The shrill whistle of an artillery shell cut through the rainy skies of the battlefield, and for a moment drowned out the rattle of gunfire and the shouts of the soldiers with one thunderous impact.
Nopony could tell what limb went to what body after the explosion. The blood of a soldier’s comrade across his eyes sent the young man, barely out of his teens, into a panicked frenzy, firing his weapon with reckless abandon until his heart met the tip of an enemy bayonet.
There was no foreseeing the sudden, vicious attack of the Viet Cong. For nearly three days, they had been quiet, but that was all the more reason to be wary. They were planning something. They were always planning something. And in one fell swoop, they unleashed their assault with frightening efficiency, taking out the American soldiers as easily as swatting flies.
A pair of soldiers tried to take cover beneath a derelict scaffold. Had they been more cautious, they would have seen the enemy overturning a vat the size of a small bathtub over the side.
Hundreds of gallons deluged onto the soldiers, washing them down the hill they desperately tried to fight up, and covering them with the thousands of leeches that had been collected in it. They and every prostrate soldier there were sent screaming as they were slowly drained of their blood. Those who weren’t covered in leeches found the bullets with their name on it.
Another shell was loaded into a mortar, and the soldiers operating it fired it down the hill, with another shrill whistle.
A Viet Cong had a gun wedged into his stomach before the trigger was pulled and he was kicked away by the massive boot off Big Macintosh. The whistling of artillery reached his ears, though he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
Completely on instinct, he ran for the nearest foxhole that had already been blown out by another shell.
Big Mac shoved aside any soldier in his way as he ran, not knowing whose side they were on. Not that he would have cared in that moment as the whistling grew louder.
Just as the roar of an explosion sounded from nearby, he dove into the foxhole and landed face first into the mud. But he wasn’t alone.
There was a sharp yell.
Big Mac rolled aside, narrowly dodging the piece of shrapnel that a Viet Cong tried to drive into the back of his head.
Charlie stabbed at him again.
Big Mac caught his wrist and headbutted the soldier, denting the other man’s helmet, then punched his face.
The Viet Cong shouted fiercely, retaliating with a frenzy of punches. He dropped his piece of shrapnel, caught it in his free hand before it landed, and began stabbing violently at Big Mac.
Though he was smaller by almost a foot and a half and at least one hundred pounds, the soldier proved more zealous than Big Mac would have liked as he had to move his head side to side to keep from being stabbed by the shrapnel.
Big Mac dodged the last stab, wrapped his elbow around the other man’s arm and squeezed tightly.
There was a sickening crunch of bone piercing through muscle and flesh that was just barely heard over the Viet Cong’s pained shout. In a flash, the soldier’s eyes burned with fury and he lunged at Big Mac with his other arm.
Big Mac caught the man by his throat and began to squeeze mercilessly.
The man choked and sputtered on his own bile, kicking Big Mac’s side with his one free leg, though Big Mac hardly seemed to notice. Nor did he notice the mud that was slapped over his eyes as he continued to squeeze. In another moment, he felt the man go limp in his hands. He washed the mud from his eyes, though he never looked down as he crawled from the foxhole.
The hill loomed before him, a wide, steep slope that dared him to cross its threshold. The yellow flashes of enemy rifles burned and fizzled out like a thousand tiny funerary candles in the rain. He could hear the bullets around him, mere inches from taking his life. Instead, they tore into his allies around him, mowing them down like blades of dry, brittle grass.
The familiar shouts of a rough voice hurling commands peppered with swears was just barely heard. Up the hill, Big Mac saw his sergeant taking cover behind a bamboo barrier. Just beyond that barrier, three Viet Cong were closing in on him.
With only a glance back to the dark of the foxhole, Big Mac offered a short prayer to the dead soldier that now called it his grave. Unknown to him as he ran away, the broken soldier within had already sank beneath the mud from the world of the living.
From somewhere out of the sky, a flare dropped to the muddy ground. Red light emanated from the flare, issuing equally red smoke, covering the battlefield with its hellish glow. Big Mac rushed through the smoke, never losing sight of his sergeant. His eyes forward and his hands tight on his rifle, Big Mac trudged up the hill, his boots offering little traction from the ground that washed away from beneath him.
The Viet Cong closed in on his oblivious sergeant.
Big Mac doubled his effort, his legs burning to the bone as he strained his body past its limit. Raising his rifle, he fired in an aimless spray, exhausting his ammunition as the three Viet Cong went limp and rolled down the hill. One of their corpses impaled itself upon the bamboo cover of the sergeant.
“Fuck!” Sarge yelped as he met the eyes of the dead man.
Sarge was safe for the moment. Big Mac took his empty rifle and clubbed an oncoming Charlie’s face, disfiguring it harshly, sending him rolling down the hill. The stock broke and Big Mac hurled it at an enemy who had taken cover beneath a pair of trees that had been wrapped with barbed wire and with intestines hanging from the branches.
Before the soldier recovered from the blow, Big Mac was upon him, dashing his face against the tree and tearing it up against the barbed wire. The soldier was lifted off his feet and thrown into the branches, where he was impaled on a broad branch. His limbs flailed for a moment, before the life left his body.
“This way, Sarge!” Big Mac shouted, drawing his sidearm.
Sarge looked and saw Big Mac beneath the nearby tree, and dashed toward him without even looking at anything else. After what felt like forever, he arrived at the tree next to Big Mac’s, glancing up at the dead soldier in the branches.
“Decorating for Christmas?” Sarge said over the gunfire.
“Eeyup. Thought it was fittin’, since we’re spendin’ a holiday in Hell,” Big Mac shouted back.
There was a sound of sloshing as a private’s corpse came sliding down the hill, a bullet hole through the lens of his coke bottle glasses. The sergeant grabbed the corpse by its collar and pulled it into cover. He took the private’s left boot off, collected the dog tags within and turned to Big Mac.
“Where’s your rifle, son?” Sarge asked.
“Buried in mud somewhere. Just as well. Fucker kept jammin’ on me,” Big Mac said.
Sarge rolled his eyes, took the rifle from the dead private and tossed it to Big Mac.
“Even an empty gun is a valuable tool, soldier! Unless I order it, you are not to lose any more Equestria issue weapons! Do you understand?” Sarge said, allowing the dead private to continue sliding down the hill.
“Yes sir!” Big Mac said, checking the rifle’s magazine and finding it half-loaded.
Sarge nodded and pocketed the dog tags he had collected, “LT called in a napalm strike. Wet nose already marked our location with red smoke. Now we just sit tight and watch the show!”
Big Mac sighed to himself, his back pricked by the barbed wire of the tree. The only thing left to do was to wait. For the napalm or for a bullet to find him, he didn’t care which. Until the sounds of the jets roared overhead.
There was another flash of light. The hellish red of the flare was augmented by the sudden downpour of liquid flame.
No amount of rain or water traps could have put out that fire as it was carried by the current created by the weather. There was no telling who had been caught up in the raging lake of fire. All screams sounded the same.
Big Mac watched the fiery holocaust blaze out of control, his eyes fixed on the heart of the flames. Gradually, the sounds of battle drowned out to a muffled haze as he began to hear the familiar sounds of home. The creak of wagon wheels. The rapid thumping of apples falling into their baskets. The clucking of chickens announcing their freshly laid eggs. The wind through the tall grass. And soon, he began to see it. Burning to ash with the rest of the world around him.
Terror clutched Big Mac as the vision became more vivid. Somewhere in the burning Sweet Apple Acres was his youngest sister, Apple Bloom, dancing amid the towering flames and flying bullets. She looked just the way he remembered her, wearing the same yellow sundress he had last seen her in, her hair tied up in with her big pink bow. As she danced, Apple Bloom began to sing the prayer that Big Mac had taught to her. Only it didn’t sound right to him. He could just barely make out the twisted, vulgar words singing clearly in Apple Bloom’s voice.
“Now I lay me down in muck,
I pray the Lord my soul to fuck,
If I kill before I wake,
I pray the Lord my corpse to take.”
And she was swallowed by the fire. Her skin crisped and curdled away, revealing the rapidly blackening bones beneath, the skeletal grin and empty eye sockets locked onto Big Mac.
He wanted to do something. Anything to rescue Apple Bloom from her fiery fate. But it was already too late. What was sown had been reaped. And it was the most gruesome harvest of all.
Big Mac awoke with a shout, sitting upright and hitting his head against the low ceiling of his living quarters.
“Ow! Fuck!” Big Mac cursed.
Once his head stopped throbbing, he looked around himself. The jungle was gone. There he was, still in the backseat of that 1947 midnight blue raven hearse. Although he almost thought the start he had might have offset it from the cinderblocks it rested upon. With a heavy sigh, his head thumped back down onto the leather seat. After so many years, the visions hadn’t left him. No matter how he tried to forget, it always caught up with him.
He couldn’t keep dwelling on that. It was early, and he needed his coffee. At first, he tried to hook his heel onto the door handle, but couldn’t find it. Instead, he kicked the door open and shimmied his way out into the waking world.
The backyard of the compound was different than how he remembered it at night. It seemed somehow a lot homier than he imagined it did before. And when he closed the door, he noticed something else that he hadn’t the night before. The door of the hearse had been painted with the image of a barbaric one winged griffin, who was charging an army of enemies that were painted around the entire outside of the car.
“Pretty snazzy paint job,” Big Mac said to himself.
Across the way, he noticed an outhouse on the property as well. Nailed to the side of it was a red flag with a big, black swastika sewn onto it. Painted on the outhouse in big, white letters was a set of instructions that read, “In case of emergency, use as toilet paper.”
Big Mac smirked at the sight, finding his morning lightening up already after his restless sleep.
“I’m telling you, it’s turkey ham!”
“Naw…*cough*...Egg salad, brother.”
Big Mac turned around, and saw Blue Jay and Giggle Smoke sitting on a couple of filthy beer coolers.
“Look, egg salad tastes alright if you add the right ingredients to it. But turkey that tastes like fuckin’ ham!? Or is it even ham!? Like, that shit shouldn’t even exist!” Blue Jay said.
“I see where you’re coming from, but you gotta open your mind to these things. If turkey can become ham, what the fuck else can we do? That’s some alchemy shit right there! We could take cheese and turn it into…fucking candy, or some shit!” Giggle Smoke said, passing the joint to Blue Jay.
“It ain’t magic,” Blue Jay said, snatching the joint and taking a heavy toke, “It ain’t even science. Whatever the fuck it is, turkey ham ain’t natural. Doesn’t belong in this fucking world.”
“Like salad made of eggs is natural? You know how many baby chickens you’re killing to get that? That’s bad fucking karma, man! Every mayonnaise dripping bite is gonna come back to get your ass. You don’t get that with turkey ham!”
“What the fuck? Turkey ham’s got turkey and pig in it! That’s twice the bad karma right there! But you don’t seem too worried about that!” Blue Jay said, jabbing the joint at Giggle Smoke, who swiped it from Blue Jay’s fingers.
“It’s made from only good meat that didn’t come from unborn babies,” Giggle Smoke said, “I’m telling you, egg salad doesn’t just taste bad! It’s bad on, like, a million different levels! That’s why it’s the most disgusting food ever!”
“Turkey ham is the most disgusting food ever!” Blue Jay snapped.
Big Mac announced himself by stepping closely to the two debaters.
“Whoooaah, shit, brother. I forgot you were here. You find that thing you were looking for in the back of that hearse?” Giggle Smoke said.
“Nope,” was all Big Mac answered. “You guys know where I can get a cup o’ coffee?”
“Naw. Never touch the stuff. I get my jolt from soda in the morning,” Blue Jay said, standing up and taking a warm can from inside the cooler he was sitting on.
“You know what’s really good in the morning?” Giggle Smoke said.
“Honey Sweet draping her tits over your head?” Blue Jay laughed.
“No, brother. Chocolate chip pancakes! Like, once you have that shit, you never go back to plain! Not even blueberries cut it anymore! You just gotta have your chocolate from the griddle!,” Giggle Smoke said, a goofy grin on his face.
“Forget it. I know what you think chocolate is. You keep your carob, you fuckin’ nature boy,” Blue Jay said.
“Really? Thanks,” Giggle Smoke said, taking an unwrapped carob bar out of the back of his pants, and taking a huge bite. “Hits the spot for the munchies.”
Big Mac raised an eyebrow as he wondered just how long Giggle Smoke had been sitting on that thing. Blue Jay stood up and motioned for him to follow.
“C’mon. Let’s get you that black devil drink,” Blue Jay said after taking one last toke of the joint.”
Big Mac nodded as he lit a half-finished cigarette of his own. He blew the smoke out his nose as he followed Blue Jay toward the clubhouse.
"You guys always argue like that?” Big Mac asked.
“Shit yeah we do. We went for three days one time, before someone told us to shut the fuck up. Giggle Smoke doesn’t always make sense, but that’s what makes him fun to argue with,” Blue Jay answered.
When they entered the clubhouse, Big Mac found that it was much quieter there than normal. No music. No shouting. No fights. Just the smell of toast burning and the hissing of sausages sizzling on the grill. The only sign of life there were the smells from the kitchen and the hungover prospects sleeping off what ailed them.
The kitchen itself was a shock to Big Mac. With the exception of the cigar store buffalo holding a jar full of rolled up joints at the doorway, he wore it was identical to the kitchen back home at Sweet Apple Acres. He half-expected to see his own Granny at the stove, frying up apple fritters on the stove. Instead, it was a much younger mare he saw. When she turned her head to look at him, she gave him a jolt like a branding iron.
Her freckled face sent waves of memories of his sister coursing through him. Hell, she even looked the same age as she did. Besides that, she looked nothing like anypony from his family, but it was enough to stop him cold.
“Hey, Sugar Sweet. What’s on the menu?” Blue Jay asked.
“Hashbrowns, toast, and turkey and apple sausage. Extra spicy,” Sugar said.
“What about buns? You know I like me some buns,” Blue Jay said.
Before he could make any move, a quick thrust of Sugar’s hips pushed Blue Jay into Big Mac.
“This duck’s not on the menu, pervert,” Sugar said.
“Yeah. Got it,” Blue Jay said, dusting himself off. “Got any coffee for our guest?”
Sugar looked Big Mac up and down, then shook her head. “Not a pot big enough. Sit down, stud. I’ll brew up some more for you.”
Big Mac nodded and turned to sit down at the nearby table, keeping his back to Sugar as he went.
The table was already occupied by Sun Dance, who sat with his feet on the table as he read from a leatherbound book. Big Mac tried to make out the cover, but couldn’t read it through Sun Dance’s hands. Trying to put Sugar’s face out of his mind, he sat down next to Sun Dance.
“Good read?” he asked.
"Yep,” Sun Dance said.
“What’s it called?”
“Tales from Macabria: Bad Magic. Part of a trilogy I been working on,” Sun Dance said.
“Never heard o’ it. By anyone I know?” Big Mac asked.
“Ever heard of Quick Quill?”
Big Mac only shrugged.
“She does good work,” Sun Dance said. He marked the page with a red ribbon that was attached to the book’s binding, then flipped the pages to the very back, which he showed to Big Mac. “Check this out.”
Big Mac looked at the page, and saw a black and white photo of a bespectacled mare wearing a sleeveless sweater dress, sitting on a patio chair with her legs crossed. Certainly, she looked every part the intellectual author he assumed her to be. Besides that, he couldn’t help but notice some of her other assets.
“She’s a limey, so she’s not much to look at. But, damn, what a rack she’s got,” Sun Dance said.
“Eeyup,” was all Big Mac said, before the book was closed, and he was able to see the cover, which depicted a hand with a bloody sigil carved into it. “Look like something my little sister might read.”
“They sell them at the corner book shop. Maybe you could mail her one someday,” Sun Dance said.
“Eeyup.”
“You don’t say much, do you?” Sun Dance said.
“Nope.”
“Then what the hell are you doing sitting here, struggling to make small talk like a bitch schoolcolt on his first date?”
Big Mac tried not to look over his shoulder as he heard Sugar working in the kitchen.
“Just tryin’ to clear my head, I guess,” he said.
“Well, I know all about that. Sometimes it’s easier to face the day when you remember only the one thing,” Sun Dance said.
Something about what Sun Dance said rang like a church bell in Big Mac’s head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that sometimes you have to know what you’re gonna do in a day and stick your mind to it just so you don’t get bogged down by everything else. Happens all the time.”
Big Mac nodded as he finished up his cigarette, ground it up against the table, and promptly lit another one. Before he looked up from his light, he saw a black coffee cup with ‘Fuck Commies,’ written in bold white print slid over to him.
“Drink up. I’m done with it anyway,” Sun Dance said.
“Much obliged,” Big Mac said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and sipping the lukewarm coffee.
For a moment, there was silence. In the next room, some of the prospects seemed to be rousing from their alcoholic comas, before they promptly tried to go back to sleep. The sounds from the stove continued to haunt Big Mac as he recalled the freckled face of the mare attending it. In another moment, he drowned himself in the bitter flavor of his coffee.
“Why did you come here?” Sun Dance asked.
“Hm?” Big Mac replied, before the question really sank in, “I was invited. Simple as that.”
“It’s never that simple,” Sun Dance said. “We all got our stories in this place. Drifters. Mercs. Runaways. Dropouts. Outcasts. Not a single one of us came here for no reason. What’s yours?”
Big Mac’s habit of taking a sip of coffee or a drag on his cigarette didn’t tick that time. Instead, he simply tapped his finger against the porcelain mug, mulling over the question that was posed to him. He had a reason for just about everything he had already done to that point, but had never truly thought about it until the question was posed to him.
Gripping the mug to the point that it nearly cracked in his hand, he began to answer, “Guess I’m just lookin’ for somethin’. Don’t know what or where it is, but–”
The front door crashed open, and the sounds of clumsy steps began to thump across the floor.
“Holy shit on a biscuit! It stinks like sex in here!” Goth’s voice bellowed from where the prospects were sleeping.
More steps, and they were coming closer to the kitchen. The moment Goth appeared in the doorway, Sun Dance, Blue Jay and Sugar Sweet began laughing hysterically at him. There he stood, stark naked with only a beehive crammed over his manhood, stretching like he had just woken up from a long nap.
“Goth! What the fuck!?” Sun Dance said.
“Beats me,” Goth answered, walking over to the stove and taking a bite of a sizzling hot sausage, “One second, me and this gorgeous hippie chick are indulging in a bit of LSD over a poetry slam. The next, I’m waking up in a circle of garden gnomes and some occult sigil painted on my chest. Call me crazy, but I think I might be possessed now.”
“It’s always something with you artsy types,” Blue Jay said.
“What about the beehive?” Big Mac asked, pointing to it.
“The what?” Goth asked. He looked down and saw the buzzing wax construct lodged on his pecker, “Oh, fuck. No wonder my balls are tingling. I thought the bitch gave me the clap,” Goth said, a relieved smile on his face. He took another bite of sausage, “Hey, Sugar. Got any coffee made?”
“Not for you, king bee,” Sugar said, taking the pot and sashaying across the room to Big Mac’s spot at the table. “Here. Drink all you want.”
“Thanks,” Big Mac said, as he poured himself a hot cup.
It may not have been what he envisioned. But for at least the next few days, this was his home.