//------------------------------// // 14: Princess Bride // Story: Crystal Apocalypse // by leeroy_gIBZ //------------------------------// “Can you drive any slower? I mean seriously?” Triple Sec complained as he and Sugarcoat drove through the Moojave. “I can, yes. But I’m trying not to get a puncture. If you paid attention to anything that didn’t directly involve you, you’d realize that we don’t actually have a spare tire and these roads aren’t exactly Germane quality.” “It’s been what? Three hours and we’ve done like 100 miles. Come on, we’re never gonna there going like this!” “I’m trying to flank them. If the map’s correct, we should be able to take an road that let’s us catch the party walking on foot by surprise instead of driving up screaming at them.” “Oh.” “Think before you fight. It helps.” The battered truck drove on for another two hours, across the barren grey sands – the weak sun beginning to set by the time Triple Sec caught sight of people. There were twenty of them in total, walking along the highway, their features left dark in the evening cold. He made out that some were being dragged along in chains, and that a couple of soldiers rode in a golf cart, one on the roof swivelling around a makeshift ballista. Sugarcoat stopped the truck, parking it beside the crumbling ruins of a pylon, and grabbed her kit. Cointreau’s pistol, five knives, and two bottles of moonshine she’d taken from the Appleloosa brewery on her tour around the town. She tore two strips of cloth off from the seat of the truck, shoving both into the bottles, and then jammed a swiped loaf of bread over the barrel of her pistol. Signalling to Triple Sec to stay silent and follow, she approached the road as the sun dipped below the horizon, now-silenced gun in hand. Sombra’s Legion had busied themselves with making camp, on the slope opposite the pylon, surrounding the depilated ruin of what was once a toll gate. Patchwork tents were erected, rations were distributed, spirits were downed and merriness was starting to be made. Only a few men patrolled the perimeter, one still operating the cart’s crossbow – now equipped with a searchlight. Their few prisoners and slaves were kept to one side, closest to the husk of the counting office, their chain hammered into the concrete wall. “You got a plan? There’s more of them than I thought, and I don’t see that knight asshole from earlier.” Triple Sec whispered. “Do you see the largest tent, in the middle of their camp. The one with the silver designs?” “Yeah. So, what? Looks pretty gay if you ask me.” “Take this.” Sugarcoat said, handing the boy a Molotov cocktail and a lighter, “Light it and throw it once you get in range. My guess is that’s where their ‘King’ is hiding out. Getting rid of him will throw the rest of his men into disarray. And if we don’t see each-other again…” "Yeah. No, I betcha we will. No way am I dying to these posers." "But, if either of us dies, thanks. Thank you for the help." Triple Sec nodded, setting off toward the tents once the search light had passed by. That Sugarcoat sneaked toward, ducking behind the rubble and forgotten cars whenever it drew close. Soon she was crouched behind an old Mini, taking aim. Nobody heard the soldier slump down, head shoving the beam of light harmlessly into the sky. She moved onward to the little building itself afterward, shuffling against the boom to avoid being seen. Two guards stood beside gatehouse, one smoking and the other running a whetstone over his machete, orange face screwed into an intense glare of concentration. Sugarcoat hid on the other side of the concrete wall, against the dusty counter and already-looted till. Something exploded. A massive fireball bloomed into the sky as Sombra’s embroidered nylon tent caught aflame. Gunshots rang out in the moonless night. Men screamed, running about, firing blind and searching for their assailant. Sugarcoat stabbed a guard when his back was turned. He yelped and coughed blood. His comrade whipped out his machete and assumed a fencing stance. Realization spread across his face as he realized who he faced. “Well met, Amazon. Mine name is Snails.” He said, bowing lightly. “Leave now and I’ll let you live. There’s a town about two hundred miles west of here. They’ll take you in.” Sugarcoat said, reaching for her gun. “That’s not a possibility. You killed my brother. Snips fell by your hand.” “He shouldn’t have been an idiot then. I don’t kill smart people. They know how to get out of the way. So, I’ll ask you again, are you smart?” “Mine name is Snips. You killed my brother. Prepare to die!” Snips quoted, charged forward, swinging his machete. Sugarcoat sprung back as the blade swooped down. Then, while the young soldier raised it again, Sugarcoat shot him. “I guess you weren’t. Too bad.” Sugarcoat said to him as he bled out on the sand, hands clasped over his stomach. She kicked him down and hung the makeshift word on her belt before starting off to find Lemon. All around, men panicked, frantically shovelling sand onto their burning tents. One the other side of the camp, gunshots still fired, Triple Sec screaming insults from his barricade inside an old bathroom. The men clustered around him like confused moths fleeing a flame. He was a surprisingly good shot, Sugarcoat noted as she sneaked around the toll plaza’s perimeter. The counting office was a small shed open to the desert, its rusted fence long since clipped away and its stash of dollar bills long since looted. There was a chain wrapped round one of the bars on its windows; it led to a small group of women, huddled around each-other and hiding as best as they could from the chaos unfolding. Sugarcoat spotted Lemon’s bright green mess of hair among the crowd, and she rushed over to her after ensuring any nearby soldiers were either distracted or dead. Four bullets later, Sugarcoat was busy try to pick the lock on Lemon’s chains. The other three women stood back as far as they could – their faces were vaguely familiar in the firelight, but Sugarcoat couldn’t place them beneath the coats of grime and blood they all wore. They muttered between themselves, in a hissing language best liked to a snake trying to speak Roaman. “I’ll get to you all afterwards. Be patient.” Sugarcoat said, while attempting to weave her screwdriver into the tumblers of the padlock. “You know, Su, I don’t think they speak Ponish.” Lemon said. “Then mime to them, or do charades. I don’t really want to have to leave them here.” A few minutes later and Sugarcoat heard a scream over the sounds of gunfire. It was Triple Sec. “Fuuuuck! Run, Sugarcoat! I’m out! They got-” The boy’s cry was cut off by another rain of gunfire. Sugarcoat sighed, and shot the lock of Lemon’s chains. “Let’s go. I’ve got a car about a mile away.” She said, taking her friends hand. “But what about the Sirens?” Sugarcoat looked at the trio of former-villains, disorientated and terrified. With a name to their faces, they looked far more familiar. Neither Sonata, Adagio or Aria looked in to be in good shape, not even for the wasteland. Hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and chapped lips were the order of the night. None of them had their Amulets; the magic allowing them to communicate gone again. Sugarcoat tossed Adagio her screwdriver. “Take it.” She nodded as the Equestrian looked at the object like it was beamed down by aliens. “It is yours now. Take apart the lock. Run away.” Sugarcoat explained. The Sirens looked between each-other. Sonata nodded, “Thank.” She whispered, her face contorting into a tortured grimace as she forced the near-silent words out. “Thank you.” Sugarcoat nodded, took Lemon, and ran. Her last few bullets were put to good use picking off the few soldiers who caught sight of her. The grey men fell one by one, bicycles tumbling and blood spurting as Sugarcoat resorted to throwing knives behind her as she fled. Soon the road came into view, and an arrow tore into Lemon’s leg. She screamed, and collapsed. The soldier atop the toll gate cheered and starting reloading his ballista. Sugarcoat gulped, lighting the second fire grenade, forcing her aching muscles to obey. It soared like a comet in the black sky, exploding onto the archer moments later. He stopped cheering. Sugarcoat, half leading Lemon and half carrying her, started back to the truck, hurrying after she heard the roar-like rev of a motorbike sound in the distance. The truck itself was just as she left it; a mess of parts and pieces that was barely roadworthy. But what it lacked in safety, it made up for in speed. Sugarcoat hoisted her friend up into the passenger’s seat, climbed in herself, and floored the accelerator. “Hey. Sugarcoat?” Lemon said, her voice barely a whisper, barely anything at all over the frantic chaos of the night. The two girls had been driving for about half an hour now, Sugarcoat stopping only long enough to first aid Lemon’s wound. “Yeah? What is it?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I would have done that for any of my friends. To be treated like… that… is just wicked.” Said Sugarcoat, as the truck clattered down the pothole coated road, looking like the Moon’s cratered surface in the cold light of the truck’s one working headlamp. “No, Sugarcoat. I mean that I’m sorry. You didn’t need to do this.” “For? You haven’t done anything wrong. Getting shot wasn’t your fault. You’ll be alright. It’s only another thirty miles to Appleloosa. Besides, you’re my friend. I didn’t want to lose another.” “I’m sorry for being such a load, okay?” “You weren’t a load. You were – are – my best friend.” Sugarcoat said, and they kept driving for a while, in silence. “Play me a song.” Lemon said a few minutes later. “How does Queen sound? That’s what’s next on Triple Sec’s mixtape.” “That sounds great. Thanks.” Sugarcoat put the worn cassette back into the truck’s player, and Under Pressure began to play. Lemon smiled, nestling her head against the seat cushion. She looked peaceful in the half-light, tired and overworked, but peaceful; in a pale, weathered sort of way. Like an old Roaman statue, carved from pink granite and stolen away by some brave explorer. Sugarcoat smiled. She had won. They would both be fine. Lemon Zest could play guitar to her heart’s content in Appleloosa, and Sugarcoat had the supplies she sought, more than enough to make it to Las Pegasus with a vehicle and a map on her side. Sugarcoat’s eyes were beginning to grow heavy by the time the Western town came into distant view. Not wanting to crash – it or herself – from exhaustion, she pulled the truck over, driving a few hundred metres offroad, coming to a stop next to an outcrop of rock, turning off the lights once she was sure nobody was following. Sombra’s Legion, it seemed, had finally given up their chase and were content to lick their wounds. She hoped the Sirens and Triple Sec had gotten away; they were all good people or, at least, they tried to be. Lemon was already asleep, and her leg had stopped bleeding. Miles back, Sugarcoat had bandaged the wound as best she could, snapping off the arrow’s shaft and wrapping a tourniquet around the leg. Trying to pull out the arrow now looked like a bad idea – with Appleloosa so close by, she decided to let Twilight have a look at it tomorrow, and to try sleep tonight. She curled up as best she could in the driver’s seat, wrapped in a worn coat, the truck’s rickety heaters stopping her breath from misting up the cab’s cracked windows. She didn’t dream. Brushing the sleep out of her eyes, Sugarcoat yawned in the chill morning sunrise. Beside her, Lemon slept peacefully – still and quiet. Sugarcoat decided to let her sleep another hour, and started the truck back to its home. Appleloosa proper came into view forty minutes or so later – a foreboding forest of corpses surrounding the only safe town Sugarcoat had seen since the apocalypse began. She passed Suri’s car, and Cointreau’s gravestone, on the way and she felt in her coat pocket for the curio she had taken yesterday – she didn’t feel angry at Suri for stealing it, not particularly – but, while off, the device gave her some kind of solace. If she could find something of Sunny’s, even if it was stolen and abandoned in the middle of nowhere, she could see her girlfriend again. She stopped the truck before starting up the hill to the town, and turned to her friend. “Hey, Lemon. We’re here.” Sugarcoat said, brushing a hand over her friend’s face. It felt cold, colder than it should even in the icy dawn. “Lemon, we’ve arrived. At Appleloosa. Come on, wake up.” Lemon didn’t move at all. “Lemon. This isn’t funny. Let’s go.” Sugarcoat said, beginning to panic, shaking her friend’s corpse. “Wake up!” An arrow crashed through the truck’s windshield, showering both girl’s with glass, thudding into seat cushion just inches above Sugarcoat’s head. She screamed, louder than she already was. Another arrow followed it, clanking into the bonnet of the truck. A staccato rain of bullets hammered down moments later, kicking up dust and rust and scraps of paint into the air as Sugarcoat reversed the vehicle as quickly as possible. Once a safe distance away from small arms fire, back at Suri’s car, Sugarcoat stopped driving. She sat up, banging her head against the arrow above her. It had a message tied to it, paper wrapped around the arrow’s shaft. That Sugarcoat ignored, brushing the glass shards off of herself with her coattail, and then she turned to Lemon. She had been shot. Repeatedly. Six holes dotted her chest, black spots in the otherwise greyed school uniform. None of them bled. Her face was set in a subtle smile – sad, yet content. Her leg was coated in dried blood, the arrow still sticking out of it like a lighthouse in a lake of brownish-red. Sugarcoat started to cry.