Redemption

by PourMeADrink

Chapter the Twelfth

May 6^th, 2036

Present - 11:43 AM

***SCREEEEP*** ***SCREEEEP*** ***SCREEEEP***

Shrill, strangely warbling electronic notes, followed by a long, drawn out tone, the odd frequency of the sounds almost enough to set your teeth on edge.  They fade in and out, seemingly fighting against sudden, random bursts of static. The EAS alert tones, designed to grab your attention and keep it, had been repeating since they’d started the truck, but so far there hadn’t been any further messages.  

Ryan had fiddled with the tuning buttons for a moment after they’d all piled in, looking for any information he could find, but it was the same on all stations.  It’d been that way since the initial emergency message, instructing them to seek shelter immediately, had ominously cut off mid-sentence. He’s finally just turned the volume down, irritated at the distraction but afraid of missing out on an important update.  

The engine roared, a low, throaty counterpoint to the EAS noise. The newer, more modern machine protested loudly as its usual routine of idle work and play was replaced by this frantic, panicked charge.  Ryan worked the pedals, trying to maintain a steady, safe speed. His rational mind told him that ending up in a wreck, now, would be the end of them all. Deep down in his hind brain, however, there was no rational thought.  Only raw, primal animal instinct. Currently, it was full of fear, full of flight, and it kept wresting control of his foot from his logical brain.  As a result the engine was being constantly flooded, and then deprived, of fuel, and the electronic controllers, computer monitors, and injection system were struggling to keep up with the erratic ebb and flow of gasoline.

Thankfully, the road so far was mostly empty of traffic.  They had passed a single, obviously abandoned two door coupe right after entering the highway.  From the cryptic, white NHP markings scrawled on the back window, Ryan knew it must have been there at least for a few days.  He glances at it in the side view mirror, sun twinkling from its dusty windshield, watching it recede into the distance. It is the last piece of normality he will experience.

He can hear the girls shifting in the camper, the open sliding window between them and the cabin lending an echoey quality to the sound as it conducts from the rear of the vehicle to the cab.  The shifting has a nervous, furtive sound to it, and he resolutely eases off the accelerator again, glancing down as the needle descends slowly past the seventy-five mark to a more reasonable speed.  An extra five or ten miles per won’t make any difference.  Slow down, remember Callie.

This begins to run through his mind like a mantra. Slow down, remember Callie; Slow down, remember Callie.  It is a drumbeat that runs counterpoint to the looping imagery in his mind; the ashen faces of the news anchors, the shaky footage of white pillars ascending from distant corn fields, scrawling across the deep blue of an early spring day, etching a terrifying geometry.  

The sky overhead is becoming increasingly crowded as its usual, measured allotment of contrails is slowly replaced by erratic white lines that take odd, sharp turns and shoot off at unusual angles.  Smaller, personal aircraft are starting to crowd the sky as well, more than Ryan realized lived in this part of the state. Off to his right, across the valley, he spies some sort of modern ultralight, keeping pace with what he thinks might be an ancient Cessna.  Both planes are flying low and fast, weaving slightly as they power north through the already rising thermals towards some unknown destination. Farther ahead, a flight of helicopters buzzes across the horizon like a confused swarm of ungainly, pregnant bees. Only two of them appear to be military, although the distance makes it uncertain.  They appear to be following three battleship grey Talon’s, the gangly, tilt-rotor military aircraft easily recognizable where the others are not.

Leaning back, one arm stretching across the seat back, he cocks his head a bit.  “Are you girls alright back there?”

There is an anxious hesitation, before Celestia pokes her head partway through the window.  “We’re, uh, fine, I guess.” Her voice is uneven, catching and pitching oddly. “How…how soon until we get there?”

He can hear the raw emotion in her voice, the fear, the uncertain anxiety.  Ryan adopts his most reassuring Dad voice. “Shouldn’t be too much longer sweetheart.  We’ll pass along the edge of town, and then it’s only about fifteen or twenty more minutes.”  He glances in the rear-view, catching a glimpse of her expression. Her eyes are wide, unblinking.  Her muzzle is wreathed in a tensed pensiveness, leaving her lips compressed and her nostrils flared.

Rounding a bend in the highway, sliding around the large, humped hillocks that run off at an angle to the North East, Ryan can see dark smudges rising from over the horizon, ominous marks left upon the blameless blue of the day by pillars of smoke.  It’s coming from the direction of town, and Ryan feels his insides tighten up and constrict, like his body is bracing for a blow.

The last ten or so miles before the highway makes contact with Sierra Street - the road that borders the Western edge of town, and the primary jumping on/off point - is marked by a series of undulating, shallow S curves that weave their way between low hills and large gullies.  The hills are more akin to large mounds than true hills, and he’s always suspected they were the leavings of the old mining trade that once boomed here in the 1920’s and 30’s. Ryan forces himself to ease off the gas even more as his visibility is reduced to curving slices of roadway, dropping his speed down to the thirty mile per hour range.

The smoke rising into the air is more pronounced now, several columns rising from the unofficial downtown, with what looks like a particularly large pillar rising from the direction of the County Commissioners office.  Banking gently around a scrub covered hillock topped with the quietly rusting remains of an ancient Ford Model B, Ryan slows further, almost to a crawl. Lying on its side a hundred yards ahead is a blue and green water delivery truck, passenger door sticking straight up into the air like a stubby arm, plastic water bottles spilling brokenly from the rear.  

Edging over onto the shoulder, he skirts the wreck, driver side tires bumping noisily against five gallon jugs decorated with a cartoon crab and the word ‘Kraqua’ in tropical looking letters.  A glance tells him that the cab is empty, the driver nowhere in sight. There are no skid marks, no other vehicles tangled in the sagebrush lining the road, nothing at all to indicate what happened.  Just a large blue-green truck abandoned on its side.

Behind he hears Luna gasp, as the two sister’s shuffle to the left side of the camper shell, cramming themselves against the window to get a look.  With a final clattering of the plastic jugs skittering across the asphalt, Ryan passes the truck and pulls back into his lane, accelerating a bit. A look in the rear view shows the girls glued to the windows, eyes large as they take in the outside scenery.  He has to remind himself that this is the farthest they’ve ever been off the property. It’s probably a lot to take in, on top of everything else going on.

Rounding the last hillock, Ryan slows further, passing a bright white speed limit sign.  Sierra street runs mostly straight, with the majority of the sleepy little town spilling out in the middle of the scree and the sage along the right hand side of it.  On the left hand side reside a small housing development, a park, and a couple of businesses, all butting up against the open desert. Sierra street had once been Armory drive, back when the highway ran right through the middle of town.   An issue with flash flooding and soil erosion however, had caused the highway to be rerouted back in 1967, and consequently the only way to access the Sierra Highway now-a-days was along Sierra street.

Nosing slowly through the intersection, Ryan keeps his head on a swivel.  Horns pepper the air with erratic, urgent bleats, and he can hear sirens racing away, fading as they head presumably towards the center of town, where most of the smoke seems to be coming from.  Turning right, he heads down Sierra street, keeping more towards the middle and riding the dashed yellow line.

Medium sized houses march along the right hand side, neat little two and three bedroom Craftsman homes with tidy front yards and sloping concrete driveways leading to one and two car garages.  People are gathered on their lawns and in their driveways, talking on phones and to their neighbors. A few seem to be packing belongings into their vehicles, but most seem to be milling about in confusion.  

All of these people are going to die.  The thought blazes through Ryan’s brain, and the faux-leather of the steering wheel creaks as his hands involuntarily tighten.

They wouldn’t die right away.  Ryan might not be a strategist, but he knows enough to know that the town isn’t on anybody’s primary target list.  It has no strategic assets, and is of no value to anyone, save those who live here. It’s what coming afterwards that’s going to take most of these people out; the fallout, the outages, the cessation of food and water and medical services that the whole world seems to depend upon.  There will be starvation and disease, riots and murders. When a civilization collapses, it usually flattens all but the most hardy, or the most ruthless beneath it.

He pulls his eyes back to the road, and frowns as a minivan turns onto Sierra St., a few blocks up and heading their way, tires screeching as it corners too fast.  He moves over to the sidewalk and stops, letting the speeding, weaving vehicle pass. After it’s gone he notices the people in the yard closest to him pointing and gaping.  He looks at them, confused, until he hears a sweet, hesitant “Hi!” from the back of the truck, and realizes that they’re pointing at his girls. Glancing back, he sees Celestia and Luna smiling uncertainly and waving from the open sliding window in the side of the camper shell.

Ryan’s heart drops into his stomach, but then he realizes that it really doesn’t matter at this point.  An older man, and the younger woman next to him, have begun to slowly wave back, the woman beginning to smile.  With a sigh, Ryan checks his mirrors and pulls back onto the road, leaving them staring from their front lawn. He hears giggling from the rear of the truck, and can’t quite keep a small smile from his face.  “They seemed nice.” He hears Luna comment.

The trip along the edge of town takes about fifteen minutes.  They had seen only a few additional vehicles speeding along, mostly heading north, like they were.  At the north end of town, Sierra Street begins to describe a long, gently curving arc as it moves to ultimately merge with the Sierra Highway, meeting up with it as it flows around gentle hills, before sweeping north again.  Ryan slows as they approach the merge, rolling to a bumpy stop as the passenger tires cross the rumble-strip and onto the right side shoulder.

A semi sits jackknifed, crossing from the highway and part-way into the merge.  A light blue sedan lays on its side, partially under the cab of the truck. Skid marks stand out clearly against the dark grey of the asphalt, telling a short, brutal story.  The driver of the car, probably panicked, had entered the highway and had been t-boned by the truck. Skid marks spool out behind the semi, weaving and overlapping. There were none behind the car.  The sedan hadn’t tried to stop, probably because its driver hadn’t seen it coming.

“Daddy, why have we…oh…” Celestia, her voice trailing off as she picks out the wreck in front of them.  She swallows once, and her voice is quiet. “Can…can we get around?”

Studying the road, Ryan nods.  “Yeah, we can skirt it pretty easily.  It’s a soft shoulder, but we’ll be alright.”  There’s no smoke coming from either crashed vehicle, so at least they won’t have to worry about a fire as they creep by.  Ryan punches the button for 4-high, and crosses the oncoming lane, bumping over the opposite rumble-strip as he gains the shoulder.

He hears Luna clamber up next to her sister, a quiet gasp escaping her as she takes in the wreck.  “Why isn’t anyone here to help them? Where’s the ambulance? Where’s the cops?”

The tires dig into the loose gravel and soil that line the side of the road with a low grumbling sound, and Ryan makes sure they’re moving alright before he quietly answers.  “There’s no one to help them right now honey.” To their right, another flight of helicopters rumbles through the spring morning, angling towards the east.

Behind them, from the center of town, the first strident, wailing banshee shrieks of the town’s fire whistle begin to color the air.

Earlier That Morning - 7:50 AM

With a bleary eyes and a huge yawn, Celestia ambles into the kitchen, nostrils flaring at the scent of fresh coffee and warming toast.  She smiles sleepily at Luna, who’s watching the coffee brew with a quiet, tired intensity. “Morning Luna.”

“Good…” Luna’s reply is split by a jaw cracking yawn. “…Morning, sister.”  A dark blue coffee cup floats lazily next to her, a picture of a cartoon owl emblazoned on its side.  

Grabbing a mug for herself and pouring in her creamer, Celestia sits next to her sister on the cool kitchen tile, her own mug floating gently in an amber aura as she settles in to wait.  The coffee drips and drizzles and spits and gurgles, the pot filling at a slow yet steady pace.

A rush of water sounds from the pipes in the ceiling; the toilet flushing.  “Dad’s up.” Celestia notes absently. Her sister Hmm’mmm’s quietly beside her, her horn flashing alight as the toaster pops on the counter.  Bread and butter and a knife begin a slow waltz within an azure glow as the coffee pot finally tops off. Celestia’s own horn comes alight, as she fills her and her sisters coffee cups, the pot spinning slowly back towards the machine as the fridge glows with a soft golden hue, the door opening and disgorging the gallon of milk from the shelf.

With absent minded precision the two sisters set about a simple breakfast for the family as they sip their coffees; cereal, milk, toast, and sliced fruit.  The food items are crowded onto the counter as neatly as they can be. Just as Luna places the silverware at the end of the line, Ryan walks into the kitchen, slippered feet almost silent.

“Morning girls.” he mumbles, absently brushing each with his hand as he arrows for the delicious black liquid that’s quietly filling the kitchen with its heavenly aroma.  Filling a mug, he stands aside and sips his coffee as the two sisters gather their breakfasts together. When they’ve finished and turn towards the kitchen table, he fills a plate with toast and fruit.

As he takes his place at the table, the T.V. flickers to life, a golden hue briefly surrounding the remote on the countertop.  The three sit quietly, silently munching on their food and taking increasingly large sips of their beverages as the weather report plays sedately in the background.

Swirling her coffee with a tired, almost meditative focus, Luna flicks an ear towards the counter, catching the last of the seven day forecast.  “Should be warm again today.” she tells her coffee cup. Ryan and Celestia mumble their replies. The three had been up late the last two nights, either working, or trying to catch up on work missed due to an impromptu camping trip.  Their weeks were like this a lot anymore, the three member family working together to tackle upkeep, divvy up chores, and work on both the families finances, and their project.

It normally left them feeling pretty tired and worn down by the time the weekend rolled around but all three also felt a sense of accomplishment, and a sense of togetherness.  They were draining weeks, but also very satisfying in a way that none of them could really voice aloud.

Eventually the three begin to liven, and with a twist of her neck and a loud crunching-pop, Luna looks over to her older sister.  “Do you need the computer this morning? I’d like to check a few things with the Day-Run account.”

“Worried about that dip in the market?” Ryan asks, popping a piece of mellon in his mouth.

Luna turns his way, dabbing at her muzzle with a napkin. “Not really.  I just want to check some of the account settings, mostly. Besides,” she sips her coffee “we’re not really that invested in the tech start-ups.”

“I just need to check some emails first, then it’s all yours.” Celestia replies absently, stirring her cereal before taking a bite.  Chewing, she looks across the table. “I think Jerry’s crew might be close to starting up again.”

Ryan raises a skeptical eyebrow, pursing his lips before answering.  “I’ll believe that after it happens.”

Celestia shrugs absently, stretching her back.  “We got an email from Core Construction’s resolution department.  It sort of reads like they’re about to strike a deal.”

“I still think we should cancel the contract and go with my idea.” Luna adds, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin.

“Even if we could get full value for the land, which I doubt, what are we going to do afterwards?” Celestia asks archly, eyeing her sister.  

Luna sips her coffee, settling herself before she answers quietly.  “Buy a place in Bocca.”

“How exactly do you see that working out, dear sister?”  Celestia asks incredulously.

Ryan lifts his hands up, catching their attention and forestalling what is starting to become a routine argument.  “Nope, not this morning girls. I’m too tired.” He looks pointedly at his younger daughter “We are not selling everything and moving to Florida.”  Celestia shoots her younger sister a victorious look, which Luna answers with a half-hearted glare.

“Besides, “ Ryan continues, wiggling his eyebrows up and down, “I’d look terrible in a speedo.”  Both girls adopt disgusted, almost offended expressions at the mental imagery, and he chuckles.

This particular disagreement had become somewhat common place in the Williams household.  Luna, fed up with the way the contract kept getting stalled, was beginning to believe that they should just sell the whole thing and start again fresh, with a new, more reliable contractor.  

Celestia was of the mind that, as they’d already sunk a rather large amount of time and money into the project and new house, they’d be better off just seeing it through to the end.  Although he could strongly emphasize with Luna’s point of view, Ryan tended to fall on Celestia’s side of the argument more often than not. It was a tempting idea though…

Shaking her head to clear it of the abhorrent picture, Celestia sighs resignedly and glances across the table at her father.  “You’re still planning on sanding the front porch today, right daddy?”

Ryan gives her a blank look for a moment, before his eyebrows lift.  “Oh right, I am.” He upends his mug, draining the rest of the coffee and rising from his seat.  Turning towards the counter, he looks back over his shoulder at his girls. “Anyone want me to top them off?”

Both alicorns nod, and he returns with the pot, refilling their cups.  “What do you two think about sandwiches from Mike and Miguel's for lunch?”  His question is greeted with enthusiastic nodding, and he smiles as he empties the last of the coffee into his own mug.  Mike and Miguel’s was a deli that had opened up in town a few months prior. Their sandwiches were already a favorite, and not just in the Williams household.   

He glances at them nonchalantly.  “Of course, before we get to any of that, we’ll have to unpack the camping stuff and put it away.”  He nods towards the living room, where their saddlebags, panniers and other assorted camping detries have been sitting in an undignified heap for two days.

Luna moans dejectedly.  “That’s not fair, you can’t dangle Mike and Miguel’s in front of us and then demand something like that.”

Ryan laughs, taking in the similar, sour expression plastered across Celestia’s face.  “Who’s idea was it to go camping in the middle of the week?”

They both groan this time, and he laughs louder.  “Oh, quit being such babies. Do what you need to do this morning, and then we’ll all get started.”  He turns back towards the counter, reaching towards the coffee machine to return the carafe. “I’ll run into town about eleven-thirty and we can do lunch, and maybe we can watch…”

He trails off, pot still in hand as his eyes glance at the T.V. next to the sink.  The sound is turned low, so he hasn’t really been hearing anything other than a background drone.  This makes the bright red ‘Breaking News’ banner across the top of the screen even more jarring. His eyes automatically begin scanning the scrolling ticker beneath the anchors desk as he absently reaches for the remote.

‘...ald Fogleman, U.S.S. Clifton James And U.S.S. Ray Davis Reportedly Damaged / Sunk ...US 7th Fleet Surging From Sasebo Japan And Chinhae S. Korea...President Returning From Martha’s V…’

“Dad?”  Luna calls, noticing his sudden change in demeanor.  “Dad? Are you alright?”

Squinting at the rolling lines of text, his brain trying to fit the words into the context of his morning, Ryan presses the up-volume button on the remote, the morning anchors voice growing louder.

“...started with the shooting down of a Russian fighter by Turkish forces three days ago has since escalated in a series of increasingly alarming clashes along Turkey’s northern border with Russian occupied Georgia.  Turkish outposts and facilities have been facing increasingly heavy bombardment from Russian and Chinese coalition forces in the beleaguered region, which culminated in the firing of several cruise missiles by NATO warships against border positions in Georgia and Armenia, from which it's believed most of the artillery fire was coming.  Now, in what seems to be a direct escalation by EAP forces…”

Quite hoof-falls announce Celestia and Luna as they step to either side of their father, eyes glued on the well groomed anchor displayed on the small screen.  “What’s happening?” Luna asks, her tone worried.

“...was presented as a routine naval exercise, EAP vessels in the East China Sea launched a massive barrage of cruise missiles after opening fire on nearby NATO observer ships early this morning.  As of now, at least three US destroyers are believed to be either heavily damaged or destroyed, in addition to two British vessels and a Greek cargo ship...”

Ryan glances to his left, and then his right, taking in the alert nervousness plain on his girls faces.  He sets the coffee carafe on the counter, and then puts his arms out, resting a hand on each girls withers in as comforting a gesture as he can.  

“...missiles appear to have targeted anti-aircraft sites, defensive installations, and coastal bases along the Taiwanese Straight, and our news desk is now receiving reports of a massive air and sea assault by Chinese forces...”  The screen cuts to a shaky cell phone video, showing terrified people flooding night darkened streets as explosions blossom in the distance like hellish fireworks.

Celestia looks up to her father, fear and worry tightening her features.  “Daddy, what…”

Ryan tries to return a level, in control expression, rubbing her neck with his hand.  “I don’t know honey.”

Present - 12:05PM

Traffic seemed to pick up the further out of town they got.  What had initially started as a mostly open road had begun to slowly crowd as they moved steadily northward.  Surprisingly, most of the traffic seemed to be taking it easy. Vehicles were stopping along the shoulder in little groups, collections of confused and scared people trying to figure out either what was happening, or what they should be doing.

Occasionally some panicked driver would come flying by, heading one way or the other; an older woman in a blue SUV weaving around slower moving traffic and probably doing eighty-five, a young couple on a crotch rocket who decided to use the shoulder to pass an RV and almost clipped a middle aged man getting out of a grey sports car, also parked on the shoulder.

All in all, the whole thing was very surreal.  Ryan can hear the muffled sounds of movement from the camper, the girls shifting back and forth.  They couldn’t stand up back there - they were much too tall - and the best they can manage is either a sort of bent legged straggle, or shuffling around on their bellies.  At least he’d had the forethought to layer blankets over the truck bed, back when he’d first installed the camper shell. It had to be better than banging their knees on the bare metal.

            “Why are all of those people stopped?”  Luna’s voice drifts up. Ryan glances in the rearview mirror, and sees her pressed against the side window, peering out.  “I dunno,” her sister answers, moving awkwardly over beside her and taking a look herself. “...maybe they don’t have anywhere to go?”

Ryan returns his eyes to the road, and brakes sharply.  The girls tumble and exclaim from behind him as he slows to a stop.  Ahead of them is a small knot of vehicles, bunched up around the remains of a brown UPS panel truck and a white FedEx panel truck.  They had suffered a partial head on collision, and the two trucks looked like they were in the process of slowly chewing on each other in the middle of the highway.  The UPS truck’s back doors had swung open, and brown and white packages littered the roadway.

Idling, Ryan eyes the scene for a moment, noting the group of people clustered around the two delivery drivers off to the side.  He also notices three people on their cell phones, two filming the scene, and another couple of guys who are trying to direct traffic around the wreck.

Ryan stares for a moment, unable to comprehend why these people are all just milling about.  It’s a scene out of everyday life, and the only thing out of place is the lack of emergency vehicles.  Ryan glances down at the radio, twisting the volume knob just enough to be able to hear the squealing, screeching tones of the EAS system still warbling over the airwaves.  He pushes the knob in and mutes the radio.

A large, burly guy in a rock band t-shirt waves at them, directing them over, and Ryan edges around to the right, passenger side wheels leaving the pavement and running through the soft, sandy shoulder with a hiss as they pass him and the milling group of good samaritans.  

Once they regain the highway, traffic thins out considerably, and for a time they have the road to themselves.  He can hear the girls shuffling forward, towards the cab, and Celestia pokes her snout through.

“How much longer until we’re there?”

He glances in the rearview for a moment, noting that Luna is crammed in right next to her sister at the window.  “Should only be about ten or fifteen more minutes, sweetheart.” He checks the empty highway behind them in the side mirrors.  “We’re pretty close now.”

“Why aren’t people more...panicked?”  Luna asks hesitantly, trying to put the offness of the whole situation into words.  “I mean, most everybody seems to be confused, but aside from a handful of people running around, it all seems...a lot different from T.V.”

“There was the smoke back in town, and the sirens.” Celestia offers, glancing sidelong at her darker colored sister.  “Plus the way everyone is pulling over…”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t there be more...I don’t know, running and screaming?  Or like, maybe shooting or something like that?”

Ryan clears his throat, catching their attention.  “I think…” he trails off, taking a second to check his mirrors again.  They are now completely alone on the highway. It’s deceptive, the bright blue of a beautiful day, sun shining down, wispy clouds forming over the mountains to the west.  “I think maybe it’s because of how remote we are. We’re pretty far from the larger population centers, sweetheart. I’m sure it’s a lot worse the closer you get to the bigger towns and cities.  But there’s still all the air traffic,” He gestures out of the drivers side window, where another group of helicopters is flitting passed in the distance “and the emergency system is still running.”  

He reaches down and flicks the radio back to life.  The strident, urgent ***SCREEEEP*** ***SCREEEEP*** ***SCREEEEP*** fading in and out through static, looping endlessly.  He lowers the volume again, reducing it to slightly annoying background noise.

Luna turns her head, glancing out the passenger side window at the sunlit desert sagebrush flowing past.  “Maybe it was a...a false alarm, or something.”

Celestia snorts once, shaking her head.  “I’m pretty sure it’s not a false alarm Luna.”

Undeterred, Luna ignores her.  “...maybe…” Luna falters, licking her lips.  Swallowing dryly she continues a little more firmly.  “Maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems. Maybe everyone stopped, and thought about it for a minute.  Maybe they all pulled bac...” Luna cries out in surprise and terror. She is echoed by her sister and father.

Light blooms, far to the north, instantly washing out the interior of the truck, growing so bright so quickly that it is blinding in its terrible incandescence.  “Look away!” Ryan screams, eyes tightly closed as he follows his own advice, turning his head and attempting to shield his face with his arms.  “Look away and get down!”

The truck begins to weave, and Ryan just barely has the presence of mind to take his feet from the pedals, causing them to begin to slow.  The light burns his skin, feeling like a million watt sunlamp on his face and arms even through the windshield. As the hellish flare begins to fade away Ryan squints his eyes, head turned and  peering out of the driver side window, seeing the guardrail, roadbed and scrub brush outside the cab in a violent contrast of blinding white light and almost pitch black shadow.

Keeping one arm up he grasps with his other hand, fumbling with the steering wheel, attempting to keep them straight while he feels for the brakes.  Before the first burst of light has entirely faded away, however, a second flares, seeming more brilliant, causing the girls to shriek from their prone positions in the truck bed.  Ryan jerks involuntarily, trying to simultaneously grasp the steering wheel and bury his face in the crook of his elbow, and the truck veers sharply to the right, brakes squealing loudly before the vehicle smashes into something with a crumping of metal, and the deceptively bright, tinkling sound of shattering glass.

Earlier That Morning - 10:20 AM

            “...with active engagements by both Russian and Chinese forces in support of the North Korean offensive...and now it looks as if we are receiving word that President Whitmoor will be making an announcement from the White House in just a few moments.”

            Ryan, Celestia and Luna had watched the emerging coverage from the kitchen television for about ten minutes, before decamping to the living room and its larger, more robust T.V.  Now all three were sitting side by side on the well-worn, plush leather sofa, as close to shoulder-to-shoulder as they could get. It was an unconscious posture that none of them noticed, save for the vague feeling of comfort it brought.

            On the T.V., in bright, vivid colors, various video clips played, mostly showing handheld footage of the DMZ that ran across the Korean peninsula.  The clips were very disorienting, and mainly seemed to highlight distant explosions.

The reporter speaks quietly to someone off screen for a moment, before addressing the camera again. “We now go live to the Oval Office for the Presidential address.”

The camera cuts to an image of a silver haired man in a rumpled looking suit.  Seated behind the Resolute Desk, President Whitmoor adjusts his maroon tie, a pained expression momentarily deepening the creases in his lined face before he schools his expression back to stillness. “My fellow Americans,” he begins, folding his hands neatly on the desktop.

“He looks awful” Luna says quietly, her wings fidgeting a bit.

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, “he looks like he's aged ten years.”

“Ten years at least.” Celestia chimes in.

On the T.V., the President clears his throat.  “In the last seventy-two hours, the world has seen an act of overwhelming hostility, unprecedented in our history.  Using the incident in Turkey as an excuse, the charter members of the East Asian Pact have, with deliberate misdirection, launched an all out assault against our friends and allies in Asia and Europe, shattering the tenuous and hard fought peace of the region, and indeed threatening peace throughout the world.”

The President takes a deep breath, exhaustion coming through loud and clear despite his best efforts to hide it.  “We cannot...we will not, accept this state of affairs. World peace, and nothing less than our very way of life, are at stake.  It is with these thoughts in mind that, after consultation with and overwhelming approval by Congress, that the United States will join with its NATO al󠄂lies in issuing a formal declaration of war against the constituent states of the EAP.  As of this moment, we have…”

He trails off as a concerned looking man wearing the uniform of a military attaché quickly ducks in from off camera, whispering something into the president’s ear.  More people begin to crowd into frame, talking in low, urgent voices as a look of shocked disbelief begins to dawn over the President’s face.  

The television cuts suddenly back to the reporter, a dapper looking man in a neat black suit and tie.  The reporter looks up from his tablet and into the camera, licking his lips uncertainly. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and as he does so a pit opens up in Ryan’s middle, a dark, yawning chasm of worry and uncertainty and above all, fear.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” he trails off, swallowing as he slides his tablet aside and absently shuffles papers on his anchor desk.  “Ladies and gentlemen, this news station has just received a report of a series of massive explosions in the East China Sea. They originated off the coast of Zhejiang Province, where major elements of the US 7th Fleet were deployed to provide support to the embattled Taiwanese defenders...”

He pauses, holding a hand up to his ear piece and listening as if his life depends on it, before becoming animated once more.  “...and now we’re hearing similar reports from key military installations in Alaska, Greenland, Poland, and Turkey...We are being told that these military facilities, among other uses, are primarily home to elements of NATO’s Ballistic Missile Defense System.  It is believed at this time that these explosions may have been the result of the use of tactical nuclear weapons...”

Suddenly Ryan is very, very cold.  His mind reels, and for a bad couple of moments he is very dizzy.  Giving his head a firm shake to clear it, he glances to his left and right.  Celestia and Luna gape at the television, wings dropping, eyes wide and disbelieving.  He studies them, and all he can see in that moment are two scared little fillies, all alone and unprotected, as they were when he first found them.

Slowly, his eyes turn back to the screen.  The reporters voice has faded, becoming a murmur of words, droning sound with no meaning.  Large, capital letters scroll across the news ticker at the bottom of the broadcast. “...ONAL EMERGENCY...NORAD DECLARES DEFCON 1...NATIONAL EMER...”  Above, increasingly animated, the news man begins gesturing erratically, only to be replaced moments later by what looks like a video shot from the front yard of someone’s farm.  Silos and other buildings dot the fields of corn that seem to run off towards some hills far away. Suddenly, bright, flickering lights begin to ascend in the distance, riding on long, white plumes of exhaust, carving straight lines up up up into the blameless blue sky.

The news anchor has become an unfocused, blurry noise in the background, and the whole world seems to go quiet.  All Ryan can hear is his breath rushing in and out of his lungs. He blinks, slowly, and notices for the first time that Luna is speaking to him.

“Dad?  Dad?”  Her large, beautiful teal eyes look up at him as he turns to her, full of fear and confusion.  “What do we do?”

Before he can answer, the news broadcast is interrupted by a series of loud, strident, screeching tones.  The screen flashes to black, and the words ‘NATIONAL ALERT’ flicker at the top. An eerie, robotic voice begins speaking as words scroll unnoticed across the bottom of the screen.  “This is an Emergency Action Notification...Confirmation of a probable nuclear attack against the United States has been received...  This is not a drill...Immediately seek nearby shelter...Immediately seek nearby shelter…”

Ryan is on his feet suddenly, with no clear memory of deciding to stand up.  He looks at the camping gear stacked by the front door. “You girls go upstairs.  Grab warm clothes.” His voice is firm, brooking no argument. He turns and looks at his younger daughter.  “Luna, I want you to grab everything useful from the medicine cabinet. Grab some towels, too.” He looks at his oldest daughter.  “Tia, I want you to grab the winter gear and my small tool kit from the closet.”

Celestia and Luna look up at him with large, shock filled eyes.  Celestia swallows loudly. “What are we…” Her voice is hesitant, and he cuts her off with a look.

Kneeling down, he reaches out, cupping Luna’s cheek with his right hand, and Celestia’s with his left.  “Girls,” He looks from one to the other. “We need to get going. We don’t have a lot of time.” They look at him with lost expressions, and he tries to smile encouragingly.  “Go, get what I asked you to. Don’t rush, but don't’ dawdle either. You don’t want to forget something we’re going to need.” He leans forward, kissing first one cheek, and then the other.  

“Go, meet me down here in ten minutes.”  The two sisters share a glance, and then turn away, moving towards the stairs at an uncertain pace.  He watches them climb towards the second floor, a large hollow in his chest. He spins around and begins laying out and organizing their camping gear.  

As usual, it’d been left in a heap.  All of them loved camping, but none of them enjoyed the clean up when they got back home, putting off the chore for as long as possible.  This time their procrastination was a boon, and he thanked whoever might be listening that they’d never managed to break the habit. He opens pockets and pouches and panniers, doing a rough inventory as he goes.  Their most recent trip had been cut short by a freak windstorm, and so their supplies were mostly still intact.

As he absently listens to the clatter of the girls moving around overhead, trying to track their progress, he grabs the cardboard boxes from the pantry that were reserved for their non perishable camping goods.  Repacking several of the bags, he looks over his work, nodding in approval. A thought occurs to him, widening his eyes, and he deliberates for a moment, before jogging back into the kitchen to snag something from one of the cabinets.  

Stuffing the item into the bottom of Luna’s camp bag, he lets his gaze wander the living room, mind trying to think of anything else they might need.  His eyes come to the coffee table, and he stares at it. Laying in the middle of a scattering of loose pictures is a photo album. He almost dismisses is, but then looks at it again.  It was a side project that the girls liked to work on while watching that incomprehensible show about time traveling rednecks.

With a snort, he crosses the room in three strides, sweeping the loose photos in between the pages of the album.  Closing it, he returns to the camping stuff, making a space for it in the pannier. He looks up as the girls descend the stairs in a clatter of hooves, each carrying bundles.  

Luna pulls up short.  “We got everything Dad.”  She says, a little breathlessly.

Ryan gives them his best smile.  “Good job. Now, let’s get this stuff packed and get to the truck.”

Setting her collection down, Celestia gives him an uneasy look.  “We’re going to the construction site?” He nods, and she gives him a searching stare, before nodding towards her camping bag.  “We should pack the clothes in the other pocket.”

They all look up as the emergency message steadily repeating on the T.V. suddenly cuts out, replaced by silence.

Present - 1:25PM

Thickening storm clouds were piling up over the mountains to the west, dark and ominous, sending tendrils and streamers marching across the towering peaks on growing gusts of wind.  Carefully, Ryan turns left off of the highway, crossing the oncoming lane and bumping over the rough transition from paved roadway to dirt track. About a hundred feet up from the highway a metal gate crosses the rocky, unfinished lane.  Not seeing the length of chain that normally secures it closed, Ryan noses the gate open gently with his truck, stopping briefly to allow it to swing fully open on squealing metal hinges full of dust.

The wind begins to pick up as he crosses the fence line, blowing handfuls of grit against the side of the vehicle in sporadic, rattling bursts.  Ryan follows the dirt road away from the gate as it describes a broad, gentle S curve, swinging first to the right, around clumps of sagebrush and scrub grass, and then bending back the other way around a low, broad hill.  

The hill could accurately be described as a foothill, as that’s what it was.  One of the first of many that humped the area around them, and began to cluster and grow in size as they ran towards the foot of the mountains.  Fifteen minutes after he’d nosed the gate out of the way, and about forty-five minutes after he’d managed to run them off of the side of the highway and into the left-hand post of a mileage sign, they’ve finally arrived.

Ryan pulls into the broad, mostly leveled area nestled up against the backside of a rather large hillock, slowing to an idle for a moment as his eyes roam the scene.  Off to the right sits the new house, for what it was worth. The frame was up and completed, but the skeletal looking beams were only partially clad in plywood, leaving it looking more like the picked over carcass of some poor beast than a future home for he and the girls.  

Stacks of plywood and lumber, and plastic wrapped bundles of insulation lay arrayed along one side, beneath the empty eye sockets of the unfinished windows.  The sight pulls at Ryan's chest a bit, the plywood sunbleached to a mottled gray and speckled in growing dark splotches, likely mold. The rolls of insulation lie half exposed to the elements beneath brittle, sun-opaqued sheets of broken plastic that flap and wave in the errant breeze.  His eyes travel along where the front porch would have gone, and he sees that some enterprising soul has spray painted “All Hail Los” beneath one living room window in a red that has since faded to pink.

Ryan feels a surge of anger at Jerry and his crew, and at the company that contracted Jerry’s crew, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel.  Then he glances at the darkening clouds north of them, and his anger subsides. Jerry’s office was based out of Fernley, just a quick jump on-and-off the freeway from Reno.  If Fallon had been hit - and that’s what those twin flashes had to have been, the total destruction of Fallon Naval Air Station and Combined Forces Training Area - then there’s a very likely chance that Reno would have been hit as well.  With nuclear devastation to both the west and the east of him, poor Jerry probably had a whole different set of problems to deal with at the moment.

Provided he wasn’t in Reno or Fallon when it happened.  Ryan swallows at the thought, his stomach going queasy.  With a slow sigh, he lets off the brake, driving past the stillborn house, past the leaning frame for the detached garage and shop, and skirts around the staked off area that marks the expansive backyard.  Angeling to his left, he heads towards a steep-walled draw on the other side of the property, hard up against the angular hills that run back away from it and into the mountains.

“The boards are rotting, or molding, or something, right?  That’s what that black stuff is?” Luna’s quiet voice floats into the cab, just audible above the low grumble of the tires rolling over the compressed dirt of the lot.

“Yes sweetheart.  Probably from all the moisture last winter.”  

Celestia sighs with a sort of quiet wistfulness from the back window.  “It would have been a pretty nice place.”

The girls had been very quiet since the accident, as had Ryan.  When the world had exploded ahead of them in twin flashes of brutal brilliance, Ryan had swerved off the highway.  Traveling along the shoulder at an angle, they’d fetched up against a mileage sign set atop two steel posts. The sign was already listing to one side, the result of a previous collision from who knew how long ago, and so the already leaning metal post had, thankfully, given way to the front bumper with a loud metallic squeal, instead of possibly wrecking the radiator.  

This bit of good fortune was balanced, however, by the fact that the previous damage had left the large green sign itself sagging on one end.  And where in normal times the bottom of the sign would have maybe scraped along the top of the truck cab, in this instance it had smacked corner first into the windshield as the truck finished the job of knocking the supporting post to the ground, punching out a large chunk of safety glass into the middle of the bench seat, throwing the rear view mirror into Ryan's very surprised lap, and leaving a large column of cracked and sagging glass down the middle of the windshield in a fat, opaque stripe.

However the real good fortune was that none of them were seriously hurt.  The girls had been bumped and bruised a bit, but were otherwise fine, and the worst that Ryan had was a darkening bruise from the seat belt and some shallow cuts along his forearms from little, sharp edged cubes of safety glass.  A blessing of the low speed of the impact.

            They pull up in front of the sheer rock faces that make up the entrance to the draw, roughly one hundred and fifty yards away from the aborted house.  The draw itself runs off to the north-east, up steeply into the hills and away. A meager stream straggles its way out of the mouth, angling off to be absorbed by the arid soil.  The draw is not their goal, however.

            Set back into the rock face, deep enough to make it look like a natural feature at first glance, while also keeping it partially sheltered by the overhang, sits a large, circular steel hatch.  Reminiscent of a bank vault, but somewhat about half the size, Ryan can just pick out mellow highlights gleaming from the shadowy alcove, kicked back by the oily looking metal. Throwing the truck into park, he kills the engine, and the three of them sit in silence for a moment, contemplating the entrance to the shelter as the wind begins to pick up.

“OK,” Ryan begins, unbuckling his seat belt, “Let’s get everything moved in.”  He glances in the rear view as the restraint slithers back into its holder with a muted click, and sees both girls regarding the shelter door through the side window of the camper.  He twists around, eyeing them through the open pass-through. They are twin approximations of nervousness apprehension, equal parts fear and uncertainty held in trembling check. He clears his throat, startling Celestia and catching both of their attention.  “Girls, let’s get to it.”

Luna nods hesitantly, before taking a deep breath and firming her resolve.  Celestia likewise nods slowly, and beneath the general anxiety of the situation, he can see a growing look of unease as she meets his gaze.  The growing dis-quietness in her eyes kicks up a turbulent ball of foreboding and guilt in his gut, which he studiously tries to ignore.

Within minutes they’ve all dismounted the truck, and the camping bags and panniers settle into the still dusty soil in the sheltering overhang.  Ryan studies the steel portal for a moment. The door is mostly featureless, save for the large rivets spaced evenly around its periphery, and sits flush within the rectangular steel frame that’s embedded directly into the surrounding sandstone.  There’s a large, squared off pull handle near the left hand edge, and set a little off center in the round edifice is an old fashion looking crank wheel, secured from moving by a length of chain that loops from it through a steel pad eye at the edge of the frame.  A big, serious looking padlock secures the chain, and Ryan lifts it with one hand while he fumbles his keys from his front pants pocket.

Unlocking it, he pulls the chain free with an abrasively loud, metal-clinking before tossing it to one side, out of the way.  Throwing a quick glance back at Celestia and Luna, he grasps the crank wheel and begins spinning it, ears straining to pick up the silky smooth sounds of bolts receding quietly into their receptacles.  After about a dozen rotations the wheel hits its mechanical stop with a clang, and the door swings ever so slightly outwards. Grabbing the handle Ryan hauls back, and six inches of layered steel and ceramic composite open nearly silently on recessed hinges.  

Darkness yawns before them, and Ryan fishes a maglight from the camping pannier.  Flicking it on, they cross the threshold and step into the shelter. They step from what is still the dry, warm air of spring day rapidly losing its promise, into the shocking coolness of the dark interior.  The change is startling, and they pause near the entrance, twenty feet of tunnel carving away from them on a mostly straight course, save for the small dog-leg it takes about mid-way. Ryan hears a rustling behind him from the girls saddle bags, and two more beams of light click on, stabbing through the darkness.  

Ryan hasn’t been in the place for some time, not since Jerry and his crew walked off the job.  The girls, it dawns on him, have only ever seen pictures and construction plans themselves. It was shaping up to be quite a day of firsts for them, he thinks with some bitterness.  The place has an incomplete feel to it, which makes sense, as it’s only half finished.

The entrance passage is wide enough for the three of them to stand side-by-side without feeling too crowded.  Walls of naked rock rise to a height of roughly ten feet, to meet in a curved ceiling of rough stone. The floor is made up of interlocking hexagons of lightly textured concrete.  Where the floor meets the walls, a squared off lip of cement rises about four inches. Cutouts and hollows lend it a gap-toothed appearance, forms and recesses designed to accommodate conduit, pipe fittings, structural pieces, and to help hold when the walls and ceiling were eventually sealed, one of the final phases of the project that will now never be completed.  

Ryan glances behind him, and the girls shoot him identical looks of uncertainty.  He forces his most reassuring smile and waves them forward, until they stand on either side of him.  Tucking the flashlight into his armpit, he reaches out to lay a comforting hand on their necks. “Here we go.”

The trio walk slowly ahead, following the passageway up and around the bend, foot falls and hoof steps echoing dully in the dark.  Before long the passageway opens up into the main chamber. To their right, the concrete hexagons end in an irregular, zig-zagging line that crosses the width of the chamber, giving way to sandy looking soil and marking where the flooring phase of the project had been halted.  Across the soft dirt floor two dark openings reveal themselves in the bright beams of light, a wide one which seems to split into two other chambers, and a narrow one which branches up and away from them.

Across from them and off to the left, the irregular chamber wall leads to another narrow, branching tunnel full of darkness, situated next to a smooth concrete wall, set about six feet back.  Studying it for a few moments produces the distinct impression that it was a smallish chamber or alcove that has been sectioned off. An empty doorway in the middle of it leads back into further darkness.  

The sound of gusting wind comes dimly to them from the entry passage, and a metallic rattling from overhead pulls their gazes up towards the steel vent enclosures set at regularly spaced intervals in the chamber’s ceiling - portions of the half-completed ventilation system that was designed to feed, eventually, out to the surface.  Ryan takes a deep, steadying breath, and begins leading them towards the sectioned off chamber.

Within is a smallish room, with an open area in the front and a back end divided up into three stalls.  Originally intended to house HVAC equipment that had obviously not been installed, it was the most completed section of the entire, aborted project.  Ryan hesitates for a moment, and then sets the camping bags he’s carrying on the dusty concrete. “OK,” he looks back at his girls. Luna is studying their surroundings with a look of trepidation painted on her face, her flashlight swinging here and there as it bobs in an azure glow.  Celestia is staring at the middle stall, the largest of the three, her flashlight aimed steadily straight ahead, her eyes large and wet. Every so often they flick up to Ryan, before returning to the dim, grey space.

Ryan swallows.  “OK, this is the spot.”  He drops what he’s carrying, gesturing with his own flashlight.  “This is the most protected part of the whole cave.” He bends and starts checking the bag at his feet, tightening straps and tugging buckles.  “You’ll be shielded by cement, which is shielded by rock, which is buried beneath a lot of earth.” The pannier is still as secured as it was when he originally closed it up.  Releasing a breath, he straightens back up and turns towards them. “This is where you girls will bed down.”

Luna glances into the gloomy, cell like room.  With a sniff she levitates her saddlebags over to sit in a corner of the space.  Celestia shoots him another look, and he can see a stark, depthless fear in her eyes.  The knot of guilt in his middle tightens, and his stomach begins to sour. He motions, and she slowly steps into the stall, turning back around to face him.  Her eyes are huge, her magenta orbs seeming to drink in every speck of him they can.

Distractedly, Luna steps in next to her sister, giving her a confused glance as she gets turned around to look back out. She stretches out her hind legs one at a time, and then glances at her father.  “I guess it’ll have to do. Where are you bedding down, Dad?”

Ryan’s resolve begins to crack, and he breathes in deeply through his nose.  He opens his mouth to answer, but Celestia speaks before the words can form. “He’s not.”

Luna looks at her, brow furrowed.  “What are you talking about?”

Face expressionless, save for huge eyes which remain locked on Ryan, Celestia answers in a quiet, toneless voice.  “He’s not staying.” Her whole body sags slightly, as if the words had replaced all her joints with jelly on their way out.  She sucks in a breath, half gasping, and a shudder runs down her length.

Luna’s expression of confusion deepens, and she squints at her older sibling.  “What do you mean?” She turns her gaze on Ryan, and the look on his face causes her puzzlement to be replaced with a growing alarm.  “Dad, what does she mean?” Ryan returns her look with a face full of guilt and resigned sadness, and she takes a trembling step toward him, the alarm in her voice building, highlighting her growing look of panic.  “Dad? Daddy? What does she mean?”

Ryan studies them for a moment, taking in the fear and near hysteria on Luna’s face, and the blank, expressionless face of Celestia.  Luna’s teal eyes, full of bewildered dismay, and Celestia’s rose colored eyes, full of bleak, heartbroken understanding. He breathes deep, exhaling explosively, and then kneels before them.  “Luna, honey. I can’t stay here with you.” Her eyes widen, and she jerks back slightly as though struck, her breath quickening.

Celestia nods once, slowly, and then settles down into a seated position on the gritty cement.  Her saddle bags shift with her, laying uncomfortably against her croup, but she doesn’t seem to notice.  She blinks slowly at her father. “You knew this would happen.” She states, voice quiet and emotionless and just so horribly empty that for Ryan it’s like being stabbed in the belly.  

Ryan shakes his head.  “I knew that it was a possibility.”  He chuckles weakly, and the sound echos flatly in the enclosed space. “I didn’t know it would happen like this.  I hoped…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely for a moment before dropping his hands again. “But it doesn’t really matter what I hoped, not anymore.”

“But we can stay here.”  Luna’s voice is full of dismay, tinged with a growing dread.  “We can all stay here.  There’s food, we can find water…”  Her eyes are beginning to roll wildly around, bouncing from her father to her sister to the roughly finished ceiling overhead.  “We have enough supplies…”

Ryan holds up a hand, and she falters, tears beginning to run down her muzzle in damp streaks.  He scoots closer to them across the scratchy floor. “Honey…” He trails off, drawing a deep breath before sighing dejectedly.  “Girls, I could stay.” They both perk up a bit, but a certain wariness shades their expressions. “I could stay, and we could try to make this work, and if we’re really, really lucky, we could eck out another five or six years before the end.”  They both flinch, but he muscles on, each word feeling like a punch to his chest. “This isn’t going to die down for a while, not with all the money spent on automated systems and dead man switches and third strike capabilities…” He fetches another deep sigh.

“When it’s all finally said and done, the world is going to be poisoned for decades.  Maybe even longer.” He shifts slightly, looking from one alicorn to the other and back again.  “The land will be barren, what little food and water remains will be contaminated. There will be survivors fighting for resources.  There will be disease. There will be endless fallout, and a nuclear winter that will last for who knows how long.”

“So, we could make a go of it, and like I said, if we’re very lucky, we’ll get another five or six or maybe seven years.  Years where every single day is a life or death struggle, with zero certainty that we’ll live through it to see the next one.”

They’re both crying a little now, small, quiet sobs that leave damp trails along their muzzles.  He reaches out with both hands, his left cupping Luna’s cheek, his right cupping Celestia’s. Just like when they were small.  “I want more than that for you two. I want you to have a chance to survive, to make a new life for yourselves.” Tears were beginning to paint faint, cold lines down his own cheeks.  He takes a deep, deep breath of the chill, musty cave air. “This is how it has to be, dearhearts.” A corner of his mind notes, with an absent sort of pride, just how calm and reassuring his voice is.  “This is the way you two survive.”

A sound fills the cavern, a distant, distorted roaring which echos strangely through the incomplete vent system and into their odd little redoubt.  Celestia glances upwards, they all do, and when at last the awful noise fades away, she looks back to her father.

She studies his face, just barely suppressing the panicked, drowning feeling that fills her chest to overflowing.  She takes in the worn lines around his eyes, the haggard yet determined countenance, the carpet of stubble just starting to sprout after this morning's shave.  She burns his visage into her memory, eyes tracing the way the reflected glow from their flashlights throws him into partially indistinct shadow. He looks both wonderful and terrible at the same time, and a part of her absently worries about what the stress may be doing to his health.

“H...ow Daddy?”  her sister asks, voice catching.  “How is this supposed to work?” Celestia looks over at her younger sibling, noting that Luna looks about how she herself feels.

A look of dawning comprehension bloom's beneath Luna’s despair, and she returns her older sisters look.  Celestia’s eyes widen, and her wet gaze swings back to her father. “You want me to use the petrification spell.”  A lost sort of quality has replaced the flat, tonelessness of her voice. “Just like the rabbit.”

“That’s right, sweetheart.”  He smiles sadly at her. “You said the amount of power you put into it effects how long it’ll last, right?”  

She nods in reply, that awful, helpless drowning feeling somehow getting worse.

“And it works on things, like the bags and supplies.”  She nods again.

“And on yourselves.”  Remembering how she’d tested the spell on her and her sisters feathers and hoof shavings and clipped off samples of mane, she nods a third time, feeling like she's tumbling end over end down down down into pitch blackness.

Her father swallows roughly, fingers gently massaging her cheek through her coat.  She can smell the scent of his soap, and his aftershave, and sweat and dirt and beneath it all the basic himness that is her Dad.  She closes her eyes tightly, pushing her face into his palm and inhaling as deeply as she can.

“I want you to use the spell, Tia Marie, and I want you to give it as much power as you possibly can.”  His voice is broken, and she opens her eyes to look at him again. His gaze shines damply in the diffuse glow of their lights.  

She and her sister move at the same time, almost as one, and her father is caught completely off guard.  In moments he is seated on his butt, back against the roughly textured concrete wall, as both Celestia and her sister hold to him with a panicky tightness.  Celestia pushes herself as far into his side as she can, head against his breast. Her position mirrors Luna, who’s curled into his other side. His big arms come around and pull them even closer, threatening to squeeze the breath from her.  

The three sit like that, an occasional sob the only sound to intrude.  For how long Celestia doesn’t know, or particularly care. None of them are willing to risk breaking the moment, staving off for as long as possible what will follow.  

Eventually, however, she pulls her head back, looking up to him.  “How are we supposed to survive without you, Daddy?” Her voice is a breathless whisper, quavering  in the asking, and she feels the huge, irrevocable finalness of the situation pressing down on her, threatening to crush her beneath its dark, unfathomable weight.

Luna pulls back as well, her tear matted muzzle turning to likewise look up at him.  His smile is gentle, melancholy and heart wrenching. “You’re my girls.” He says quietly, blinking water out of his eyes.  “You, both of you, have the brains, and the talents, and the skills, to figure it out.” He squeezes them again, briefly this time.  “And you have each other. Between your minds and your magic, you’ll figure it out.” He leans down, kissing first Luna on her cheek, and then Celestia.  

He takes a shuddering breath, and nods towards their bags.  “You should have everything you need to get started in there.  Most of the camping stuff, plus the extras you guys grabbed before we left.”  Celestia and her sister follow his gaze, eyes lingering on the bags. “What…” She gulps, trying to dislodge the question from her throat.  “What about you?”

Her father chuckles, a genuine sound, and both she and her sister turn back to him.  “I’ll be fine, dearheart. Once I know you two are safe, and secure, I’ll be fine.”

Luna looks at him beseechingly “But what about all the things you said…”  

“No more questions.”  He cuts her off, a little sternness entering his voice.  He nods towards the bags situated in their dim alcove. “It’s time girls.”  

“Can we wait…”  Celestia pulls in a shuddering breath, her wings ruffling miserably.  “Can we wait a little while longer?”

He looks down at her, fresh tears running down his stubbled cheeks.  “Oh sweetheart…” He trails off, chest hitching, and hugs them tightly.  “If we take any more time, I’ll never be able to let you two go.” He sniffs, releasing them and leaning back.  “I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to.” He kisses them both again, and then nods towards their spot in the stall.  “Up with you now, both of you.”

Celestia smiles sadly, recognizing his patented ‘Dad’ voice.  She and Luna share a look and then the both slowly rise, moving back a few paces to give their father some room.  He stands, swiping halfheartedly at the seat of his pants, and the three of them slowly enter the stall space.

Her father gets them situated, laying near each other, legs tucked beneath them, tails curled around their rumps.  Then comes the bags, her father positioning them near, then repositioning them. After a lot longer than the action warrants, he finally steps back, swiping at his eyes with a shirt sleeve.  He nods to them, and tries a grin. “Alright...alright. You two are as set as you can be.” He falters, and Celestia see’s just how close to breaking he is. She shares a teary-eyed look with Luna, who nods slowly.  

Celestia feels herself entering a sort of spaced out, disconnected frame of mind, and fights against it.  This is really happening, and she won’t allow her brain to protect itself by unplugging from the situation.  Oh no no no, oh God why… she struggles internally, forcing her thoughts away from the gibbering fear and despair and the fathomless, bottomless sense of loss that threatens from the edges of her mind.  By pure force of will she keeps herself focused on the here and now. These are literally her last moments with her father, and she will have them crisp, and clear, and forever burned into her memories.

Blinking once, and then again, she finally nods at her father.  “Okay.” She tries to swallow, and oh lord she’s never been so thirsty before.  “Okay dad. I think we’re ready.”

Her father smiles sadly, his fidgeting hands finally going still.  “Alright.” he says again, nodding back. He crouches before them, gently holding Celestia’s face with both hands, tilting it so she meets his eyes.  “I love you, Tia Marie.” He kisses her gently on the forehead. Turning, he does the same to her sister. “I love you, Luna Bell.” He kisses her forehead as well, and then stands slowly, taking a few steps back.  Celestia’s breath catches in her throat, and she sees that her father is crying openly. “You girls have made proud. The proudest dad who ever was. And I’ve never once regretted a single bit of it.” He wipes at his nose with his hand, sniffing loudly.  “I love you girls.”

“I love you daddy.”  Luna’s voice is quiet, broken by an odd, hitching sob.

“I love you too, dad.”  Celestia’s voice is no better than her sisters.  

Her father nods again, still wearing that sad smile.  “Give it everything you have, Tia Marie.”

Celestia closes her eyes, dimly aware that Luna is doing the same besides her.  She focuses, opening herself up to that terrible, wonderful, ever present heat, and for a third time that awful day, the world becomes blindingly white.

Ryan lowers his arms, the blinding golden-white light from his eldest daughters horn finally fading.  Blinking his eyes to clear them, he looks anxiously towards his girls, and his eyes widen in both wonder, and a bit of horror.  

Celestia and Luna both lay as they were, resting on the dirty concrete, legs folded neatly beneath them, tails curled around, but changed.  Instead of the soft, deep azure of Luna’s coat, and the downy alabaster of Celestia’s, instead both are the soft grey of a thunderhead. He takes a couple of steps forward, marveling at them.  He can still pick out the individual hairs of their coats, the strands of mane and tail, even their eyelashes. His eyes narrow, and he can just faintly make out tiny wisps of steam rising from Celestia’s horn.  

Unable to help himself, he pokes at Luna’s nose, noticing the smooth, almost slippery feel of it.  Much different from the rough, grainy texture he was expecting. It’s as if they’ve been carved from polished grey marble by an exceedingly detailed hand.  He does a check, and sure enough all of the camping supplies have the same, finely hewn look to them. He steps back until he reaches the far wall, and slides down it, heaving a deep sigh as he settles heavily to the cold concrete floor.  

He sits in the clammy dimness, studying them.  He’s not sure what he’s looking for. Partially, he thinks he’s worried that they might reanimate right away, that maybe Celestia got something wrong.  Mostly though, he has to admit to himself, he just doesn’t want to leave them. Now that they’re here, and the deed is done and they’re safe, the thought of just leaving, of walking back through the heavy steel door and back to his truck, of driving off and leaving them here in the dark, is hard.  Incredibly hard. Just a few more minutes his mind whispers to him, a few minutes longer isn’t going to hurt, just watch them...you’ll know they’re safe so long as you watch them...

Eventually, after struggling with the feelings that swell and crash within him like waves, eyes drinking in the details of his two daughters, he rises creakily, favoring his bad knee.  

He has to let them go.  It feels as though he’s been sitting for days, but in reality couldn’t be longer than an hour or two.  Pausing to stretch, he walks back to them, leaning down to press a final kiss against their cool, silky smooth foreheads.  Tears begin falling unnoticed from his eyes as he straightens up. “Good bye, dearhearts.”

He lingers for a moment longer, and then walks back out into the cavern, foot falls crunching softly through the grit and dirt that cover the concrete floor tiles.  The weight of just how alone he is falls across him, and he sobs once, quietly.  They’ll be okay now.  This is the best way for them to survive. He repeats to himself, over and over again.  His part in their story is at an end, and even though it is the hardest thing he’s ever done, he knows they’ll be alright.  Deep down, somehow, he just...knows.

Fifteen minutes later, heavy steel portal secured but unchained, Ryan stands by his battered truck, taking in the sky.  He’d taken some time to pile brush and tumbleweeds in front of the door, beneath the overhang, and weighed it all down with some large rocks.  From a distance it looks like any other part the the landscape, and you’d have to walk right up to it to see the steel hatchway. It’s far from perfect, or even permanent, but it’s better than nothing, and the hatch wasn’t that visible from out here to begin with.

To the north he can see a dim, orange glow.  It peeks up from over the horizon, ominous and dreadful, the funeral pyre for Fallon, the Naval Air Station, and probably much of the surrounding area.  The wind whips past him in restless gusts, and he glances up at the storm clouds overhead, thick and black, steadily advancing out from the west without end.

He breathes deeply, and fancies he can pick up the scent of wet char on the fitful wind.  His eyes sweep back to the shelter door, his mind on the precious beings inside it. He wishes he’d said more to them.  Wishes he’d been able to lift the enveloping veil of his emotions long enough to piece together something more meaningful.  Sighing again, he opens the driver side door, his eyes catching on a bright rectangle of yellow.

An old legal pad lays across the front seat, probably thrown up there from the back during the crash.  He contemplates it for a minute, mind turning. Making a quick foray into the seatback pockets, he lays out several items beside the notepad; a half crushed box of Ziplock brand Vac-Bags, a tube of aluminum foil, sans-box, and a battered roll of duct tape.  All leftovers from various trips and chores. He nods, stretching across the seats to fish a pen from the glove box.

Thunder cracks in the distance, and a drop of water hits his forearm.  Wiping it off, he rubs the water between his pointer finger and thumb, frowning at the odd look and gritty feel of it.  Another lands on his hand, and he sees that the water is almost black. Brushing his hand against his shirt, he turns back to his notepad.  Overhead, thunder cracks again, closer this time, and the rain begins to fall in earnest.

Later

“Tia, Luna, time for dinner!”

“Coming Daddy!” Twin, sweetly pitched voices from around the front corner of the house, excited and out of breath.  Ryan stands in the front doorway, ears even now picking up the faint but rapidly approaching clatter of hooves running along the dirt and gravel.  He looks outward, the waning daylight already painting the front yard in the fiery hues of the setting sun, the cool, comfortable July air wafting almost lazily against his arms, neck and face.  

His contemplation is broken by the huffing and puffing of two breathless fillies as they finally round the corner of the house, slowing to a tired canter as they make their way to the front porch and up the steps.  He smiles down at them, taking in the streaks of dirt and mud, broken here and there by irregular clean lines and patches of sweat. They’re going to need baths tonight before bed.

“Girls,” he starts, trying to keep his smile out of his voice.  He has to be Dad, after all. “Girls, you’re filthy. What in the world were you two doing?”

Luna looks up, still panting, an earnestness in her eyes so sweet it’s almost heartbreaking.  “We were farming Daddy. We had to irrigate the crops!”

Despite himself, Ryan can’t keep a chuckle from escaping.  “And what were you farming, dear heart?”

Tia smiles up at him, brown streaks of half dried mud marring her face and coat.  “Wheat and grains!” She declares brightly, before her smile is replaced by a somber expression.  “Those are the staple crops.”

Chuckling again, he reaches down to further muss her already disheveled mane.  “That’s right sweetie.” He straightens, a contented sigh leaving his lips. “Come on, let’s get you two washed up.”  He looks out over the yard again, wondering a little at how the sunset seems to wash everything in orange and pink light.  He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. It’s beautiful, but even with the bit of altitude they have it’s still a little warm.

Motioning to the door, he follows his two girls into the living room, rolling his shoulders a bit uncomfortably.  It’s warm in the house, too. He’ll have to button the place up and kick on the air conditioning after he gets the girls ready for dinner.  He takes a breath, detecting the slightly unpleasant odor of sweat, and something else he can’t identify. The girls must have been really playing hard if he can smell them already.

Musing for a moment, he glances about the living room.  Where are the girls? Looking around, he spots them gazing out the front window.  “Girls, come on, we need to get you cleaned up.”

“Daddy, the lights not right.”  Luna replies quietly, not looking at him.

“What?  What are you two looking at?”

“Daddy, the lights too bright.”  Tia whispers at him, eyes intently focused on the front yard.

Frowning, Ryan wipes more sweat from his face.  How did it get so hot in the house? It’s July, but the temperature up here has been pretty mild all week.  Shaking his head to clear it, he walks over towards the girls, trying to ignore the unpleasant smell, with the intent on putting an end to this foolery.  Dinner’s going to get cold at this rate.

He reaches Celestia before he notices the orange glow highlighting her face.  Wiping more sweat from his eyes, he studies her for a confused moment, his gaze dancing over the bright limning that picks out her features, before he turns his head slowly to the window.  The front yard has changed since he walked in a few seconds ago. The sprawl of white and gray gravel, the willow trees, his truck, all of it is bathed in a bright, red-orange light. He stares, feeling his stomach start to go queasy.  Everything outside the house is bathed in a furnace glow.

“Daddy, you don’t look so good.”  Luna’s voice, sounding strangely far away.

Ryan blinks, and pain seems to fill him in an instant.  He doubles over, hands on his stomach, his joints suddenly feeling like they’ve been filled with ground glass.

“Daddy, are you alright?”  Celestia’s voice, not concerned or afraid, but echoing, as if she’s speaking from the end of a long hallway.

Sweat streaming down his face, Ryan slumps to his knees with a strangled cry, breathing in the thick, cloying odors of old sweat and sickness and blood.  Slowly, he falls over onto his side, his stomach a churning, nauseating mass at his center. The light gets brighter, and he squeezes his eyes closed, his vision blurring and his skin on fire.

“Daddy, I think you’re sick.”  Luna’s voice, echoing distantly.  

“Daddy, I think you need to rest.”  Tia’s voice, echoing distantly.

Pain

Ryan blinks awake, consciousness returning to him all at once, as if someone had flicked a switch.  He stares dully out through the living room window, feeling languid waves of disorientation wash over him, his mind sluggishly trying to sort out the difference between dream and reality.  He’s sitting in a kitchen chair he’d dragged out into the front room, shivering despite the sweat coating his neck and beaded on his face. Outside the window, the world is slowly being erased.

The rain had turned to snow sometime around the afternoon of the second day, after he had bleakly returned to the house.  Fat flakes of listless gray falling in an ever growing torrent, piling outside the living room windows, the once pristine white crystals stained by the ash they unwittingly carry.  Ryan sits before the window, discarded blankets lying pooled around his legs like the shed skin of some strange animal, watching the joyless downfall as it works silently to entomb the outside world.  He’d dug out the blankets when the power had died, thinking to keep warm, but he didn’t need them now. He was already warm, hot even, his body enclosed by a slowly baking heat that leaves him nauseous, making it difficult to think.

Three days.  Three days since his world came crashing to a halt, the familiar, uncertain path that he and his had been traveling falling away into a bottomless pit right beneath their feet.  His eyes feel grainy, dry and unpleasant in their sockets in a way that blinking doesn’t seem to help. His breathing is harsh and labored, his breath rattling on every inhale, every exhale sounding like the shaking of padded chains in his chest.  

The dream floats through his mind, and for what feels like the thousandth time in the last few days his eyes seek out the muffled shape of his truck, still sitting at an angle in front of the porch where he’d left it.  His girls are safe, as safe as they can be, but no matter how many times he tells himself that there’s nothing more that he can do - that going back and opening the door to the shelter would actually expose them to danger - his gaze inevitably returns to his pickup.

It’s steadily disappearing beneath the growing drifts, mounds of powdery slate building up against the tires, spreading slow tendrils towards each other and reaching for the undercarriage.  It’d probably be completely covered by now if it wasn’t for a spurious wind that seems to snap and howl at irregular intervals, scattering the loose powder and helping to freeze the larger piles.  He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in as deeply as he’s able, coughing wretchedly as he breathes out.

Opening his eyes again, he deliberately looks away from his vehicle, focusing instead on the growing piles inching their way across the front porch.  He knows he can’t go back, can’t do anything more, certainly can’t sit sentinel and guard the entrance like he’d fleetingly considered. He knows that to be a fact, but still…

He burns to go to them, to embrace and protect them, to see to it with the last of his fading strength that they remain safe.

He burns with fever, a sick heat that radiates outward from every square inch of his failing body, drying his eyes, his throat, making normal thought difficult.

He looks back across the yard, still able to pick out the leaves on the oaks.  The grey snow sticks to them, standing out in stark contrast against their summer green, and his mind begins to wander in the heat of his fever.  

Grey snow doesn’t seem right, doesn’t seem true.  Snowfall is supposed to carry with it memories of sledding and snowball fights, winter holidays and great, gaping stillness,  Good, meaningful times. This surreal, grey mess stands as an affront to all of that, a negation of every pleasant memory he can recall.  It’s the ash that makes the snow look so dirty, just like the black rain that started all of this, and as his heat baked mind process this thought a macabre curiosity fills him.  
It’s ash in the snow, most likely what’s left of California.  The ash from people, from things, from trees and forests.  That’s what’s filling his yard and burying his truck. How many buildings is he looking at right now?  How many cars, how many big rigs, how many boats?

Could he be looking  at the remnants of the Golden Gate?  Or even the 49ers stadium? Part of the Hollywood sign, right in his front yard? His eyes crawl over the encroaching, lifeless snow, taking in the grey, taking in the ash, his mind turning sluggishly.  Whole cities gone. Whole cities, houses and apartment complexes and parking garages and office buildings, all gone, leaving only the ash. How many people dead so far? How many dying right now? How many families could he be staring at…

He leans over suddenly, vomiting loudly between his feet and trailing off into a series of dry heaves when he’s rid of the meager contents of his stomach.  Breathing shallowly, he leans against his knees, eyes squeezed tightly closed as he rides out the spasms, waiting long minutes before it finally seems to settle once more.  Blinking his eyes slowly open, he sees a distressing amount of crimson streaking through the bile and half digested food on the floor. With a shuddery sigh he rises on shaky legs, half determined to get something to clean the mess up with.

Standing unsteadily, swaying, he glances towards the kitchen, the distance from himself to the doorway looking impossibly vast.  Looking back down at the mess on the floor, he weakly kicks a discarded sheet over it, snorting disgustedly to himself.

He knows what’s happening to him, knows what’s going to happen.  He’d known how this was going to end as soon as he’d seen the news clips, shaky footage of missiles arcing across the sky, their contrails journaling the horrific last chapter of the human saga against that depthless, blameless blue.  

No, he’d had no delusions about how he’d end up, and as long as his girls were safe, as long as he was able to give them a chance, he could accept it.  He’d done his job as a parent, taught them what he could, prepared them the best way he was able. It was out of his hands now, and in theirs.

He tries desperately to reassure himself of this.

Rousing out of his contemplative reverie, he throws another fleeting glance at the slowly steaming mess mostly hidden beneath the sheet, turning away from it and shuffling towards the couch.  No, if he’s going to go out, he’s going to do it with as much enjoyment and comfort as he can. Angling towards the armrest he carefully leans over, reaching for the end table, partially numb fingers fumbling with the little pull knob for a moment before finally sliding the single drawer out.  

Searching through old magazines, mismatched decks of cards and dead batteries that never made it into the garbage, his fingers finally reach the very back of the drawer to brush against his prize.  Moving carefully, he fishes out a partially crumpled red and white pack, pushing open the top to make sure the little book of matches is still folded within.

Turning, he half sits-half drops onto the couch, wincing as he leans back against the coolness of the leather, giving his aches and pains and nausea a few moments to settle.  Cautiously he tweezes a bent cigarette out of the pack, chuckling roughly at the sudden urge to check and make sure he’s unobserved.

He lights it.  The smoke is harsh and stale, causing his dry mouth to flood with saliva as he inhales gently.  The pack is old, but it still tastes like heaven, if heaven was made mostly out of crap. He coughs raggedly for a moment, before resolutely taking another drag.

He should feel guilty about having hidden the pack in the end table, lord knows he did when he stashed it there in the first place, but at this particular point in his life he’s finally beyond guilt.  Hell, at this point he feels pretty strongly that he’s earned a smoke. Guilty or not however, he is rather glad that the girls aren’t here to see it.

Closing his eyes he relaxes his body, enjoying this simple pleasure even as it causes him to cough, his already damaged lungs protesting.  It hurts, everything hurts, but he’s damned if he’s going to put it out until he’s done with it. Besides, it’s not like he has to worry about getting cancer anymore.  

Laughing to himself in a rusty voice, he feels his mind clearing a bit, his senses returning to him as the semi-delirium he’s inhabited these past few days begins to lift.  He knows he can’t return to the shelter. He’d never make it in his current state, and even if he could, what then? The girls wake up in seventy or one hundred years and the first thing they see is the skeletal remains of their father?

His girls are as safe as he can make them, and when they wake up, it’ll be up to them to take care of themselves .  And that’s all there is to it.

Sighing softly, he feels the worry and stress leave him, and he finally accepts everything, not just his own fate, but the girls, the war, the end of the world, the fact that it doesn’t matter what he does now.  The entire situation currently at hand. In all honesty it feels liberating in a way he’s never experienced, filling him with an almost Zen-like feeling of peace.  

With an amused smile, he reaches over, crushing the last of his cigarette against the top of the end table.  Looking at its remains, he decides he’ll have another one, and maybe a beer to go with it. The power might be out but it’s cold enough that the contents of the fridge should still be pleasantly chilled.  Leaning forward he attempts to stand, getting almost all the way upright before his knee gives out. Spinning a little he flops gracelessly onto the floor with a weak cry, pain radiating throughout his body and causing his head to spin.

He lays there, right arm pinned beneath his body, left arm flopped partially up on the couch, his eyes closed tightly as he rides out the pain and nausea and unpleasantness washing through him.  After a while his dizziness passes, his lurching stomach mostly settling back into its correct place, and he opens his eyes, vision roaming over the dim landscape hidden beneath the couch. He see’s layers of dirt and dust, broken up by the occasional feather or tangle of hair.  He exhales, blowing little clouds of particulates around in eddies of breath, and his eyes spot something. Craning his neck slowly, he notices a clean rectangle of color, bordered in white.

He studies it for a moment, thoughts starting to churn and bubble sluggishly again, and finally he brings his left arm down, sliding his hand through the mess and grasping it with trembling fingers.  

Pulling it closer, he sees it’s a picture, and after some confused consideration he comes to the realization that it was from the album he hastily packed for the girls.  It must have slipped off of the table during his scramble to get everything together and ended up underneath the couch.

Holding it close to his chest, he closes his eyes, silently marshaling his strength before rolling over and weakly sitting upright with a pained grunt, resting his back against the couch as he fights off another wave of dizziness.  When the room finally stops spinning again, more or less, he gazes down at the picture, a small, wistful smile blooming on his face.

It’s from his birthday, sometime recently too, maybe two, three years ago.  In it he’s sitting, a broad grin on his face as he holds up a large, brightly wrapped package for the camera.  Celestia and Luna sit on either side of him, wearing those pointed cardboard hats that he always found silly, smiling beatifically as they each embrace him with a wing.  Just around the border of the picture is the barest hint of bluish light, almost like some strange sort of lens flare. Luna’s magic, subtly caught on film as she had manipulated the camera and snapped the photo.

Sadness washes over him as he stares first at the picture, and then through it, his mind traveling back in time, to a place he used to live only a few short days ago, where he was Dad and his whole world consisted of two odd, beautiful, wondrous girls, whom he loved more than anything.  He sniffs, blinking moisture from his eyes.

He’ll never see them again.  He’ll never see them completely grown up, never be there for them when they’re scared, or nervous, or uncertain.  Never hear their laughter or grow exasperated with them, never endure another lecture about his health, or be there with the answers to their questions.  

The loss floods through him anew, compressing his chest and making it even more difficult to draw breath, and with it the uncertainty comes flooding back again, trying to drown that brief, tenuous moment of peace, pulsing away in his brain like a second heartbeat.

Will they be O.K.?  Did he pack them enough, did he prepare them enough? Did he tell them everything he needed to?

Could he have done better?  Could he have made better plans, or taken better precautions?  Their whole lives had been inside this house, in the trees and brush and hills and valleys of this property.  They’d never really been outside, never been somewhere else.  Could that have been a mistake?  Could he have found someone else, another person to share the secret of their existence with?  Another person to help them grow, to give different opinions and answers to their questions, to prepare them?

Doubt worms its way through his clouded thoughts, reaching with slick tendrils to squeeze his heart in his chest.  All their lives they’d been so sheltered, so isolated from everything normal. It had seemed right at the time, had seemed like the best way to keep them safe, but had it been, really?

He peers closer at the photograph, eyes focusing and dancing, absorbing every little detail.  His hand trembles as he begins to feel the chill in the room. Callie had been the best thing to ever happen to him in his life, and for a time he had believed that she would be the last good experience he would ever have, that there was nothing left for him in this world.  And then he’d found two strange, unbelievable creatures one day, two foals who by all rights should never have existed in this world.

Two young children who had challenged him, frustrated him, and on some occasions even frightened him.  Two young girls who had started out as his secret, and had ended up becoming his whole life. They had given him purpose again, had given his life meaning, and he can’t remember at what point in the beginning days he had stopped living solely for their safety, and had started living for their love.

His breathing begins to come with difficulty, his chest rising and falling laboriously as he gazes at their smiling faces, their eyes bright with life and love, family and home.  A different sort of moisture begins collecting at the corner of his eyes, and the uncertainty fades to mist, before being blown away.

They’d given him a better life then he would have ever thought possible, certainly better than he used to feel he deserved.  The decisions he’d made in the past, the self doubt and maybes and what-if’s, all of it falls by the wayside.

He’d done the best he knew how to do, the best he could, and he has no regrets.  He’s raised two smart, resourceful, and very capable young alicorns, and he knows deep down, in that place where truths are whispered and always heard, that no matter what they face in the future, no matter what obstacles or trials or setbacks they encounter, they will prevail, and they’ll do so together.  Because no matter what right or wrong decisions he made in the past, he did his best, and his two amazing girls are all the proof needed to let him know that his best must have been pretty damn good.

He leans his head back, resting it against the couch and staring languidly at the ceiling.  His hands have stopped shaking, his breathing growing shallow and slow. The chill no longer bothers him, nor does the creeping numbness in his arms and legs alarm him.  In fact it seems to be sapping the pain away. A grey-black haze has begun to obscure the edges of his vision, and he brings his dimming gaze to rest on a framed picture hanging on the wall across the room.  In it he sees a younger version of himself, dressed in a very dapper black tuxedo, his arms wrapped around the slender midsection of a beautiful, fire haired woman in a traditional white wedding gown, her striking emerald eyes sparkling with happiness as she smiles with him at the camera.

Ryan studies the portrait for a moment, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips as he remembers that day, before his eyes unfocus suddenly, seeming to see something else entirely.  He frowns, shaking his head a little in confused negation, his left hand clutching the recovered photograph to his chest, and then understanding dawns over his expression.

His hand slides downward to rest limply on his stomach, and a slow smile begins to spread across his haggard face, tired yet full of recognition, and joy.  He sighs, a deep, abiding feeling of absolute peace coming over him, wrapping around him like a warm blanket as his sight begins to fade and the numbness creeps steadily up his neck.  He takes one, last shallow breath, his eyes beginning to glaze, and speaks in a croaking, broken voice that’s full of wonder, relief and most of all, recognition. “Ah. Hello again, my love…”