• Published 23rd Oct 2011
  • 23,420 Views, 867 Comments

Whiplash - Molotov Cocktail

A motorcyclist is struck by lightning. He awakens on the verge of death in a very strange land.

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Chapter 1

"Death is a great revealer of what is in a man, and in its solemn shadow appear the naked lineaments of the soul." ~E. H. Chapin

There was nothing. At first, it was incredibly bright. But then, it got dark. Very dark. And nothing happened.

"Is this death?" A thought echoed in the abyss.

Overwhelmed by the nothingness, the owner of those thoughts began to panic.

That panic was short lived. Like someone who had just survived an air strike, consciousness came back extremely suddenly.

There was a high-pitched whine in the thought-owner's ears. Light began to burn through the darkness. Outlines of trees and what looked to be a dirt road began taking shape. The birds roosting in the trees above this strange creature took flight, fleeing away from whatever force had just brought it here.

A motorcycle burst into existence from this storm of light, its rider losing control the moment the wheels touched the ground. The handlebars shook violently, threatening to dismount the rider. In a panicked, hasty decision, the rider jammed the front brakes.

It threw the rider over the handlebars and caused his bike to slide out from under him.

The sport bike; a glossy, black, aerodynamic, two-wheeled monster; roared defiantly before succumbing to the dirt. The metal and fiberglass body crashed against the ground, denting the gas tank and scraping off a line of paint. Bits of broken plastic and fiberglass littered the ground.

The rider tumbled head over heels and landed head first, dragging its torso against rocks and tree roots, helplessly rolling with the momentum. His helmet smacked the ground, a resonating THUMP echoed in the rider’s ears. If he hadn’t been wearing so much protective gear, the chances of survival would have been slim at best.

The rider lost momentum and landed on his back. He lay motionless for a few moments, and then slowly opened his eyes.

Looking up at the sky through his helmet, the rider's vision was filtered, as his mirrored visor reflected light and UV rays. From the inside, several flecks of wet blood against the tinted surface tainted the blue sky. He felt a few lines of blood drip down his face.

His eyes struggled to find focus while the pounding in his head continued to disorient him. The rider’s mind was elsewhere as his damaged body tried to process what just happened.

It was daytime, he appeared to be in the woods, that much was clear. Bolts of pain surged through the creature’s body, but it was unable to react, unable to move. An overcoming sensation of shell-shock overloaded his nervous system and kept him rooted him to the ground.

The rider breathed heavily, while a million thoughts began to circulate in his mind. As his vision began to clear, he had more use of his other senses.

It was eerily quiet, minus the sizzling of burnt wood and soil. The ground around him had been burned to a golden brown, and in places closest to the rider, black ash. Small puffs of smoke rose from particularly burned earth and tree bark. It smelled as if he were sitting in a woodstove.

Clenching his teeth in pain, the rider refused to succumb to the shock. He tenderly lifted his head, looking down his torso to his boots. There was a thick liquid creeping down his chest. A giant gash ripped through the front of his jacket, gushing warm blood. A small portion of the jacket on his left arm had been burned off, exposing the dark, burnt skin underneath.

He wheezed in and out rapidly, his breaths sounding hyperventilated in shock. His body was in so much pain, he was unable to determine what, if anything, was broken at that moment. Every part of his body seemed to throb in agony equally with each heartbeat.

His legs would barely move. His left arm felt chafed and weak, while the skin felt like it had been peeled off. Wiggling his left hand felt like a challenge. However, his right arm and neck appeared to be completely fine, minus a few burns.

"What the hell just happened?" The rider asked himself, letting out a gasp of pain with each strained breath.

The last thing the rider remembered was dark and wet. It was a stormy night; he was just trying to get away. Away from the flashing blue lights, away from the torrential rains, the gusting winds.

And then, he felt static electricity in his hair. There was a flash, and a crack. Then, everything went dark. How is it that he wakes up in some vivid, green forest on a dirt road after getting struck by lightning? This doesn't make any sense!

He tried to stand, but his legs were refusing to budge. If he didn't try to find some help soon, he'd bleed himself to death. He had to get up!

"GET UP!" his brain screamed to his legs. To which they replied: "Who said that?"

Unable to stand, the disoriented biker collapsed his helmeted head back to the ground with a thud. Fumbling with his thick gloves, the rider searched his pockets until he recovered his cell phone. All he had to do was dial three magical digits and an ambulance would whisk him off to better days.

He brought the phone up to his face. Some of the plastic had melted, and the screen was cracked like a broken mirror. Any attempt to bring life to the phone failed.

“FUCK!” the rider threw the phone away in frustration, hearing it land somewhere in the woods. No longer connected to the world, he suddenly felt overwhelmingly alone in his time of need. There were no bystanders, no EMTs, just him and his motorcycle. He was on his own.

For that matter, how was his bike looking? The rider turned his head and saw it lying gently on the grass; His bike laid motionless on its left side, a line of fiberglass debris trailing behind it. It must have stalled after he let go of the clutch, and since it was in gear, the wheels must have locked. Despite not being able to see the extent of the damage from his angle, it appeared to be in good shape. Much better shape than he was in anyway. Heat crackled off of the exhaust pipe as the metal shifted and contracted while it cooled.

As the rider continued to catch his breath, a pool of blood had collected underneath him. And suddenly, there were several footsteps. Very. Large. Footsteps.

Perhaps someone was coming to his aid? That hope was extinguished when heavy breathing and a low growl escaped from a menacing, intimidating maw. The rider and his bike rested in a clearing, and out of the woods around it, a towering, snarling beast, at first frightened by the overwhelming flash of light, was then intrigued by it. Even more intrigued when it had just brought him dinner on a silver platter. A downed and injured prey, an easy kill. The scent of blood and burnt flesh added to the scorpion-lion hyrbrid's appetite. The manticore just had some meals on wheels delivered.

The rider watched cautiously as a gigantic, four-legged monster revealed itself, smugly and ferociously approaching the injured biker. It was a lion, with batwings and a scorpion tail swinging menacingly back and fourth. It opened its jaws, showing off a set of razor sharp teeth. The manticore kept its head low, slowly advancing the injured biker unable to move.

He was too distracted to focus on his injuries to the idea of being eaten alive.

The rider reached into a holster attached to his belt, shrinking back in horror after his hand found nothing. The impact of the ground must have knock it out of the holster.

Frantically, the rider’s eyes darted around the clearing. There, not ten feet from him rested a compact, matte-black handgun.

In an act of desperation, the rider flopped on the ground like a fish, bearing the torture of dragging a potentially mortal laceration against the ground.

The manticore chuckled. It was trying to get away! It took a moment to appreciate the situation at hand, watching his prey pretend that it would do him any good to struggle. As he dragged himself away, he smeared the ground with a dark trail of vital, red fluid, only adding to its appetite.

Ten feet was nothing, but in such an injured state, it felt like miles. The rider clawed and grabbed at the ground, dragging his limp body towards survival. The manticore was no more than fifteen feet away now, and getting too close for comfort.

The rider lashed out, heaving himself the last few feet and snatching the pistol. After landing back on the ground, the rider’s vision flashed. The unspeakable pain was nauseating. He felt his lunch creeping up his throat, but pushed it back down.

The manticore continued to watch curiously, but remained threateningly present.

The rider had no idea what that thing was, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be denied the dignity of bleeding to death, to be feasted on by some two-bit offspring of an overrated cat and a bug.

He scowled under his visor. All those nasty looks he’d received from the general public after noticing a gun holstered to his waist meant nothing now. Five hundred bucks well spent.

The rider breathed in deeply, exhaling while lining up the sights right between the eyes of his hungry foe, and pulled the trigger.


The rider’s chest grew cold. His gun jammed!

The last thing he remembered before ending up in this forest was riding in the rain. Even though self-contained cartridges are waterproof, getting struck by lightning and crashing against the ground probably didn’t do the handgun any good.


The rider rapidly pulled the trigger in desperation, frantically trying to pull himself away. The manticore stood directly above the rider, a thick glob of saliva dribbling from its mouth. It opened its jaws, ready to sink them right into the neck of its prey.

“NO!” the rider screamed, sensing death was imminent. His heart sped up, time seemed like it was slowing down. The beast was so close, he could smell its putrid, foul breath.

The manticore brought its jaws down. The rider, in a last ditch effort to save his life, cleared the chamber, manually ejecting a dented, defective projectile and loading a new shell.


A puff of white smoke exited the handgun’s barrel as an ear-shattering blast echoed across the forest.

Just before the predator’s teeth could rip into his flesh, the Glock 23 fired a .40 caliber round at several thousand feet per second, using the recoil to eject the used shell and fill the chamber with a new one.

The manticore was pushed backwards with the sheer force of the impact, but did not go down. It shrieked in pain, drops of fresh blood splattering onto the ground.


The rider double-tapped it in the head. His handgun ejected two shells rapidly at scarcely five feet, considered by some to be point blank range.

The manticore dropped in a heap, lying frozen in a lifeless slump as rigor mortis began setting in.

The rider’s hand holding the smoking weapon shook nonstop. His ears, overloaded with sound, rang constantly. He lay on the ground in total disbelief.

Exhaling loudly, he drifted back to the painful reality he was in: Bleeding. Pain. Blurred vision. Fatigue. Hyperventilation. There would be time to stress out about this later, right now he needed to focus on one thing and one thing only: Survival.

The rider lowered his weapon, sticking the muzzle back into his holster and clicking on the safety.

Blood loss began to take its toll, though. He was feeling weaker by the minute. His legs began to shake, which made his eyes widen.

He could feel his legs now! With a grunt, he wiggled his legs. Both responded. They were weak, but he was slowly getting out of shell shock. Maybe he could stop the bleeding if he found some leaves to use as bandages. One thing was clear though: Lying in a pool of his own blood wasn't doing him any favors. It only made him seem helpless to predators in this strange forest.

Gasping for breath and clenching his teeth, the rider made the agonizing ascent to his feet. Shakily, he put one foot in front of the other, cradling his left arm. He wasn't sure if it was broken, but he could barely use his fingers. He bore the pain and limped in the direction of his bike. Each dizzy, uncoordinated step was harder than the last.

The key was still turned in the ignition. The brake light was illuminated, as well as the digital instruments on his dashboard. The left side was cosmetically massacred, with deep scrapes running down the metal and fiberglass body. The turn signals dangled from the frame like an eye out of an eye socket. The windshield was cracked, clinging loosely to the bodywork. The left handlebar was slightly bent, but still ridable. The left frame-slider was chipped and filed down, but it had done its job, and prevented any structural damage. It made the rider's heart sink, seeing his baby so torn up, but there didn't appear to be any structural damage; the frame slider saved his motorcycle, minus the cosmetics. Maybe, it would be possible to ride out of here, and find help!

That seemed like the best thing to do, but how was he supposed to lift this 500-pound street machine in his current state?

Gingerly, he kicked the shifter down into neutral and pressed the starter. After a chatter of sparks, the engine started right back up.

"Oh thank god," the rider gave a sigh of relief. He quickly turned it off, however.

"I don't need to attract anymore attention," thought the rider as he turned to the slain manticore.

Just as he was about to try and heave all his strength into lifting his bike off the ground, he heard a flapping of wings, sensing another presence nearby. There was rustling in the trees, leaves shaking back and forth unnaturally.

Quickly, he turned around, letting go of his bike and unholstering his Glock again.

"Show yourself!" the biker demanded, keeping his finger on the trigger.

"Alright, alright, fine!" shouted a female, smart aleck reply. A small, horse-like animal, sporting two feathery wings and blue as the midday sky, floated down from the treetops, but remained at a safe distance.

The biker kept his weapon drawn, but not aimed directly at the flying pony. He just about dropped dead at this point.

"What the hell?!" He screamed in his mind. Its rainbow mane and tail fluttered in the breeze. Her pink eyes were as wide with wonder as his own. A rainbow clouded lightning bolt appeared tattooed on her flank.

His chest began to grow cold again. He couldn't breathe; it was all just too much. Struck by lightning, the crash, the manticore, and the flying pony above him. Just where was he? What was going on?

The blue pegasus locked her eyes on a large, bipedal creature standing over a black object. It was some sort of metal steed with two circular legs, but it seemed that without its rider, it wasn't able to stand up on its own.

The creature standing over it seemed to be wearing a lot of protective gear, or armor, as if ready for a battle. An intimidating black helmet was strapped onto its head, with a one-way mirror as its face. It hid the creature's identity, and reflected only the world around it. A garment of dark denim covered the creature's waist down to its legs. At the end of its legs were two black, heavy boots, with metal toes and heels that rose above its shins.

It was definitely male. Its figure was not too big, but definitely too masculine to be female. A black jacket, its joints and shoulders puffed up slightly, indicated that those joints were likely armored underneath. Twisted mesh wrapped over its knuckles, while red and black leather gloves encompassed the rest of its hands.

The pegasus glanced alarmingly at the manticore’s corpse, the motorcycle laying on it's side, and then back to the rider. His blood soaked clothing, limp arms and legs, splatters of blood, and burn marks all over the forest floor. She had never seen anything like it the situation laid before her.

Her mind told her to fly away as fast as she could, but her heart told her to stay. Something loving and compassionate kicked in inside of her and refused to let her abandon this creature.

Whatever it was, that mirror-faced thing had some sort of accident, and had just been attacked by a manticore. It appeared mortally wounded. What if it just needed some help?

Its hands were trembling, its one hand on the weapon shaking in fear or shock, she couldn't tell.

The blue pegasus sniffed. It smelled like something had been burned. But not wood or hay. It smelled like... Meat?

The rider stood still. This couldn't be happening. Maybe he's just delusional, maybe it's the blood loss, the shock. Sure, that's it. He was just struck by lightning, he has brain damage and none of this is happening. He's in a coma at the hospital right now.

What if it wasn't? Even if she wasn't real, he didn't care. He didn't want to die, and this hallucination was the best chance he had at not doing so. The rider licked his lips, tasting dried blood, and lowered his weapon.

"P-please," he exhaled, dropping to his knees, too weak to stand anymore.

"I need," he panted weakly. "Medical... Attention... P-please... Help."

Whatever fear was the pegasus felt subsided; he obviously just needed help. She was not just going to leave something to die, just because it looked frightening.

"Don't worry, I'll go get help! I'm the fastest flier in all of Equestria!" She stated, her tone growing concerned. "I'll be right back, I promise!"

With that, she took off like a rocket. A rainbow seemed to trail behind her, as the pegasus flew with speed she didn't even know she had.

The rider watched her fly off, a sliver of hope lingering inside of him. Maybe he would survive this after all.

His hope began to fade away after losing more blood. Darkness began eating away at his vision again. His eyes felt heavy, his breathing weak. Chills ran down his spine, making him shudder. Everything was fading into black.

And then the rider blacked out.