Prompt: Death Cannot Be Stopped.
So this was it, then. This is how it was gonna end. Not with a bang or a whimper, but a desperate last stand by the only pony left. Fine. I’d never been one for sentimentality anyway.
My hooves were shaking, but I managed to steady them enough to take a long swig from my last bottle of brandy. I finished it, feeling the warm glow spread through my stomach, and threw the now-empty bottle through the remains of a window, where it shattered on the street with a sound like a gunshot. They would be coming now, any minute. Good. Let 'em.
I turned to the wall behind me, running my forehoof along the knotted wooden surface as I re-read the line engravings that took up most of its length. They were simple, just a name, date and cutie mark. Little shards of ponies the Wasteland had broken.
Jericho. Orion. Flint. Joker. Coriander. Orchid. Terra. Good stallions and mares, all trying to make the most out of the hell they had been thrust into. Their only crime had been survival, and now all of them were gone, most in the blink of an eye. Just like all the other ponies all those years ago.
Just like I was about to be.
I could hear them already, the low, haunting moans, drawn to my scent and the noise of the bottle. The sounds came from everywhere, every corner of every street, and I gave a twisted little smile. It was time.
Humming to myself, I walked over to the club’s ruined counter, taking my most prized possession off its spark battery and setting it on my head. I had fought for it tooth and nail, pleaded for it, bribed and begged and killed for it. How stupid it seemed now. But at least it would afford me a bit of entertainment before the end.
The PipBuck booted to life, the Stable-Tec logo flickering up for a split second before it was replaced with a simple picture display. I fiddled with the controls, my horn glowing as I looked for an appropriate selection.
What kind of soundtrack can you give death?
The moans grew closer, and I sighed, flicking the tab near the device’s top and pressing a button. There was a rush of static, and my earphones crackled to life.
Oh, this would do nicely.
I hummed along with the music, swaying back and forth to the pulsing beat as I checked and re-checked my battle saddle, sidearm, and ammo. Twelve clips. Enough to take out at least fifty, if I aimed well. But I wasn’t concerned with numbers. I was going to die today, there was no question of that. The only variable was how long it would take.
I saw the first ghoul enter through the club’s ruined door and dropped it with a single headshot from my pistol. The report elicited a chorus of moans from all around me, and I smiled as the minigun’s motor roared to life.
“You want, some, fuckers? You want some juicy Spicer meat?” I gave a maniacal laugh as the music swelled in my ears and the first wave of horrors came pouring in.
“Well, guess what?” The minigun jerked and spat out a storm of lead, turning the first three ghouls into a reddish paste.
“You’re gonna have to fight me for it.”
A chorus of screams answered my challenge, and I gave another laugh as I ran towards the frenzied, frothing mob. “This is for everypony you’ve taken!” I screamed to the Wasteland. I imagined him looking back, a bleached, bony colt with eyes the color of pitch. “Every dream you’ve broken, every love you’ve shattered. I’m Spicer, your worst nightmare, and I’m coming for you, you son of a bitch!”
The screams got louder, my gun roared, and all the while, the music flowed on, keeping a smile on my face as I threw myself towards the end.
I was going to die today.
And guess what?
I didn’t mind a fuckin’ bit.