustain a gallop, as emaciated as he was.

He couldn’t help but throw sidelong glances at the guard towers. The guards appeared to be dozing, or nearly so, in the hot afternoon sun. His heart thudded in his chest as he approached the “Kill Line”—a rickety fence some forty hooves inside the perimeter of the stockade fence.

For the past few weeks of his life, anypony crossing that line had been shot dead, no questions asked.

Now he was crossing it.

The lazy trilling of the cicadas was drowned out by the thud of his heart in his ears.

Stepping between the guard towers, through the open gate, he nearly just collapsed.

Forcing himself to stay upright, he kept plodding on.

One step outside. Two steps outside. Three steps outside.

This couldn’t be happening. He hadn’t heard a gunshot all morning…but he couldn’t believe he was being released.

Big Mac was a wanted pony, notorious for his exploits with the Lunar rebels. Nopony in the Solar Army would consider letting him pass, if they knew it was him.

He reached the tree line. The dirt was still trodden bare, and the trees were as pale and flayed of branches and bark as the ones inside the enclosure had been.

In fact, the landscape outside looked pretty much the same as it had inside…the stench wasn’t as strong, however.

Walking further into the trees, he realized his jaw had been clenched, and his chest tight. He took a deep breath—a breath that didn’t make him want to throw up.

He still expected to hear a report, and catch a bullet in the back of his head at any moment.

A couple of miles out of Andersonville, and there was still nothing to eat.

There were a few solitary blades of grass poking out here and there…but Big Mac was shaking too hard to grasp them with his mouth. The trees were still gnawed free of bark.

He broke into a canter, and then a gallop. Had everything been eaten while he’d been prisoner? Was the rest of the world as desolate and malnourished as Andersonville?

The guards had been wasting away, too….

The world was swaying dangerously around him, and he slowed down.

He spotted a patch of grass.

He crept up to it slowly, and put his face down close to it. He tried to do it silently, as though it was something that could be startled, and would run away—or worse, that a noise would just make it disappear.

He grasped it in his teeth and pulled it up, roots and all. He tossed his head, shaking most of the dirt free of the roots, and then ate it, roots and all.

Even the dirt outside tasted better…and he’d eaten worse than dirt.

He saw more patches of grass. Now he was biting the blades low, and only eating the grass without the dirt.

Seized by a spasm, he fell over, heaving.

His stomach cramping, with difficulty he threw up the hoof-full of grass he’d managed to eat. His body collapsed, exhausted by the simple effort of vomiting.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself.

Once his stomach settled itself, he ate a small portion of the grass he’d thrown up.