Sing for the Wicked
Prologue
The midnight green Gulo-11 single-engine helicopter roared northeastward from Massachusetts. The vast ocean gleamed in the rays of the evening Sun. A message from the pilot reached the four-man crew via closed-circuit radio: “Ten minutes to target.”
“Roger that,” a deep, indifferent voice answered. The imposing black man took his hand away from his ear and turned to his left. He looked at the other dark-skinned figure, who was gritting his teeth and exaggerated his every sigh. “What is it, Newsom?”
“Commander, I still don’t know why me and Wyden have to be here,” said Newsom, sighing, “we’re just gonna fix a buoy – or he is.” Newsom nodded towards the slim Caucasian man sitting on the opposite corner of the cabin.
“All of this buoy’s functions got skewed. It’s still transmitting, but with different frequencies, and satellites can’t find it. If it was simple, they wouldn’t have sent us.”
“Maybe the Québécois are attacking us,” said the bulkier white man, Wyden, in a fake pensive tone.
“C’mon boys, this is no time to horse around. Jackson, what are you doing?” Commander was staring at the slim white man, who was scratching his bare chest, a grimace adorning his face.
“The suit, Commander. I think they got my specifics wrong.” Commander shook his head at Jackson. A former government technician and engineer, who’d served in the Jungle Wars of the Equator, Jackson was over ten years his elder – but judging by his frequent antics it could’ve been the other way around.
Still, whatever Jackson, or anyone else in the five-people crew had done in their past, they now served the Pan American Corporation. PAC was the second largest company in the world, trailing just behind the Chinese; it controlled, no, owned most of the Americas.
“Commander, we have a problem,” said the pilot in her neutral tone.
“Is it serious?”
“We’re experiencing distortions similar as the ones affecting the buoy. I’m decreasing our velocity, in case it starts changing flight conditions.”
“Roger that.”
“Hold on, Commander, I think I have a visual. W-wow, you’d better come over here, Commander.”
“Behave yourselves,” he said. The crew nodded in approval and he moved to the cockpit.
“Is it just me,” said Wyden, “or is it getting hot in here?” His face was deep red and he had already loosened the sleeves of his army-green gear.
“Wyden?” Newsom leaned towards him. “Man, you’re sweating.”
“The suit! It’s fucking burning!” Wyden squirmed. He wrenched off his gear, revealing the matte black fabric wrapped around his body. Wyden clawed it, he tried to grab and tear it. “I CAN’T TAKE IT OFF!”
Commander returned from the cockpit, screaming with the suit tracker in hand. “Take off your suits! Everything’s gone haywire! We’re lan-”
His words got cut off. They’d hit something. Hard.
Jackson woke up. He was hurting everywhere, but nothing seemed to be broken too bad. He was still in the cabin which had water by his knee. It wouldn’t sink though, Gulos were designed to land on water, even when damaged.
“Hey! Is everyone OK?”
“Up here, Jackson.” It was Commander, but he sounded very weak. Jackson climbed onto the roof, where Commander was lying against the barren rotor head. “Jackson, you had your suit cut off... Lucky.”
“The others?”
“Dead. Fried by the suit and then drowned. They thought water would kill it.” His breath was almost gone, and he groaned heavily with every spoken sentence “The suit nanites began working at hundred per cent. That’s more than a million times too much.”
Jackson looked at Commander. Jackson’s face asked the question for him.
“Turn around, Jackson. Enjoy the view. It’s-” The terminal breath. Jackson closed Commander’s eyes. He hadn’t really known the man – much less the rest of the crew – but he held still for a few seconds before executing his final order.
He saw the smooth yellow cone in the water. Bright bolts of energy were zapping it out of thin air. The same thing was happening to the tail of the Gulo. But that wasn’t all he saw.
Not too far in the horizon was land: lush, green, and brightly colored like the pictures in storybooks – certainly not Maine or Nova Scotia. Jackson got the emergency raft from the cabin and began paddling towards it. He didn’t care about the sparks, they seemed not to affect him. He wanted to set foot on that land.
Bump. He’d paddled for some fifty feet, when the raft got caught on something, sending Jackson face first onto one of its sides. He reached into what he thought was thin air, but his hand couldn’t go any further than the raft. An invisible wall blocked the man’s way to paradise.
Chapter 1: Rethink your resolutions
The Human Liberation Front was the largest anti-pony organisation in the world, and its most important member was a man called Frank Dunland. He and the rest of the HLF vowed to make sure that no matter how many ponies trotted on its surface, Earth would still be man’s domain. The job wasn’t easy though. Dunland wasn’t fighting an army ponies threatening to take over everything; the fight was more against humans themselves. The Conversion Bureaus were built by humans, the individual choice to enter one was made by humans, and the unanimously positive reputation of the ‘ponification’ procedure – also humans.
‘Going pony’ should’ve never been more than a passing fad, but Dunland had to admit that the colorful equines’ timing had been fantastic. Right when mankind had reached its new low point, boom, Equestria, ponies and remedy. That’s what the people thought. All the ponies had to do was watch and make sure all anti-pony claims got as little attention as possible. They were just like the dictators of the past but with one big difference: so far, the ponies had actually kept all their many promises.
Dunland pushed a small button to activate his intercom. “You can let him in now, Trevor.” His bodyguard and occasional advisor pushed open the light blue door, letting a Caucasian man walk inside. The man was of average height and wore a light green long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, both of which emphasized his slim figure. He had a typical short haircut, steel blue eyes, and sported a distinctive stubble in his chin. The man was probably in his late-thirties.
Dunland shook his hand and gestured him to sit down in a chair in front of his desk. Trevor didn’t leave the office, instead the imposing tanned man stayed inside leaning on the now closed door. Although the visitor’s physical appearance seemed quite harmless, Dunland’s lack of information about him required certain precautions. All he knew was a name.
“Brisk Meadow," Dunland began in a rehearsed diplomatic tone, “you have got my attention. Now would please tell me your real name?”
“I have adopted an Equestrian name as an insult to their kind.” The man’s voice was as calculated as Dunland’s. “So, it’s Brisk Meadow or John Smith, take your pick Mr. Dunland.” Dunland put his palm on his face. He couldn’t believe his ears. How did this guy get in here and why were they having this meeting? On the phone this man had been persuasive enough to book a spot in his crammed schedule and this is how he introduced himself. However, something in him intrigued Dunland. Maybe it was his questionable arrogance, maybe it was something else.
“Present your case Mr. Smith, or I’ll have Trevor walk you out.” The visitor gave the guard an amused glance but turned immediately back at Dunland.
“You know the facts: despite your best efforts Mr. Dunland, the pony phenomenon isn’t diminishing. On the contrary, the Conversion Bureaus have their hooves full just about all the time and soon every single hopeless commoner has galloped beyond the magic barrier to Equestria. That leaves the HLF with nobody to fool since most educated people choose not to join either because of your bad image, or that they have learned to cope.”
Wise words, or just a ruse? All in all a pleasant surprise, thought Dunland and nodded at the man so he’d continue. “And someday when the nobles figure out how sparse they’ve become, they rush and get ponified. Nobody wants to be the last man standing on two legs. Then all you’ve got Mr. Dunland, is a bunch of ex-soldiers and not much more.”
Dunland cringed at the man’s words. Even now, most HLF members had military (or criminal) background and were trigger-happy to the extreme. Dunland was already waist deep in all the mess generated by these goons. That made his job very unrewarding and had opened his mind to new suggestions.
“Alright, I agree that’s a future we can’t allow to happen. But tell me, where do you fit in all this Mr. Smith?”
“I will tell you, but please, call me Meadow.”
***
It hadn’t taken long for Meadow to convince Dunland to follow his plan, but time had run fast. The sun was setting and street lights were taking its duty for the summer night. Meadow exited the HLF building and began his way to the nearest subway station.
He could only take a dozen steps before a familiar voice called to him: “Hey! Meadow, hold on a minute!” The man turned to see Dunland’s six foot four bodyguard facing him. “Brisk Meadow, huh? How did you convince Frank so easily?” The smaller man shrugged and continued to walk with the guard following him.
“I guess I’m a natural.”
“Oh boy, you are," Trevor said, his tone more serious, “but I don’t believe you one bit.”
“It’s alright. You don’t make the calls.”
“That’s right, I don’t. I’m only here to observe.” Meadow froze. “What? You really thought we’d let you fly solo?”
“I work alone," Meadow responded with a calm but annoyed voice. “You don’t need to keep track of me. I’ll do what I promised.” Trevor’s eyes narrowed as he started to run out of patience.
“You trying to pull mind tricks on me? Remember who you work for, Meadow. Don’t make me remind you, it’s only been half an hour.”
“Alone, Trevor.” Meadow tried to move out, but Trevor caught his left shoulder and turned him around – a mistake he wouldn’t repeat.
It was all over in seconds. Meadow lifted Trevor’s right arm and struck his right palm into Trevor’s chest making the bodyguard stagger back a little. Trevor quickly responded with a powerful jab into the smaller man’s solar plexus.
The punch hit its target but with unwanted effects: Meadow barely flinched and Trevor felt intense pain in his knuckles. Meadow stared at the man and tapped his own chest with his fist, gesturing he had some kind of armor.
Before Trevor could decide what to do next, two lightning fast left swings had shattered his right clavicle and broken his jaw. He fell down on his back, still conscious and in great pain. Trevor didn’t scream though, his broken jaw made even breathing difficult. Meadow moved to stand beside him and looked down in his terror-filled eyes.
“Seems like it’s bad news for Mr. Dunland, but good news for you, Trevor. I’m going to leave you be. Just remember, sometimes plain death isn’t painful enough.” Meadow looked around to see a few onlookers on the scene. He had to sprint away in order to avoid any distracting follow-ups. Meadow would be leaving tomorrow morning anyway, so a couple of witnesses wouldn’t cause trouble.
***
What a night, Fiona thought to herself while hurrying down the snowy streets of Chicago. The nightly blizzard had left the air crisp and cold, as well as almost ten inches of snow on the ground. The young woman turned around a corner and lifted her head, a small smirk on her face. Finally.
Fiona stood under the canopy at Roosevelt station letting her tired muscles relax a bit. The concert, along with the terrible weather, and the following afterparty had taken their toll, and she’d already snoozed for almost two hours before leaving. The sparkling white scenery lifted her spirit. Only in the movies had the sky been this clear or the snow this white.
”Damn ponies," she muttered with a faint chuckle. All their kindness toward both the planet and its people had reduced Chicago's population by half. While things went relatively unchanged near the city centre, many smaller streets were now littered with abandoned cars and empty looted stores. Fiona had been lucky: practically none of her friends and family had gone and turned, but her luck could only last so long. This temporary white coat wouldn't change that.
At 6.23 am, the train arrived. It was all but empty, just a single grey pony its muzzle glued onto the glass door. Fiona frowned. Damn ponies taking our trains.
The old clunker slowed down and soon the two were eyeballing each other. Fiona noticed the pony was drooling against the glass, its expression dull and bemused. Was that idiot leaning on the door?
Indeed, the doors opened and the pony toppled down onto the platform out of breath and moaning. Fiona jumped on the doorway but didn't yet let it close.
”You alright?” Fiona asked the pony which, judging by its masculine voice and jaw, was male. The stallion gave no answer. Instead, it sat up and spewed a puddle of orange paste on the platform. “Shit, little guy, you're wasted!” It looked like somepony had been enjoying itself a little bit too much at the party last night.
The train left without Fiona. She couldn't just leave it out in the open like that. If some humanist drunks had come here, it could end badly for the thing. She squatted next to the stallion.
“Can you stand? Are you cold?” Fiona asked but got no answer. “My name’s Fiona. What’s yours?” This finally sparked life in the pony’s disoriented eyes.
“Chase," it coughed while wiping vomit off its chin.
Fiona sprung up and examined her new acquaintance. It was so cute! It looked like a fluff toy: grey pelt, quite short, blond mane, similarly colored tail and relatively huge green eyes. No wonder so many choose to convert and become a pony! Her eyes switched to her hands and fingers, yeah, no wonder.
She turned her head back at Chase, who had got up and tried to maintain a steady posture, succeeding barely. It then tried to walk but only managed to stagger around a bit. She quickly moved to the pony’s side holding Chase straight as it was about to fall down again.
“Where are you heading? I’ll walk with you.”
“The Bureau.”
After a few tries, Fiona got the stallion up to a steady pace as they slowly travelled down South State Street. She wondered why she’d been this helpful. She still had to be drunk and hoped that hangover wouldn’t yet choose to arrive.
Fiona also thought about the Bureau. She knew where some of them were located and she knew what they did, but she had never been intrigued enough to actually go snooping around. Incidentally the opportunity to know more had now presented itself.
Anyway, the pony was the first to start talking. “The New Year," it said its voice slightly garbled, “is it always like this?”
Fiona grinned widely. “We’ve had better fireworks. I don’t really care for that pony magic stuff, at least not yet, and that band’s certainly not what it used to be. But it was good overall.”
Chase smiled back at Fiona. “They sure were fine by me. I’ve never seen anything even close to that," said the pony and lowered its head, “and thank you, Fiona. I owe you one. About my condition. I’m-”
“Just don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” the woman interrupted, “but tell me why are we going to the Bureau. Do you work there?” Chase quickly lifted his head back up.
“Yes, yes I do. And... I- I could give you a tour, if you want, and breakfast as well.”
Fiona was quite sure it was the booze talking, both for the pony and for her, but she accepted the invitation. Not for her sake but for Chase’s, she thought.
It took about an hour for the duo to reach their destination, a two-storey block with red tiling. It looked way too small for a place that should be both a medical facility and a habitat for hundreds of people. There must be more room underground, she thought and gazed at the snow-covered dome towering behind the compound. Seems like there’s room for the flying ones as well.
Fiona and Chase arrived at the front. Realising they were alone, Fiona tried to peek inside. There were some automated blinds half open, but she saw no movement. After checking all the nearby windows, Fiona turned her eyes at Chase. The pony was at the door, a confused look on its face.
A note on the door said they wouldn’t even open for today. Chase seemed completely unprepared for the message but quickly shrugged it off. The pony looked at Fiona noticing the serious expression on her face.
“Hey, as I said, I work here. I was-," the pony’s speech was cut by an indefinable groan in its stomach. Chase rushed behind the nearest car letting out silent sounds of vomiting. Fiona shook her head and sighed. It was starting to get cold.
Suddenly she saw light inside the Bureau. A door opening maybe thirty feet inwards from the entrance. A six foot bespectacled man wearing a hoodie walked to the front door and opened it with a key.
“Good that you’re here," the man said much to Fiona’s amazement, “some were starting to get worried already. But it’s fine, you’re here now.” His calming voice was the polar opposite of Chase’s drunken murmur. In a single smooth and gentle swing, the man had scooped Fiona inside.
“You must be cold," he said gently patting Fiona’s arms and shoulders. Suddenly a terrible headache made Fiona raise her hands up to her temple. The man quickly interpreted the signs. “Let’s go to medical and get you something for that, okay? Then we can join with the rest.” Fiona kept her eyes closed but nodded, unwittingly forgetting about Chase.
As they walked down the dim corridor, the man started humming a familiar tune. Swansong by The Wicked, the same band that had performed last evening. Fiona looked up to see the man smiling at her. “They played it, didn’t they.”
Soon a soft chant filled the steel grey aisle.
everybody, we must get going
gotta catch the last glimpse of light
take my hand now, and I will show you
don't be afraid of what you will find
no wall is gonna stop the tide
He stopped and raised his eyebrows at Fiona, who took the cue.
listen to the swansong of mankind
The man opened a double-door and a sudden increase in light blinded Fiona. For a short moment she felt something sting hard against her back. She opened her eyes only to find a red object poking out of her chest – dripping with blood.
The man jumped in front of Fiona. “I was worried you wouldn’t show up, girl! I bet it’s gonna take your mind off that hangover of yours.” Fiona watched her chest in awe. Was it really her blood? There was no pain. Besides her heavy pulse, she couldn’t feel anything out of ordinary. Then she tried to move and felt something holding her in place. The sensation wasn’t pain, but it came from inside her chest.
The shock made Fiona gasp uncontrollably. She almost fell down, but the man hurried on her side to support her. Fiona could only think about getting the thing off and was about to touch the bloody object when the man flicked her hands away.
“Don’t. It’s sharp. You’ll hurt yourself.” Fiona clutched the thing anyway, only to pull her hands back instantly. The thing was outrageously sharp. There was no way she could get it off without losing fingers.
“They said there was one missing. So I couldn’t leave yet, now could I," the man said with the same calm voice, “and don’t worry about the wound just yet. You won’t die for days unless I take the blade off.”
The man led her into the room, which was a mess hall with orange chairs and tables. The tables were empty and stood in neat lines as did most of the chairs. The floor on the other hand made Fiona gag.
There lay bodies, at least a dozen ponies and humans alike. Most had their neck arteries cut, but there were variations. Many ponies had legs almost cut apart, many humans
their guts spilled on the dark grey floor. There were also gunshot victims, but whatever the gun had been, it couldn't have shot bullets. The bodies had either their faces completely blown off or a double hit to the chest that had dug a three inch deep hole.
The man had put Fiona to sit against a wall with the blade still intact. There she was, the next resident of this mass grave. She couldn’t close her eyes. She wanted someone to look back at her, but all she saw was death.
Fiona’s pierced left lung began slowly filling her mouth with blood, and the initial shock started to fade. Her heart rate slowed down, throbbing pain pulsating from her chest and head.
Why didn’t the man just kill her? Why did she have to suffer? She could have turned around and left, but the man had been so soothing, charming even. Who would have known that of all the kind strangers she had met, this maniac would be the exception. This sick, sadistic exception, who had slaughtered a whole Bureau. For him, she wasn’t going to scream, not even moan, she would sit still and watch.
The man spent the next ten or so minutes in the adjacent kitchen, still humming the same tune, while coming out to take a quick glance at Fiona every couple of minutes. At the fifth time, instead of heading back, the man closed the door and turned towards her.
“Look girl, your bravery notwithstanding, but why are you still watching?” He walked at the woman and sat down in front of her. “You got the hots for me, is that it?” Fiona spat a mouthful of blood on his face. Even though the gag reflex was involuntary, Fiona couldn’t help smiling at her tormentor.
“I see we’re both just about done here,” he said taking off his glasses and his newly bloodstained olive hoodie. What now covered his torso – as well as his arms, hands, and most of his neck – could only be described as a matte black superhero costume, for it was skin tight and revealed the man’s extremely well-conditioned muscles. Fiona really could have the hots for this guy, if it wasn’t for the hole in her chest.
“I’ll just leave you here and get out of the back. Of course...” The man pulled Fiona up. She tried resisting, but even the slightest move caused her unbearable pain. “I’ll be taking with me what’s mine.”
Thirty minutes. The man had said that’s how long she’d last. Every breath she took was followed by a bloody hawk. Her time ticked away with every second feeling like an eternity.
Then Fiona remembered Chase. It was the pony’s fault she was dead! The man had been waiting for Chase, not her. It probably just stood there in front waiting for someone to open the door. Fiona hoped she was wrong, but Chase hadn’t saved her and now it was too late. So many would miss her, but she’d still only be a statistic. Just another aggression toward the Bureaus and just another hopeless victim. Fiona finally closed her eyes and fell into the dark void.
Fiona welcomed death. It took away her agony, but she couldn’t shake off the humming.
gotta love it, the things we have now
never really had a choice but it's all fine
cross your fingers, roll your thumbs around
the only thing we miss when we die
Unexpectedly, she began hearing feeble voices other than her own.
No, the same here as well! What in dear Celestia! Who did this! Orangehop! Orangehop are you okay? No. You’re all dead!
No! I can hear you! I’m not dead I can still hear you! Fiona struggled to wake the last drops of her dying consciousness. She couldn’t feel anything.
Fiona! You too... No, you’re not dead yet! It’s Chase! Can you hear me? I have to get you to medical. I can save you, Fiona. Just stay alive, Fiona!
Fiona felt gravity shifting. Like something shoved and dragged her around, and lifted her up in the air. Slowly, the void began to turn lighter and lighter until it was as bright as the sun.
“I never expected you to come,” a strong female voice told her. In the bright light she saw a snow white, winged unicorn with a flowing rainbow-colored mane. Damn ponies. She was at death’s door and this is what she’d see?
It was like a dream. She didn’t have a body but could see and hear her surroundings. The winged figure dissolved revealing a bright landscape. Green flowery hills, sparkling waters, and dense woods. It was Earth like they pictured it in paintings: an uncorrupted paradise before the machine age had reduced it into the dirty, spoiled world that she knew. But even if death was the only way to reach there, it still wasn’t Fiona’s time to give in.
Wake up Fiona! Chase’s voice, now louder and clearer, made the image disappear.
“Where were you? Why didn’t you stop him?” She blurted out the words and noticed she could hear them. Fiona also felt her sense of touch returning: she could feel her mouth speaking, her lungs breathing and the tremor that was Chase gently shaking her awake.
Certain that she indeed was alive, Fiona’s eyes fell wide open as she regained full consciousness.
“I didn’t know you got in. I- I had to get the spare key! I didn’t go by the mess hall. I went straight here to get something for my head!” Fiona barely noted Chase’s shaky speech and just looked past the stallion to see a sterile white room surrounding her, bloodstains on its walls. An operation room? In the Bureau? Had Chase stitched her up or just pumped her full of painkillers so she couldn’t feel anything? Something made her senses awry. Fiona couldn’t feel her clothes, she couldn’t feel her breasts, she couldn’t feel her... fingers.
“Chase," Fiona said panic charging through her unfamiliar body, her heart rate soaring, “you made me- Why did you make me a pony!” Adrenaline rush pushed aside all her weird sensations and allowed Fiona to quickly bring herself up into sitting position on the bed she’d been lain. She stared at her arms incredulously. She had hooves, hard, clunky, brick red hooves! Fiona’s sudden change in position made her lose her balance and fall off the bed to the blood-oozing floor.
“I had to save you, and this was the only way. Everypony else is dead, every foal is dead! I’m sorry Fiona, but I couldn’t let you join them. It’ll be okay," Chase said with a desperate but a much clearer voice than it had been before. Fiona pulled herself up. She stood on two legs trying to grab the operating table with her now fingerless hands.
“Okay!? A change of species and it’s okay!? I’m alive, sure, but I’m this... fucking joke!” Everything was a mess. Nothing Fiona saw, felt, or remembered made any sense at all. Her leg slipped and she collapsed again. Fiona closed her eyes knowing it wouldn’t help a bit. Her thoughts were grim.
She could just let go. Let go – succumb to insanity and kill herself. Go to heaven and drink the crystal clear water of life that flows from under God’s toenails. And beside her there’s that pony. That fucking pony! Chewing heavenly hay and mocking her since she had died with a hangover. For all eternity she’d be begging it to give her a ride because it was so beautiful. Then God would notice and banish her to hell for blasphemy. No fucking way.
Fiona raised her head and calmly gazed around her. There was a cyan-coated unicorn lying in a pool of blood in a corner. Its large dead eyes brought her mind back to the ongoing terror at hand – or hoof.
Four legs. Four legs, not two, repeated Fiona to herself as she and Chase struggled to get her to move around steadily. Chase had briefed Fiona about her new form: she was an earth pony like Chase, her mane was light pink as was her tail, her coat fire brick red and her eyes maroon. Also, she had no cutie-mark on her flank, which in Chase’s case was a light grey twister, and was exceptionally slow at getting the hang of walking.
Thinking of Chase made Fiona’s confusion drop a little. If all ponies were this sweet and considerate, joining them couldn’t be all bad.
When she finally got on her feet, or hooves, Fiona abruptly realised that she had no idea of what to do next. She was the only witness of a mass murder. This will get the attention of every single human and pony in the country, if not in the whole world. The scene will be swarmed with cops, investigators and forensic specialists – not forgetting the massive media coverage.
Why would the killer leave behind such a mess? Why give out so many clues? What the hell did he do in the kitchen? He sure as hell wasn’t... Fiona’s adrenaline spiked again as she understood. The man wouldn’t leave them anything.
“Chase, we have to leave. Right now.”
It was almost noon and a small crowd of curious humans stood before the closed Bureau doors. A new year, a new life, many had thought – only to be disappointed by the blatant message. Closed? The Bureaus were never closed.
“Hey look, someone’s coming out! It’s two ponies!” The lone cry got the bystanders’ attention and they all watched expectantly as the pony duo exited the building.
“You opening up? C’mon you can’t be closed.” Fiona stared back at the tall figures surrounding her. She herself was never tall to begin with, but now, more than a foot shorter, she felt extremely small.
Chase halted their way and began, in his polite Equestrian manner, telling the crowd to get away from the Bureau. Fiona, who leaned on Chase to support her movement, just listened to his hopeless mumbling. Daylight was a welcome change in atmosphere.
“Chase," said Fiona after awhile, “just tell them we open up at five. They go away, or they don’t. You did your best.” The stallion was about to protest but didn’t. Fiona was tired, about to pass out from exhaustion, he wasn’t going to argue.
Twenty past noon the Chicago skyline lit up in a flash. At the same time, a vicious sound, like that of an erupting volcano, spread out in the air. Many would think it was fireworks, or even thunder, but Fiona knew better.
She admired the scenery from under the canopy at Roosevelt station. Fiona’s eyes wallowed in the white-coated brightness, and she tried to put aside her grim experience, which, unfortunately, was far from over.