The sound of gravel beneath tyres was one of the few natural sounds available to my ears as my vehicle advanced through the night-time highland road. It was an upward spiral, which to an untrained eye would seem as though my Land Rover camper-van was heading to the top of a hill for a spot of stargazing. Hell, maybe they'd think I was going to jump. Another one of them horrid Bronies couldn't take it, they'd chuckle. Shouldn'tve caused them bleedin' riots over in America and the EU, ya pillocks, they'd jeer. Not that they'd know I was a brony, of course. The only evidence would be the small, custom made figurine of Princess Luna, who (if you didn't know, is best pony) sat on the dashboard, sceptically gazing upon everything I owned that wasn't her. It was really the only solid proof that I'd made it this far and not been found. The only reason I was fleeing at this point was because two others had knocked on the door and kicked it off.
I remember what one said as the other crouched by my van out on the driveway.
"Jack," Duncan said quickly, rucksack hung over his back loosely and hastily zipped shut. "I've been found out. We gotta go now, or never, 'cause those vigilante Anti-Bronies'll get here any minute. Grab your emergency bag and get in the van, you drive, I'll keep an eye on the roadsides, come on, WE'VE GOT NO TIME!"
Those were my last moments...well, at home. Things could get pretty fucked up pretty fast in the UK, especially after the campaign against Bronies began. They shut down Equestria Daily, stormed their offices, and shot them. They posted that footage on the husk of a site that remained. The banner atop the cheerful, innocent site was replaced with a horrifically well-drawn image of Pinkie Pie's throat slit in front of roaring crowds, the blood spattered across sand spelling out 'Beware'. They stormed our game servers, hacked computers and games just for the purpose of killing players who happened to be Bronies.
This didn't happen to those who hid, those who stood silent as American, English, French, Italian, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Australian and Brazilian Bronies were hacked, brutalised, attacked in the streets, even executed. I kept it quiet, claiming that I was mirroring the windows on my tired old camper-van to 'hide things from thieves', pretending as though my friends in the street were friends who weren't Bronies, giving a nod, hi-five, or other such action to them just to give the impression we were just good friends, not part of a 'terrorist' group.
But evidently this wasn't enough, as I eventually received an e-mail while I had my last two surviving Brony companions around for a Domino's pizza and a screening of two classic films: Taken and Taken 2. It came bearing an offer of a job;
Jack,
We know your secret. That you're one of us. At the end of this e-mail, print it out and delete it. We can't leave any trace that may leave one of the few surviving Bronies dead where he stands. I'm gonna cut it short: We're gathering the survivors at the -AUTHOR REDACTION- Nuclear Bunker in Scotland. Unusual, yes, but one of us just happened to own it as part of a private collection, shall we say. I can tell you more when you get here about the real story, but we just need...everything. According to your CV, you attended a Rifle club, own several firearms with license and a few without, and also attended the Army Cadet Force. That kind of expertise is what keeps us alive these days, and we'll need it to help protect this place. If you accept, we'll be prepared for when you arrive. Just answer second half of the password with 'India Tango' and carry out the usual sentry drills, and we can welcome you to the family.
Print this e-mail, destroy this e-mail.
-A Watcher
That was the harrowing kind of shit that stays with you for life. Hell, the start of this whole 'Brony Holocaust' as the media calls it got me into coffee. For the first few days, everybody was gonna kill me, in my mind. Gotta have that caffeine to keep yourself awake in case that guy gets behind ya with his knife, y'know? Then, gradually, I calmed down. Enough that I didn't have a weapon in every room of the house, at least. Still, I did pull a Sniper, and I had a rifle on the headboard behind my driver's cabin of the camper-van, and a Colt 1911 in the glove box, just in case those cars behind get nasty against the Brony. Nutshot with my fist and a headshot with the pistol, the ol' one-two.
But the things I was packing didn't compare to what the Americans that snuck on over to get to the Bunker were packing. We'd picked up a few other stragglers along the way, stopping in towns every night, and sending out mass messages on Steam, Facebook, and other sites, speaking in a way that only a Brony would understand to a point. They were sat in the back of the Rover, about 5 at the time. Better than the damn start, when we had about 16 in this one car. The other 11 found new ways to get there, and I could only hope they made it intact.
So anyway, as I put my coffee flask down, we reached a flat portion of the hill. Up ahead, I could see some signs being illuminated by the headlights, shining back like cat eyes as the light bounced back. A wire link fence wrapped around a section of hill as far as I could make out in the night, before coming around again and continuing the endless tail-chase. Linking the two ends, or keeping them apart, was an old iron gate. I slowed the van and audible mumbling could be heard in the back of the van. Finally, once the gate was within a short walk's distance, I stopped the van, and the brakes whined loudly in protest. I looked to Duncan, who sat beside me. The short man looked back, the same casual expression I knew him to have ever since I started that first conversation with him at school. He had slightly long brown hair in need of a trim, a plain, white t-shirt with countless stains on it that aged with the apparel, a sleeveless red puffer jacket, and he was wearing brown cargo trousers with a pair of black boots. I reached down with my right hand and grabbed the hand take, before grunting as I yanked it into the position required and sighed.
"You wanna do it?" I said in a rather tired tone, one I'd used for a while since it all kicked off.
"Nah." Duncan sighed. I rolled my eyes and rapped my index finger knuckle against the glass window linking the cabin to the sleeper compartment. After a second, there was a short rumbling sound as the window slid open. Peering back was the face of Wilson, a guy I knew from a party. He tanned skin, dark hair, and eager eyes, a sure sign he would follow this group to the end.
"Yeah?" replied the East-Londoner.
"Gate up ahead." I said calmly. "One of you chaps care to open it?"
"Alright." he turned away for a moment. "Ollie, you're up." The hatch closed, and a few seconds later the back door could be heard opening. A short crackle, followed by more of the same sound meant Ollie had jumped out and begun to move towards the gate. He trudged past the passenger window, not even looking to Duncan, before reaching the lock to the gate. He pulled at it a bit, and frowned. Next, the glasses-wearing lad looked to me and mouthed 'it's locked' whilst shrugging and shaking his head. I frowned.
"Hmmph, fucking locks." I muttered, before sighing, and undoing my own seatbelt, then beginning to rummage through the toolbox in between the seats. Duncan chuckled.
"Hah," he mirthed, "Best unlock, or Jack'll deal with you using a knife." I squinted, with the lack of light not helping me to find the, ahem, tool for the job. Finally, after much rummaging and cursing, I pulled out what I needed: A lockpicking set. I slipped it in my pocket, before going into the glove box and pulling a torch and the pistol out. I held that in one hand, and the torch in the other, and I opened the door. I jumped out, and looked around. Up above, millions of stars gazed down upon me, whilst the moon watched over them like a motherly figure.
"Vive noctum." I murmured as I jogged to the gate. The gates were rusted on closer inspection, as well as the lock, which ran on the usual 'iron chain holding both parts together, linked with a padlock' basis. It'd be difficult, but pretty easy by lockpicking standards. I looked at Ollie.
"So?" he asked. "What're you thinking?" I frowned.
"I'll probably have to pick the lock. If all else fails, I suppose I can just shoot it, but that'll make it impossible to lock again, and it might ricochet off and injure me. Otherwise, there's a small cabin usually nearby that should contain the keys, and I could try that. Than, if all of that fails, I'll ram the van into the gates." I replied as calmly as possible. I scratched my chin whilst staring the gate up and down. I slipped the pistol into my pocket and gestured backwards with the torch. "You get back to the van and say it'll be about 5-10 minutes. I'll come over if it changes, otherwise you stay with the van. Got it?"
"Yes Hannibal. You're the man with the plan." he mocked, before saluting and marching back to the van. I rolled my eyes, got the lockpicks out, and set to work on the locks, torch held in my mouth. I could only pray it worked first time.
7 minutes later I heard a click. I smiled, pulling the lock open, and pulling the chains off it. The gate opened with a cringe-worthy sound, before clanking against the nearby concrete posts to halt it. I chuckled, and moved back to the van. I opened the door, ignited the engine, and shut the door again as I blasted the heater.
"Got it open?" Duncan asked.
"Aye." I replied. "Let's get moving, we're burning night cover." Slowly, I pressed the accelerator, advanced just beyond the gate, and leapt out to close it. It didn't make the high-pitched squeals as it closed, but still the clang as it slammed shut. Rapidly, I wrapped the chain around, locked the padlock tight, and ran back to the van. I closed the door, and we began again our highland journey, only the sound of gravel and engine to accompany my ears once more.
I turned off the engine. Ahead was a large, concrete arch with an iron shutter garage door encompassing the centre, next to a smaller concrete tunnel entrance with an iron doorway just inside. There were tyremarks leading inside the shutter, and fresh footprints leading to a bush just next to the doorway. I pulled the pistol out, looked at Duncan, and nodded. He nodded back. Finally, I stepped out of the van onto the gravel, the familiar crunch telling me when I'd stepped on gravel. I closed the door, and moved to the doorway. Suddenly, the bushes rustled next to me, and just as I turned, I found myself staring down the barrel of a Kalashnikov assault rifle. I couldn't see the other man's face, but instincts told me to raise both hands with the gun pointed up.
"Halt, stand and identify." snarled an English accented man. "Sierra Hotel."
"India Tango." I said back. The rifle lowered, and a hand extended.
"Good. We've been waiting for you. And you've brought company?" I shook the hand firmly.
"Aye." I replied. "Picked them up on the way, and two of them I started the trip with. Nothing to worry about, they're all good." The presumed Soldier gave a nod, before leaning into his radio and pressing a button.
"Boston, reporting in." he said firmly. "We have new arrivals, over."
"Good." the voice replied. "You know the drill, send the fellas in, we're in Scotland. It's cold and we'd hate to leave fellow Bronies in the cold, yes?"
"Acknowledged, sir." replied the man. He let go of the radio, before reaching into an unseen place at the bottom of the bushes. He seemed to tug at something, before a loud clanking sounded. The massive door to the front of my van was being opened, revealing a long, dark tunnel that led downwards. I gave the man a nod, and just as I turned away, he tapped my shoulder. "Mind if I come down with you lads? It's the end of my shift."
"Sure, hop in the back." I replied, before helping the guard shift his gear into the back. Duncan helped as well, before hopping in as well. Excited chatters came from the back of the van, barely audible through the back wall. I fired up the engine, and looked to the small dashboard Luna. She looked...happier.
"We made it Lulu." I whispered, patting the small figure on the head and driving in. The door began to close behind us, presumably on a timer. "We made it."