//------------------------------// // seven // Story: Phantom Limb // by The Red Parade //------------------------------// It was late in the morning when she felt it. News didn’t travel fast in Appleloosa, but Fiddlesticks had developed a sort of sixth sense that told her when something was wrong. Her pie tin slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. She felt dizzy, and had to lean against the counter for support. The nausea passed in a few seconds, but that didn’t stop her from wiping her hooves on the towel and racing outside to the porch.  She stepped outside and saw a streak of red shoot into the sky. For a second, the flare was alone. Then, another joined it. Then another. And another. And another. Fiddle was rooted to the spot as the distant scouts began firing their flares into the air: one after the other, each one a deep red.  She had never seen that many signal flares fired at once in her entire life. She often forgot what the various colors meant, but there was no questioning what a red flare was used for. Like a bat out of Tartarus, she tore off for the town hall. Ponies were crowding the steps, shouting and shoving amongst themselves as they tried to barge into the mayor’s office. “Get back!” roared Braeburn from the top. “All y’all! Step back, now!” “Brae, what the hay is goin’ on?” Braeburn’s brow was creased in worry. “I dunno,” he said in a low voice, any hint of his usual cheer long since gone. “Can’t get a straight answer.” “Mr. Mayor!” A suited earth pony emerged from within the office. “We’re getting word from the scouts.” Braeburn accepted the message, and Fiddlesticks leaned over his shoulder to see. PEGASI ARE ABANDONING POSITIONS STOP. WIND DISPERSAL NOT COMPLETE STOP. REASON FOR DESERTION UNKNOWN STOP. PLEASE ADVISE STOP. “It’s the same from every post,” whispered the pony.  Fiddle’s heart skipped a beat. She looked up just as two pegasi flew above the town hall. With the sun against their backs, she couldn’t make them out. “Downdraft!” someone from the crowd called. “What the hay is goin’ on?!” “I… We gotta go, Jet!” shouted one of them. “We… We just gotta go!” Fiddle turned and saw Jetstream in the crowd, hovering slightly above the earth ponies. She had always been an antsy, twitchy sort of mare who could never sit still, but something about her restlessness seemed unusual. Normally it was her ear, or her bouncing leg or her bad habit of tapping against anything she could reach. But today it was her wings. The feathers seemed to tingle, and her wings almost seemed to lurch towards the sky, as if they were caught on strings like a puppet.  Jetstream bit her lip. “Jet, where are they goin’?” said one of the other townsponies. “Why are they leavin’?” asked another. Jetstream began to rise higher. “I dunno!” she cried. “I just…”  Someone looped a hoof around her rear leg, trying to pull her back down. “What are you doin’?!” they demanded. “You runnin’ away, like them?” “No! They’re not runnin’, they just–” Another hoof, then another grabbed at her. “Stream!” shouted Braeburn. “If you know what’s going on–” “Lemme go, I need to–” Someone pulled, and Jetstream fell into the crowd. At the edge, several of the sheriff’s deputies were pushing their way towards her. But only a second passed until Fiddle saw her rising again.  Someone screamed, several others shouted. Jetstream was a blur now, swinging and kicking. She was shouting, but nobody could hear her. Before anyone else could try and stop her, she ripped herself free from the crowd. She cast a look at Braeburn, one that seemed to be mixed with guilt and confusion. She turned and sped off, following the departing pegasi. A hush fell upon the crowd as they watched her go. Then, three more pegasi leapt into the air and followed her. Not a single one looked back.  Braeburn swore under his breath and began to tug on the brim of his hat, something he only did when he was worried. “What the hay is goin’ on, Fiddle,” he whispered. Fiddle didn’t know how to answer.  “Move!” A familiar, strained and raspy voice shot out from the crowd. Fiddle gasped. “Lightnin’!” She tore off down the stairs, cutting through the sea of bodies like a fish through troubled water. She met Lightning Dust halfway.  Lightning looked frantic, her mane matted with sweat and her jacket sleeves rolled all the way up.  “What happened?” Fiddle cried. “Are you okay?” “I don’t know,” Lightning stuttered. “We were out on the ridge. White Lightning felt it first, I think, I don’t know, it just… I just… We all just stopped and stared up at the sky. Or the sun, I don’t remember.” She furrowed her brow as if straining to remember. “Then I… Someone… Someone said we had to go. And then they just. Left.” Fiddle glanced at Lightning’s side. Her one good wing was twitching, like Dust Devil’s was. It was flapping erratically, as if she was trying to fly despite being physically incapable.  “I think someone grabbed at me and I pushed them off, maybe they… Maybe they wanted me to go with them. I don’t… I can’t…” She snarled and jerked her head to the left. Lightning Dust could be a great many things: an angry, bitter storm, an overconfident knucklehead, a leader who never faltered. But today, Lightning Dust was scared: and that was something that in turn seemed to make everyone else scared. Because if one of the most steadfast, arrogant ponies in Appleloosa was shaken… Someone in the crowd began to cry. Their wails snapped the others out of their stupor, and immediately panic set in. Ponies began to run: up the stairs to talk to Braeburn, towards their homes, or towards the General Store. The deputies stared at each other, unsure of what to do and praying that someone would give them an order to follow. “Fiddle,” Lightning whispered. “I…” she swallowed nervously. “I feel it.” “Feel what?” “Like…” She snarled and jerked her entire body towards her right side as her wing increased its futile efforts to get her into the air. “Like I need to go with them.”