Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Before I Sleep

29 April, Y.C. 970

— run, had to run; couldn’t, but had to. That, or fall to the death nipping at his heels. It was icy, but not cold; hot, yet somehow he shivered. Didn’t matter. They hadn’t cleared the snow, hadn’t bothered; it would take care of itself now. Just like everything else. Take care. So neat, so tidy. All white. White and red and black in night.

“Won’t get me yet, you bastard,” he mumbled. Slow, this tongue of his. Lethargic. Like everything else. His legs weren’t working too quick, but he willed them to motion, one in front of the other. One step at a time, four steps at a time. Close behind him now. Couldn’t hear them, but then again you never did. Not until it was too late.

He had promised her that he would be back, and dammit he was going to keep that promise. No matter what happened… but he couldn’t be sure about that. He would do his best, but that wasn’t enough. Couldn’t be enough. So he would run.

Was that a tree? He couldn’t tell; didn’t matter. Around it. Quick quick. Where was — didn’t matter now. Another one; over. A rock, under. Left, right, forward. Always forward. Couldn’t run back, not if he wanted to. There was safety there, closer than the direction he was going, but getting there… no, there was no going back now. Not if he wanted to live.

“…for his own protection, of course.”

“Of course.”

A pause.

“Is it all… you know.”

“What?”

“Necessary? I don’t mean to grouse, but it’s pretty clear that nopony’s going anywhere. Not with those restraints.”

“It’s not just a question of protection from, but protection for. Two weeks ago one of the survivors from the Eighty-Fifth bit half her tongue off.”

“I… see.”

The voices were easy enough to tune out. After all, who was going to be talking to him here? The forest held only trees, sticking out like charred bits of memory in the pitch-black night, reflecting off the snow.

There was a bit of ice underneath, but it didn’t matter; he was hauling through at top speed. Fresh snow, all of it; it must have fallen recently. When did they figure that trick out? Didn’t matter; it was there, and he could use it. Step on it carefully, press straight down, lift off; didn’t even matter that there was ice. It would trip them up, but not him. Not him.

Damn, but they were fast. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, couldn’t smell them, but they were coming. Somewhere in the dark, he knew. He knew. They could probably smell him, too; smell the scent dripping down his face. How was he sweating in this cold? Maybe he was moving too fast for it, leaving little icicles in his wake… pointing straight at him….

He risked a three-point step to raise a hoof and squeegee his face; nothing came off. Lookit that, he was dry already. In this cold? Never mind that; keep running. Had to. There was fresh snow, though. That made no sense; he had to be off track. He was just retracing his steps, right? Going back….

“…various types of neuroleptics, but none of them have been more than minimally effective.”

“Have you gotten anything out of them?”

“Some, yes. There were a few moments, even a few hours once. They wear off quick enough, though.”

“Wear off. Adaptation?”

“No sir. More like returning to a state of ineffectiveness.”

“Hm.”

“They’re simply not designed to treat something like this. There isn’t a chemical solution to this particular case.”

“What, you’re telling me it’s psychosomatic?”

“Not at all. It’s entirely real.”

The fresh snow continued unbroken, but he realized it was fresh, not crusted — there were hoofsteps all right, but they were just below the layer. Quickly scanning side to side, he thought he caught one, two… no, that couldn’t be enough. There were forty of them, more.

Well, not anymore. Maybe this was enough. What was the worst that could happen? He pivoted a few degrees, barreling through the trees on a different course. They all looked the same, though… trees and ice and snow and shrubs and darkness, and always behind him the… the….

A noise — in front of him this time.

Instantly he was on alert. Who…?

“Over here!”

He broke the run, trotting up to what looked an awful lot like a handful of ponies who had paused to take a breather. One of them wore two thirds of a uniform, a gold bar hanging off the shoulder.

“Where…?”

“I don’t know, sir,” he said raggedly. “We’re all that’s left.”

“We’ll be none that’s left if we don’t move our asses,” he growled. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

“Sir,” offered another, a female pony with a pair of silver bars, “I… I don’t think I can go on.”

“Maybe we should rest,” said the first.

Murmurs of agreement from the others. One even had the gall to sit down on a rock.

“Like hell we are,” he shot. “We’ve got to go, come on. Move!”

“I… don’t think we can do that,” responded the first, wavering slightly. Behind him, some of the other ponies had also sat down; they faced every which way, and further still behind them the forest roared a silent blackness at them.

“Get up! We have to go!”

“I… dunno. I think we could use some rest.”

Murmurs of agreement.

“If we don’t go, we’ll all —”

“All what?” asked the first pony. “Look, we’re in the woods, it’s night. I can’t see anything. Can you?”

A pause.

“Well then. C’mon, sir. Just for a bit. Tomorrow —”

“There won’t be a tomorrow like this,” he muttered. But… the pony had a point. They were tired, that was true. He had been running for so long. Just a bit, that’s all it would take. Just a bit.

“All right,” he said after a few moments. “Five minutes, though. Just five.”

“Just five,” agreed the pony, settling in next to a rock.

He patted the note in his pocket. The last letter he had gotten, it was still with him. There hadn’t been any new ones for a while, but with all the reshuffling that wasn’t surprising. He liked all of the letters, but this one was already one of his favorites; it quoted an old poem. He liked it. Well, he wasn’t going to reread it now. No sense; too dangerous. Just a few minutes of rest, after all.

Still wary at the prospect of staying still, much less sitting, he glanced over at the other ponies. One of them had — had lain down?

“Hey,” he called over to the pony. “Soldier. Up.”

No response.

He padded over, which was surprisingly not difficult to do on the fresh snow, still clean and unbroken despite a half dozen of them tromping around. Stepping around a sleeping form, he tapped the pony on the shoulder.

It slid off.

He started to turn, to shout something, but the first pony wasn’t listening. He was frozen, staring off into the forest. But it wasn’t dark now, not like before. It was lit up, a shining blackness punctuated by rows of white.

“Run!” he shouted, but it wasn’t working. The teeth wrapped around the young lieutenant’s head, and for a moment his expression was one of total surprise.

And then they clamped down —

“…heightened state now.”

“How can you tell? The equipment’s over there!”

“It’s happened enough.”

A moment of silence.

“What’s he saying?”

“It’s a reference to… well. Were you on call when they came in with him and the others?”

“What others?”

“Corpses. The other corpses.”

“Ah… no.”

“Then just take my word for it that it’s a reference, okay?”

“All right, all right.”

Another pause.

“Will he… you know?”

“Eventually.”

He turned away as the lieutenant’s neck snapped, already at full gallop by the time the blood started seeping into the snow. There was nothing to do for him. He was gone, the others were gone, and all he could do now was run.

Run.

Run, though his legs ached at just the thought. He would power through it. Always had, always would; he was tired, but there was nothing to be done. Why had they ever thought it a good idea to stop in the middle of the forest, without so much as a farmhouse near? Between the wood and the frozen earth, what were they to do?

He gave his combat harness a shake, feeling the friendly rub of the leather against his breast. Everything was still there, for what it was worth. What good was a knife against shadow? He dared a glance behind him; off in the distance he could make out a circle of red on the ground — and no ponies left.

No sign of the… the other, but there wouldn’t be. He was being tracked, being followed. Fresh snow, but he was blazing a trail through it a blind mouse could follow. The only other sounds out here were the easy whistling of wind and the barely perceptible sound of snowflakes touching down, but he couldn’t hear either of those. All he heard was the sound of his own heavy breathing and his heart slamming against his chest.

These woods might be dark and deep, but he had a promise to keep. He had told her he would be back, and he had to come back. Had to.

“Miles to go,” he muttered. He didn’t know how many of them, but there had to be a lot. No matter. He would run, and when he made it… if he made it. Then he would sleep. But not yet. Not yet. Had to run. Right behind him, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t… he knew it was there. When he got back.

If.

“How long?”

“Almost a month. Found him at the north end of Saddle Lake, tracking the river up.”

“How the hell did he get there?”

“No idea. That trip should have taken two days, maybe three. Judging by the composition of the corpses, he had been out for a day, little longer.”

“Heavy.”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence.

“And he’s been… you know. Since then?”

“Running ever since.”

He could sense it behind him. Knew it was there, right behind him. He was so tired.

“Miles to go,” he murmured through gritted teeth and ragged breathing. “Miles to go.”

He ran. He had to run; what choice did he have? His legs screamed at him but there was nothing to be done; he needed to run, had to run; couldn’t but had to. That, or fall to the death nipping at his heels —