All the King’s Horses
A Conversion Bureau story.
Chapter Three: Hitchhikers
Simon Golla was not in the most comfortable of predicaments. Before their ferry into the decollate city, the more capable members of the convoy had voted on who would go as ‘pathfinder’ through the ganglands. After several arguments along the lines of ‘this was your damn idea’ the young man had been handed the short straw, along with the aged rifle that summed up the caravan’s total armament.
Walking a few paces in front of the lead transport, it was the dusty youth’s duty to pick solid roads to travel down, whilst keeping an eye open for dangerous urban fauna and pockets of radiation. The role of Pather was an unpopular necessity, partly because the unlucky sod would have to walk, but mostly because they’d be the first to get shot during an ambush. Then again, at least there wasn’t too much of him to actually aim for.
‘Fax’, as he was known to his caravan buddies, was a lithe young man whom would have possessed the body of an athlete if he knew where to acquire one legally. As it was, he looked like an underweight rake with the face of nervous ferret. Topped by a congealed mop of tawny hair and a scraggy tuft of beard, with but the addition of a beret he could have easily passed for an art student, the sort of person who would have lived off Ramen noodles even if they were rolling in credits. Scruffy cargo pants and a utility jacket served as the majority of his clothing, along with bandoleer for water and basic supplies. This was a man expecting to be left behind at the first sign of trouble, all the gear he’d need to survive kept close to hand just in case the need arose for him to become collateral statistic.
Barely into his second decade, Fax had cultivated a great many talents in his various occupations. Right now, he was acutely aware that these did not include being used for target practice or being abandoned in the middle of a city ruled by crime lords and gangs.
Though his nerves were stretched to braking point, Fax’s watch had been remarkably uneventful, discounting false alarms and narrow escapes. Several times the pathfinder fancied he’d seen faces watching from the roadside rubble, or spotted shadows that might just have been someone running off through the gutted shell of a building. Once or twice they’d had hide the three transports off the road when they heard the thumping of ‘cutters’ getting too close, gangbangers favoured mode of transport.
In a show of appalling timing, one van had shorted out during their passage through the worst of the ganglands. Thankfully the almighty crack of plasma running to earth did not seem to attract any more attention than a few startled mutie-rats. His decision to follow the banks of the muddy river had paid off, the eerie silence of the dead city broken only by the sucking the tepid river and the unhealthy thrum from the rickety transport engines.
Now after a long stressful journey through perilous no man’s land, it was looking as though they would be home free! Somewhere beyond that hazy yellow mist would be the open wastes of the freeway, raising the city like some colossal desert serpent. All they had to do was get past the shipping yard and they’d have a straight run to Portland.
Fate has a wonderful sense of ironic timing. Just as the young Fax was considering the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, two figures appeared in the gloom.
Unsure what he was looking at, Fax razed a hand for the convoy to slow. Before him approached a parody of the contrary. They had stepped out from behind a storage crate, appeared to be alone and more importantly unarmed.
Leading the pair was a short raven haired woman, waving enthusiastically at the sight of the pathfinder as they approached. Unarmed, clad mostly in mismatched rags and with nothing but a backpack on her person, it was pretty clear she wouldn’t have gotten far in this unforgiving urban environment alone. By proxy this meant that she was either not far from ‘home’, or her companion was hiding more than just a thin body beneath her heavy clothing. Dwarfing its comrade, the second loomed like a brittle stick figure, all thin limbs and angular features. It is a testament to the fragility of the human perception that even in a life threatening situation, our attention can be thrown by the smallest of inconsistencies. In this case, the ‘detail’ in question was multihued deerstalker, knitted to look like waves of colour were circumventing the wearers head. Like the boat in the middle of a desert, it rested lopsided on the stick-man’s vaguely feminine head, looking utterly out of place.
Reflexively the man started raised his rifle to eye level, but unsure how to react paused with eyes riveted to the odd couple. Holding his ground as the two finally came into focus, Fax lifted a hand in what he hoped was a gesture of confident refusal.
“That’s close enough, Scrubbers.” He instructed, voice only wavering slightly.
Apparently seeing the firearm for the first time, the girl lowered her hands and whispered something along the lines of ‘I thought you said they were unarmed’ to the shady figure walking a step behind. Seemingly unperturbed, the taller of the two shrugged in an uncomfortable way, as though the action did not come naturally.
Fax was having none of this. Though the girl seemed harmless enough there was no doubt that she wasn’t far from her home turf. No doubt she had friends nearby.
“Just blowing through here, don’t want nah’ trouble.”
“Oh, that’s good,” chirped the first “We don’t want any trouble either. Actually, we’re trying to get as far away from trouble as physically possible and were kinda’ hoping for a lift.”
“No can do mate.” The man bit sternly, now slightly unsettled by the girl’s unbroken smile. There was something else too, something putting his teeth on edge but that he couldn’t quite put his finger.
Desperation seemed to inspire bravery in girl and she stepped forwards despite the raised weapon “Look, we just need to get out of city-“
“Fax? What’s going on up there?”
Wincing, the unwilling guard glanced back towards the lead transport and spotted the outline of a worried equine face observing the confrontation.
“No worries, Ms Salve.” He called “Tell Earl to start her up again, I’ve got this covered.”
Turning back to the unwelcome guests, Fax noted how the smaller one seemed to be baring the way of the taller figure with an outstretched arm. Behind him the rumble of several poorly maintained pulse engines began to course through the otherwise silent dock yard. No, not silent. Only now did the lookout realise what else had been gnawing at the edge of his senses. Descending from beyond the range of human hearing, a tinny whine had begun to creep in to fill the high pitch void above the transports gruff motors.
Dread overtook the young man’s features. Revolving as though he were mounted on turntable, the horrified pathfinder gazed into the yellowing depths in time to spot the mechanical wolves streaking through the dense smog.
“CUTTERS!”
Three giant wheeled trikes charged across the rubble as though it were open road while their larger counterpart careered up the middle of the cleared street. Each was a Frankenstein creation of salvaged automobiles, their riders equally as hellish and armed to the teeth with everything that could cave skulls, gun down runners or slice flesh from their victims.
With fear driving his frantic stride, Fax broke into a run for the lead transport and screamed at the top of his lungs.
“EDD! GET HER MOVING!”
Too late he saw the trike pull around the side of adapted bus, one rider leaping off and pointing something though the driver’s window. With seconds to react, Fax dove to the ground and rolled away as the second rider shot past and tried to open his mind with a spiked cudgel. Distantly he heard a sickening crack and the crunch of metal as something careened off into the side of a concrete barrier. Finding his feet once more the pathfinder sprinted towards the transport as screams echoed from the panicking civilians within.
Raising his rifle Fax franticly sought a target, iron sights sweeping from the blood spattered windshield to the back of the convoy. Two shots from the old leaver action went wide, another found the font of the armoured humvie and pinged off into the mist. The other bikes had caught up and were already sweeping towards him. With the first transport blocked in the others all three were sitting ducks.
Practically leaping the last few feet to the cabin, he caught the iron handle with one hand, swung himself inside with gathered momentum... and briefly saw the manic grin before a gun butt introduced him to the dark world of the unconscious.
Abstract voices moved in a fog around him. Shouting? Maybe an argument? Something tumbled onto of him before scrambling away shrieking. Pain blossomed in the front of his face, the taste of iron dripping through his slack lips.
“Shut the fuck up!”
Barked the first voice, reducing the screams to fait sobbing whimpers.
“Shit Razz, leave her and get the rest of them out’a there.” Came a second, deeper and raspy like sandpaper “T’. Git after those other two. An’ try not to shoot’em. No need to go fucking up the merchandise.”
“Holy- where the fucks his arm? Hay Boss! Charley’s dead!” Another one, this time younger and standing some way off from the bus.
“So?” Asked ‘sandpaper’ apathetically
“Can I have his duds?”
Stifling a moan below the raucous laughter, Fax forced his one working eye to open and squinted into the burry blue tinged world. Careful not to move lest the raiders suspected he was awake he glanced around, noting several figures kneeling down near him with their heads shielding their faces. All around where the moving figures of the bandits, some holding weapons and shouting for the other transports to empty out, others standing and watching the fun.
‘Wait, blue? Something’s... iffy about the sky... huh, iffy, that’s a funny word.’
“Let me go you, you ruffian!” Beyond the haphazard steel of the transport came a panicked baying as something was manhandled out of the open doors and kicked into the street.
“Haaaay, looky what I found!”
A whoop of triumph went up around the assembled marauders, along with cat calls and mirthful laughs.
Someone was clapping, bringing the gang to attention as hooves scrabbled to gain purchase. Risking a twitch, Fax craned his head slightly to see the pail teal outline of the Equine turning to face her aggressors. Salve was shaking but remained decisively upright despite the mistreatment.
“You despicable cretins don’t frighten me. Let them go or I’ll... I’ll turn you in to cockroaches!”
“Aww, is that so?” Jested a tall bald man as he stalked towards the grandstanding mare. “See ah’ know a little about you freaks, an ah’m fairly damn sure you don’t have that kind of spunk in ya.”
Backing away with every step that the man advanced, a thin glow began to envelope the unicorn’s horn. Suddenly he was upon her, the backhand lifting the slight Equestrian off her hooves, the returning blow slamming her against the side of the transport.
Cheers and hollers went up around the dockyard as the immense man unhitched the obscenely oversize gun from his back and pressed the barrel against the stricken pony’s temple. Terrified blue eyes glared up at him, brimming with tears and defiance.
Sandpaper chuckled, amused at the brave front the animal was putting on “What do you think boys? Light meat, or dark?”
“LET. HER. GO!”
Confused silence blanketed the crowd, every face turning to look at the gangly young urchin who had stepped out from the toppled mass of containers. Clenched firmly in her unwavering grasp was a large nail pitted bat, undeniably the same one that had nearly given Fax open top skull. Whether it was her intention to threaten the gathered mob was lost among their mirthful laughter at the gutsy youngster.
“Fuck me this party’s just full of heroes today, would someone kindly-”
Sandpaper’s order cut short in a crack of bone, unheard by the majority of the gangsters whom were closing in on the girl from all sides. Some, at least. The others, further away from the action and unoccupied with taking prisoners, had noticed something very odd happening above them.
A thick soled boot stepped over the pathfinder’s fallen body, offering a view of a tall stranger holding up the limp body of Sandpaper. Thunder roared around the clearing as the cannon spat glowing death. Those who weren’t felled by the barrage spun around to see a stick-like figure in a striped deerstalker, now striding to flank them and holding their dead leader aloft like a riot shield. A few with guns returned fire into their ex-leader’s corpse, spraying the pathfinder with a fine rain of blood.
Senses scrambling to get a purchase on solid comprehension, Fax's body acted alone while his brain tried to catch up with events. Lifting his pain stricken head, the man rolled on his stomach and pushed himself back up to his knees. With a grunt of agonising effort, he crawled over to the hunched bystanders and pointedly began urge them towards the open door of the transport. Salve was clambering unsteadily to her hooves, eyes still pinpoints of congealed fear. Ignoring the spinning world he tried to shout over the gunfire, driving the pony to get onboard, but found his shattered jaw unwilling to respond.
Behind him, another volley saw more ganger’s fall tumble, their rout quickly ended by the tearing flashes of superheated uranium. What few survivors there were, vanished post haste the swirling smog, their footsteps and shouts of alarm all that remained of their threat to the convoy.
Something clattered away across the concrete as Fax tried to ease himself up the side of the transport. In his peripheral vision the young man saw the stranger march up to the short girl, take the bat from her grasp and grab her by the scruff of her ragged jumper. It was coming back, straight at the convoy! Dizzy from his furious injuries, the first steps towards the bus doors resulted in him nearly greeting the concrete. Even with his blurry vision, he could almost see the exit from the docks now, if he could just get the converted bus moving, as long as everyone else was ready they could still get away.
It was in this moment that an observant little voice in the back of his mind pointed something out. ‘Why can I see the Dock exit road?’
Despite being in fear of his life, he noticed the Mare’s horrified expression was not actually directed at himself. Instead her sapphire gaze was fixated on something above his right shoulder, the fear in her eyes something far more potent then what she had shown before the marauder.
Simon Golla turned around... And froze.
Quite unperturbed by a torrent of verbal abuse, Sarah half threw her young charge onto the transport before turning to look at the pathfinder. High above, the yellowing smog was swirling away into grate congealed tendrils of poisonous either, coalescing on a single point high above the city within a sky of purest blue. At their feet the cloud banks that had once obscured their path were being drawn across the ground like ethereal snakes, pulled by some imperceptible breeze. She didn’t know what was happening, she didn’t much care. Whatever this thing was had chased away the bulk of the mod before she had made a move on the leader, a tactical advantage she had not let go to waste.
“You. Drive?” Queried a voice that sounded like a cheap toaster AI.
Fax assumed it had come from the stick-woman, but his eyes were riveted to the spectacle taking place high above Salam.
“Yuh” He slurred, the agony of his cracked jaw having to wait in line while his brain tried to cope.
A skeletal hand gripped the man’s shoulder, pealing him away from the bright glow growing within the mass of condensed cloud. Turning to face the owner of the surprisingly strong limb, Fax looked into a patchwork of scars and plastic, its jaws and bones wired together by thin protruding metal joints. Green unblinking eyes, the only thing about the face that still looked human, bored into his soul and found him wanting.
“You drive fast?”
And then, all hell broke loose... or more specifically, 'all Equestria'.