//------------------------------// // 9: Convoy // Story: Crystal Apocalypse // by leeroy_gIBZ //------------------------------// The next few days were spent walking along the crooked tar, the cold sand above, the dry sand below – two spots of vibrant colour struggling betwixt two halves of grey ash. On the third day, Sugarcoat spotted water as she and Lemon crossed over a bridge – rickety old planks and sand-scarred suspension being the only barrier between them and the wickedly jagged rocks below. Already, somebody had fallen – now a faint corpse mangled dozens of meters down in the ravine below. “Don't, you know, look down.” Lemon joked. “Just because you can doesn't mean you should.” “No, there's water down there. A river, actually.” “Seriously? I thought it all evaporated by now.” “Well, there's not much left but my guess is that there's an underground spring.” “If there's a spring, could the water be clean? Like, if we could get to it, could drink or wash in it?” “Maybe. I'd still boil it first, just to be sure. But it's really far down; I'm not sure how we could get it.” “Yeah. That sucks. I could really use a shower. No offense, but you could too.” “Definitely. But unless you have a hundred yards of rope, we're staying dry.” “Couldn't you use the cables of the bridge?” “I can't cut through solid steel so no. Let's keep moving.” They kept moving. As they walked, Sugarcoat’s mind was abuzz with ideas. She had always an interest in engineering – it having been one of her best subjects when Crystal Prep still stood. Even though the stream was miles away by then, and probably too toxic to drink, she still wanted to figure out a way of getting at it. It made for a pleasant distraction from endlessly staring at the road. A day later, come early evening, Sugarcoat saw the ravine again, the cracked rock and sand having curved around to meet a second bridge. This time, it was far more navigable, its floor only a few meters below the worn wood floor. However, what little possibility the bridge itself had was all but lost. A petrol truck had been crashed into it, and the tanker itself dangled into the gorge below. The cables suspending the bridge had snapped on one side, slithering airborne like steel snakes in the harsh winds, hissing eternally above deadly spikes of blackened wood, curving impassibly into the shallow waters beneath. “Well, that sounds pretty bad if you ask me.” Lemon said, once Sugarcoat had described the scene to her. The sighted girl had neglected to mention the designed stenciled onto the truck: Sombra had passed this way before her. “I know. I'm not sure how to get past it, to be honest.” “Could we climb over the tanker, maybe? Sort of like what you did with the reservoir?” “No, it's too far. We'd be better off following the ravine itself, seeing if it flattens out anywhere.” “But you could climb down, right?” “Yes, but I couldn't get you down as well. So there isn't any point.” “But the river's still there, right? Couldn't you bring up some water to drink? We'd need it if we’re going to take another route.” “You're right. Wait here, and I'll try to get down.” After checking the cab, finding a flare gun jammed beneath the desiccated husk of the driver, Sugarcoat climbed down the tanker itself. It had been carrying fuel, it seemed. Off to Las Pegasus, or Appleloosa, or any of the other towns that lay beyond the scrubland-made-desert. She hopped down into the ravine, letting herself drop off a low-hanging back tire of the trailer, her feet squishing into the mud below. Like the rest of Equestria, it was grey and filthy. What water there was – that little liquid yet unmixed with the perpetually falling ash – had been polluted by the leaking petrol, rendering good for nothing, not fire, nor thirst. After following the ravine downstream for half a mile, and seeing only more dark mud, undrinkable as the sky itself, Sugarcoat turned around, and hauled herself back up the trailer, and discovered that Lemon Zest had disappeared. “Lemon! Where are you?” Sugarcoat yelled. “Worry not your mind with such things, wench!” Somebody who was definitely not Lemon Zest yelled back. Sugarcoat drew the flare gun, pointing it nervously in the direction of the voice, started back slowly toward the bridge. It was cover, from whatever else lurked in the night. A second pair of footsteps joined hers as she walked back to the truck, and then a third and a fourth, trying as hard as possible to be quiet, and back her against the ruined vehicle. Slowly they all creaked along the rickety timber, breathing heavily, gambling on the others to shoot – or fall – first. Something broke with a sick crack. Somebody screamed. The flare flashed blue, harsh and bright against the cold black. Another screamed, caught alight. Illuminated by the flaming warrior, clawing desperately against the fire on his uniform, Sugarcoat saw two of Sombra’s men, a third struggling his leg out from a cracked plank a few feet back. One of the men drew his pistol, emptied its magazine uselessly into the wood. Sugarcoat drew a knife, and it joined the bullets; its intended target lunging to the side. Sugarcoat fumbled for her spear, undoing its clasp, unfolding all six feet of wicked murder. She got halfway before the shaft caught a machete, shattering into glinting splinters. Trenderhoof tugged out his sword, swung again for his opponent’s neck. Sugarcoat ducked, kicked him in the crotch. He yelped, and stumbled back into his flaming comrade. Both collapsed into a frantic blue bonfire; the one that was rapidly consuming the rest of the bridge. Behind them, the third soldier continued to hack away at the jagged splinters with his axe. Sugarcoat paid him no heed, jumped into the dark muck below. Another crack – running on adrenaline by now, Sugarcoat prayed that it was the bridge, and not her leg. She ran downstream again, as the warriors above scream and shouted, cursing and begging for help. One foot in front of the other, like she had done endlessly for the last three years. Run, pant, get away. Run, stay low, don’t get shot. Sugarcoat kept moving, following the rock walls of the shallow ravine, its twists and turns extinguishing the bright blue flare’s flames. She stopped in the tracks once she heard the explosion; an incredible, deafening gunshot-like bang as the fires found their way into the tanker. The fireball half-blinded her as it rose above the gorge, a brilliant red and purple firework against the shadowy sky. Away from the fight, and the flames licking the petrol-infused mud that had all but dried up a mile back, Sugarcoat collapsed against the cold stone, promising herself a rest – not permanent, just a quick breather before continuing her quest.