Dear Book
Escaped the reservoir. Climbed up to the tunnel using the spear. Pulled Lemon Zest up. Started our way out. Cave in forced us to take alternative route. That led us to camp. Largest settlement I’ve seen so far. About fifty people. Soldiers mostly. Killed two. Saw Trenderhoof. Let him live. Escaped Sombra’s fort by stealing a dirt bike. Jumped the walls. Lemon and I currently holed up in gas station.
The most recent entry now complete, Sugarcoat closed the notebook, put in a pocket of her coat, and returned to her watch. She was sitting on the roof of the convenience store, on the lookout for any incoming people. The flat plains and flattened rumbled that comprised much of the Wasteland made them easy to spot, but she had spotted none so far. The grey sand was as empty as its aerial counterpart – an endless expanse of sunless ash and merciless desperation. In the distance, opposite to the directions she had came from, there was a cluster of buildings – unlit by fire, built before the end. She decided that was where she and Lemon would travel to next; if they were still intact, the houses might have supplies within them.
Plan in mind, she finished the last of Snip’s trail mix, holstered his rifle, climbed down the drainpipe, and re-entered the store itself. Now awake, her friend was sitting on the counter, a scrap of bloodied tartan tied clumsily over her eye sockets.
“You look much better. How’d you find your way over here?” Sugarcoat asked.
“Trial and error, you know. Since you said this wasn’t a big room, I figured I could sort of find my way around it.”
“I see. Well, if you’re okay to move again, we should get going. I don’t want those people catching up with us. No offense, but we wouldn’t win that fight.”
“Isn’t him you have to worry about. Just a pawn.” Lemon said, voice taking on a sombre tone.
“What? I’m not worried. I’m confident we can outrun him if we keep moving. He’s not stupid; he’ll give up on chasing us eventually, if he hasn’t already.”
“No. He won’t.”
“If he’s smart enough to keep fifty people fed and armed, and build a small town, he’s smart enough to pick his battles. This is common sense.”
“He won’t stop. He never will. Not just bait for his trap. Sacrifice for his god.” Lemon insisted, pointing at herself, “Won’t let that go.”
Sugarcoat didn’t reply. Instead, brushing Lemon aside, she grabbed the bike, and moved it out to the storefront. After refilling its tank with a now-empty canteen of gas, she started tying onto it the soldier’s backpack – even when smeared with paint and charcoal, the leather bag looked more suited for an office than the apocalypse. After that was secured, she did the same with the shopping bags she had left with the food – all were wrapped around each-other, to prevent any tearing, and they in turn secured the weaponry to the vehicle. Then Sugarcoat grabbed her friend’s hand, and spoke, “I don’t care what this ‘King Sombra’ wants to do with you. He won’t get to do it. But I can only ensure that if we keep moving. So, let’s go now, before they arrive.”
Lemon sighed, “It won’t make a difference. He’ll catch up. Heart’s people always do.”
“Then when they do, I’ll blow their heads off for hurting you. Let’s go.”
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re just killing time.” Lemon said, feeling for the bike, climbing on.
They drove, and the gas station was invisibly far behind them by noon. By then, hunger was clawing at Sugarcoat’s stomach, and she was beginning to miss her old rucksack and the relative abundance of food it held. But continue she did, barely speaking, barely heard under the growl of the engine and the roar of the wind.
The terrain looked much the same, no matter what road she followed, what day she followed it: Everything was coated with dust, as if hundreds of centuries had passed in the span of the seconds it took for the world to end. Nothing grew anymore – seeds to scared to sprout, flowers too burnt to blossom. The air stank, sweet and toxic, like rotting fruit, and it slowly choked the life from everything in Canterlot. Riverbeds lay dry – their precious elixir all drained, be it by the few unlucky survivors, or by the sun itself – scorching with cold fury behind the clouds.
Sugarcoat wasn’t overly concerned about being tracked – she decided that now, whenever the opportunity came, wasn’t a good time to start. The winds – unimpeded by forest or by fortification – blew hard enough to knock over a small child, and they blew loud enough to silence most faraway conversation. When they died down, from time to uneasy time, the silence they left was deadly quiet, and proved a sick reminder of her perpetual loneliness. She liked the bike, and she like having Lemon with her.
“Are we stopping soon?” Said girl asked, an hour into their trek.
“I didn’t plan on it, no. There’re some buildings about fifty miles away; I want to get to them before we encounter a sandstorm.”
“Okay.”
“Alright.”
Fifty miles, and a few hours later, Sugarcoat parked the bike, in front of a weather-beaten sign welcoming visitors to “Cloudsdale, Your Number 1 Stop on the Road to Las Pegasus.”
Sugarcoat read out the sign, “That’s a good sign.”
“I’ve heard better slogans. Remember that mall commercial thing? That was great. We were in it.”
“No, it’s a good sign because I’m trying to get to Las Pegasus.”
“Oh. Why? Isn’t it the same shithole all cities are now? Full of looters and zombies and stuff?”
“Sunny’s in Las Pegasus. Besides, zombies aren’t real.” Sugarcoat said, retrieving the spear and a crossbow.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure zombies are real. Normal people don’t moan, have grey skin and lurch around trying to eat other people.”
“Lemon, I have grey skin.”
“Yeah, no, your skin is light blue. Unless, unless-”
“I’m not a zombie. I don’t eat people.” Sugarcoat interrupted.
“Yeah, but you do moan a lot.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Remember that cruise all the Shadowbolts went on? The one where you and Sunny Flare shared a room. Yeah, you two kept me up all night ‘cause I had the cabin right across the corridor.”
“Let’s start looking for something to eat, alright?” Sugarcoat said, starting off toward what may might have been a grand hotel in years past.
“Wait for me!” Lemon said, tripping over the bike, sending it clattering to the ground. She clutched her wounded foot – the same one her friend had bandaged earlier that morning – hopping, and cursing.
“Maybe you should wait here. You wouldn’t be much help scavenging anyway. Stay quiet and I should be back soon.”
“Sure, Mom. I won’t get into any trouble.” Lemon said, sitting back down, lying against the roadside sign, humming a tune.
Sugarcoat then walked into the Cloudsdale proper. The town, like all others it seemed, had been hit hardest by whatever had destroyed Canterlot. The general consensus was that it had been some kind of magical explosion – the devastation seemed centred about Canterlot High, where the portal was, the one Sunset Shimmer and the other Twilight Sparkle had apparently appeared from. It made sense, once one forgot any preconceived notions about magical not being real, anyway. But that didn’t really explain why things started getting worse the further one went from the destroyed school – the air became poison, and Sugarcoat had heard nightmarish rumours of the sort of monsters that dwelled within that fog.
Trying though, as hard as she could, not to think about horrid bat-winged men with endless teeth, or about people who turned into hungry balls of fire at night, Sugarcoat slipped with spear in hand into the first abandoned building: The Hotel. Two stories high, it had a desiccated corpse for a receptionist, the man’s head perched like his desk bell, waiting to be rung. That wasn’t a good sign, Sugarcoat noted, a shiver running through her body.
She continued through the shadowed hallways, stepping over more dead, and over rubble, and empty suitcases, ducking under collapsed ceilings, and hiding in dust-coated shoebox rooms whenever the old hotel’s creaks sounded too close to a human’s footsteps for her liking. Eventually, after dozens of fruitless searches – looted rooms and half-eaten corpses, she came to the kitchen. That was locked, padlocked three times, and from behind the cracked windows of the metal swing doors, Sugarcoat spotted row upon row of cans, bottles, cooking implements and absolutely no bodies.
She got to work on picking the locks, jabbing and twisting with her screwdriver until the tumblers yielded, the carapaces cracked apart, and the rusty doors swung open. The kitchen was cold, but sterile, it seemed. Sugarcoat ran over to the row of tinned produce – tomatoes and potatoes, onions and beans, spam and fruit cocktail. She pocketed as much as she could, and filled her bags to bursting. She repeated that process for water, the place held a few bottles of sparkling water imported from Prance and it held many more bottles of liquor off to the side. Thirst, nostalgia, pushing aside her apprehension toward alcohol, she grabbed a bottle of cider, downing it far faster than was healthy.
All the water was taken, and most of the lighter alcohol was as well. Sugarcoat refilled her canteen with the strongest bourbon the Perseus Hotel had to offer, and kept that for disinfecting injuries. After she the knives the kitchen held, wrapping them in a bundle of serviettes and dish towels, she started for the exit, the one opposite the locked doors, leading to the dining room. As she walked, she passed by a fridge, and nearly lost what little lunch she had.
Packed inside, like a depraved parody of sardines, were people. Naked and shaved, with throats slit and glassy eyes forever staring fearfully, and hopelessly outward. Many had limbs missing, sliced away and the wounds dripped frozen icicles of blood. None were familiar, but all were disgusting. Their faces were twisted into terrified screams, and their scars showed months of torture. Some had names carved into them, and from what Sugarcoat glimpsed, she doubted those names were the people's own. These poor souls weren't just food: They were playthings, to be abused, tortured, raped and then devoured once their life had finally, thankfully, been snuffed out. Curiously though, the freezer was still running, humming evilly to the tune of some unseen generator.
Sugarcoat turned around then, and ran.