The End / The Beginning
Editors/Co-Authors
TB3 - His edits to this are beyond awesome. Hell, he practically rewrote the thing, and for that I say... Thank you, friend co-author. Thank you so much.
TheIdiot
Kizuna Tallis
Redskin122004
Jed R: So this maaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy have inspired him a little. Look forward to that.
Beyond The Horizon - Thanks for helping SO MUCH!
Chapter 1: Bosbefok / Burn My Shadow
“People of Night Vale, do not be defined by how you can die, but how you can live!”
Tamika Flynn, Welcome To Night Vale
“...I saw on that ivory face the expression of somber pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror - of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision - he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath - ‘The horror! The horror!”
Joseph Conrad, ’Heart of Darkness’
Mid November, 2023
No matter what anyone told themselves, it was the end.
The Barrier had reached North America. It had already rolled over Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Maine. In mere weeks it would claim the entire Eastern Seaboard. The birthplace of the United States, the original thirteen colonies, would soon be dead. When they were gone, perhaps the hardy spirit of the American people would crumble too.
“This is the end, my only friend. The end….”
Here in New England, in the hinterlands between New York and Vermont, towns and villages had been abandoned, populated now only by ghosts, crazies, and PER and HLF scrabbling over the little that remained after evac. Far above, satellites pick up explosions and thaumic spikes showing that even if the Barrier leaves any of this unscathed, there wouldn’t be much left at all.
Everyone in the wooded hills and valleys, desperate to get away, had fled on anything that could turn a wheel. All the cars had rushed down south or gone west down major roads, logging roads that were only cursorily maintained whenever the notion crossed someone’s mind, and roads that would have been closed within winter’s time. Every plane had taken off from small regional airports, and the last of the trains had all left the stations.
Even the old steam locomotives had been pressed back into service, anything that could raise a head of pressure fastened into the harness. Around this time, a few stragglers will even report sightings of a majestic streamlined locomotive charging towards the front lines at Boston under a banner of pure white steam, barrelling across the frozen countryside with a remarkable consist in tow.
These are strange times, and nobody can rightly say they were prepared for this brand of Armageddon.
But today, another relic is chugging in the opposite direction, struggling west under the burden of one of the final evacuation trains. Old Number 501, scrounged up from a heritage line in North Conway, puffs into the derelict Amtrak station in White River Junction, its snorting breaths alike to the ragged breaths and wheezes of a runner exhausted after running a marathon for hours on end.
The old ‘eight-coupled’ machine has a right to sound beaten.
One hundred and thirteen years have passed since it was turned out from the ALCO workshops in Schenectady, New York, but instead of enjoying its comfortable semi-retirement in northern New Hampshire, it has been forced into steam and driven to hell and back, through PER and HLF assaults, through sturm und drang. It has survived passage through war zones, through more than one valley in the shadow of death, through madmen, madponies, and newfoals alike, taken beating after beating to the incredulity and elation of its passengers. If there is another day, an age where humanity survives, it will, like so many others, pass into legend. The faceoff with zeps and potioneer ships, one insane soldier’s heroic charge back onto the train in a stolen car, and countless others standout moments illustrate its tale. If there is a day like that, ol’ number 501 will be enshrined in a museum for future generations.
But right now? Finally, here at the Junction, it can rest. Fire choked from burning damp, green cuts of wood rather than good, hard coal, it’s taken the magic of two unicorns just to keep the pressure up. They’re utterly exhausted too. The cars are riddled with bullets and the headlamp is cracked.
A dead PER pony has been impaled on the cowcatcher. At least, we can assume it’s dead. Maybe it’s still alive. Sometimes, it twitches. Nobody really cares about it, which might be a sign of how low this war has brought everybody and everypony it has touched.
The battered train crew are resting as well, sipping hot chocolate in one of the cars, reloading, cleaning and disassembling weaponry. They are waiting as various self-taught mechanics, human and pony alike, patch up the damage the train has suffered. They are far away from the Barrier, enough that they can afford to take a rest. Once 501’s fire has been cleaned and the unburnt timber mucked out from the locomotive’s ashpan, they’ll push on west.
In this same train car, on two seats folded into an improvised bed, two mares, a mother and daughter, both unicorns, lie together, gently snoozing. A stuffed wolf, one named Ambassador Nikai the Second, has been lent to them, and the daughter - Dancing Day - hugs it to her barrel like a lifeline. She’d have given it back, but the toy’s owner is quite insistent that she keep it as long as she needs it. Like the train, these people have earned a rest. In one car, a woman with fine black hair and vaguely exotic features is jabbering excitedly on the phone.
"You got away?" she asks.
A pause. Then a smile.
"Yes! Tell Brighthoof I miss her already! I'm so happy she's safe!"
Her conversation continues, but we shan’t listen in for now. Doors slam open and more soldiers, temporarily recast as stevedores, begin to load on scrounged-up food and supplies. Some, but not much, has come from the abandoned town. To the regret of more than a few passengers, the old Main Street Museum’s packed up and left. Shame, too.
As they work, they listen. Just audible, off in the distance, is the roar of artillery and small arms fire, one of countless battles and skirmishes all over the Eastern Seaboard. But the wind howls over the sound of battle, casting a pall of snow on the ground and tracing delicate patterns of frost on the windows. The winter has come early, and with a hard snap so unnatural that it hints of pegasus magic...
But nobody comments on the weather right now. It’d bring up too many unpleasant questions, too many fears. Everyone here is fairly forward-thinking, and they know that even if they could win the war in two weeks or two months, that the worst of winter has yet to arrive, and when it does, they’re going to have to tighten their belts so far they could serve as dog collars. Revised weather projections say that even without magical interference, the transition into 2024 is going to be a season of hardship, a long, sustained cold one that will likely draw the whole continent-the whole northern hemisphere, most likely-into a recreation of the Siege of Stalingrad.
As many people are going to die of starvation, hypothermia, and frostbite as will perish from ponification, skirmishes with the HLF, or suicide.
It’s reason enough that anyone with any knowhow - be it governments, private enterprises or bodies like the PHL - are running on all cylinders to try and find a magic bullet that will stave off the projected (and terrifyingly massive) death toll. Not stop the toll, but slow it - because that's all you can hope for around now. Their various affiliates, think tanks such as Crowe Labs and Ogunleye Futuristics, weapons designers such as Sebastian Irving, even PHL Biology, all of them know that come the heavier snows, and the freezing of fragile supply lines already under fire from PER and HLF bandits, that there will be shit to make the infamous ‘Acevedo Starvation Tape’ look like oversleeping until noon and forgetting breakfast.
In the past few years, there have been decades worth of advancement in technology and magic; alternative power, (thanks to Macroburst) pharmaceuticals, and agriculture are among the hundreds of concepts have been dug up from old file cabinets and evaluated. Vertical farms assisted by earth pony magic are another, going up in areas that are not within ‘immediate risk’ of the Barrier’s consumption. Every resource-stretching method known to man or equine has been tried and put into place.
And yet it’s not going to be enough..
...and nobody wants to even think about the winter to follow that... or anything in between. It’s almost a reflexive action for the mind to simply go blank when even considering it. Every year since the war has gotten exponentially worse, after all, and the year to come is simply beyond comprehension.
‘Though maybe’, a few cynics say, ‘this winter might kill off the last of the HLF, unless they just come crawling back again, like cockroaches…’
Cynics are a dime a dozen these days.
No, nobody on this train is looking forward to winter. They studiously ignore it. Not even the prospect of skiing on newly-virgin slopes can get the few humans present excited.
Outside, a tired man whose nest of golden-brown-blackish curly hair has formed itself into a pompadour gives a light fist-bump to the engine, as if to congratulate it for its hard work. He whispers a quick, improvised prayer in Hebrew, and then turns to consider the scene. His wrists hurt from working the fireman’s scoops so much.
They’ve pulled up alongside another train, a southbound military lashup whose troops are helping administer first-aid, and sharing what supplies and ammunition they can. Their generosity is the source of most of what is currently being loaded onto the refugee train. In contrast to the battered old steamer, a time-worn blue and yellow diesel locomotive is hauling the military consist, and behind it is lashed a few cars and a flatbed on which something huge has been sheeted over for protection from prying winds, and prying eyes, of which there were many.
The man looks at it, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.
This rendezvous was by chance, thanks to a desperate radio-plea for help being picked up, and he’s grateful. Relief at this chance for respite overwhelming him, he climbs back aboard 501’s consist, and sees the other occupants of this particular car.
There are many. Children and foals, huddled under ratty blankets and layers upon layers of jackets, some of which are so patched and duct-taped that they barely seem to have any original parts. Ship of Theseus, Johnny C thinks randomly.
They’re all drinking and eating supplies, warming themselves against radiators and portable heaters that have been scavenged from the town, or being carted off to the field hospital in the station. A few stragglers drive by on the highway, but the town is now all but populated by ghosts.
Two passengers catch his eyes. Two of his best friends.
A bearded man with an immense LMG and a huge revolver strapped to him sits at one end of the car, guzzling down a cup of spicy hot chocolate with chili, cinnamon, and mezcal. His primary weapon is a frankensteinian work of legend, a descendant of the MG42 calibered for .338 Norma Magnum rounds, bullets that pack the kind of firepower intended to bring down a charging grizzly.
It works just fine on equines too.
With a fire rate like a buzzsaw, aided by PHL cooling runes etched into the barrel, and enough accuracy to serve as a sniper rifle in a pinch, its the kind of unique weapon destined to gain a Wikipedia entry somewhere between Excalibur and Mjolnir. Though it’s nothing compared to the MG2023 he’s hoping to test soon...
Leaning against him for warmth, clad in a rough equine-fitted parka made from recycled materials is a large white earth pony the size of a small horse, wearing two LMGs, slurps up the same concoction from a bowl someone had filched from an abandoned arts and crafts store back in Bethlehem, NH. Next to them, an old iPad sits on a crate. Whenever they can get a connection up, they often tune into a radio show broadcast from South Africa by someone named Enitan Adebayo.
Though at the moment, it’s just playing music.
“Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain,
And all the children are insane, all the children are insane.
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah.
There’s danger on the edge of town…”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” the huge earth pony says as the bearded man finishes his drink. “We’ve still got a long ways to go. Gotta’ get back to Boston once we see these people on their way.”
“Think I don’t fokking know that, Aegis?” his companion, sighs, not unkindly. His name is Victor M. Kraber. “I fokking know, pony-boy, I know…”
Aegis lets the swearing go uncommented on. These are things one simply gets used to when friends with Viktor. “Honestly, when the war’s over, I’ll just welcome a bit of fokkin rest… I ever tell you about that time I was practically riding high on amphetamines and caffeine to get me going through the week?”
“Yes,” Aegis says. “About two thousand times.”
“Right. Sorry then,” Kraber apologizes, one hand in Aegis’ mane. “But… I feel bout like I did then. Barely held together.” He yawned.
“I know that feeling,” Aegis agrees, yawning as well. “Dammit, that’s contagious, isn’t it?”
Kraber nods. “Ja. That’s science.”
It’s times like this, Aegis reflects, that the mask slips ever so slightly. That Kraber allows himself to lie back and be human, and not sound so much like a character played by Sharlto Copley.
It’s nice to see him this way sometimes.
There’s knocking on the side of the train car. Kraber stands up, one hand on the heavy 14mm revolver at his hip, more out of habit than anything. It’s a ridiculous, massive gun, but it has so much more… more presence than any sidearm Kraber has ever fired. It can abort fights just by being drawn. Yeah, a gun with a bore a man could fit a thumb in makes for a hell of a negotiating tool.
He looks down, and out the window. There’s a man out there-unassuming, dressed in plain military fatigues, looking like he belonged in the PHL. Unremarkable. No eccentric equipment. That’s kind of rare these days - “eccentric” equipment, weapons that have been adapted to levels of insane lethality while still chambering standard ammo are very popular among the PHL, both their more “celebrated” tame psychopaths (Like Victor himself. Though it’s surprisingly easy to find the 28-gauge shells - who would have guessed that a shotgun pistol with more kick than a .410 would be so popular in the war?) and those PHL members who desperately want more gun.
Jumping down, Victor notes the man’s signs of rank and raises one hand in a weary salute, realising he’s addressing the commander of the army train.
“Colonel, thank you for the help you and your men have leant us. It’s appreciated.”
“No worries,” the man says, returning the salute. He’s in his late forties, early fifties perhaps, and has the bearing of a professional soldier ready to be relegated to the command of a desk, just beginning to run to fat.
“I heard you need a trip to Boston,” he adds, holding out a hand to the bearded man. “Viktor Kraber, is it? My name’s Hex.”
Kraber returns the handshake, and finds it to be firm. "Heard of you before, Colonel. The bliksem Renee won’t admit it, but we all appreciate what you and your chommies have done for weapons development."
“And I’m Aegis,” the large white earth pony says, having stepped down to join them. “And yeah, we do need a ride to Boston.”
He nods towards the steamer.
“We were going to try and use this old relic, but...it needs some repairs, and the unicorns that kept it steaming are all tapped out. Besides, the evacuees need it more than we do.”
“You brought a steam locomotive all the way from New Hampshire to here?” the man, Colonel Hex, asks incredulously, before smirking. “It’s not the craziest odyssey I’ve heard of lately, but it still ranks.”
“A friend of mine took 7470 down south!” Johnny C calls over. “Course we could do that.”
“Well, there were stragglers,” Aegis says matter-of-factly. “No way in hell were were just going to… leave... them.”
He says ‘leave’ as if it was a curse.
“Well said, bru,” Kraber says. “Well said. Besides. I’ve done… well, you know my history,” he said solemnly. “I’ve done terrible things in their backyard. I owe these people.”
“No, you’ve paid it back more than any of us ever could have dreamed,” says a dirty-blond man with a mustache and an FN Leshiy.
“No. I haven’t,” Kraber calls over. “And even if I had, there’s no way I could leave people and ponies like them, anyone like you... Especially not you. You’re a wonderful man, Burt.”
“You’ve got some balls that clank,” the PHL man, Hex, says with a whistle, before jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the diesel-hauled train over which he holds command. The numerals 8888 can be made out on its locomotive, as well as the faded letters ‘CSX’.
“I’m running into Boston myself with some essential kit for the battle. I’m not going all the way, but I could drop you around Lowell. If you’re willing to walk the last twenty miles or hitch another ride, I’d be glad for you to ride along with me.”
Victor eyes the train, spots the troops standing severe guard around the sheeted-over object that requires an entire flatbed to carry.
He’s accustomed to PHL weaponry, and has quite the taste for test runs. He’s signed up for testing a new tesla weapon he himself had proposed to PHL R&D, he’s used the ill-fated EM-62 Electrolaser (effective for breaking shields, but too hard to repair and prone to lethal overheating and melting), he’s signed up for newer, more magic-efficient battlefield treatments for human soldiers.
‘Guilty as charged,’ he admits to himself. ‘I’ve never lost an HLF man’s childish love of overpowered weaponry.’
And he has a child’s love of science fiction.
But what could that cargo be? he wonders on. The PHL aren’t as crippled internally as the HLF when it comes to command structure and secrets. Troops are usually informed about this sort of thing, but he has heard nothing. Something feels odd in all of this, but he’s grateful for the ride.
He’ll be keeping his hands on his guns just in case. He’s learned to trust his instincts and hunches. Instincts, while rarely as accurate or provable as educated guesses, were still useful sources.
“So?” Hex asks again. “Think your train can go on without you two?”
The wind howls once more. There’s a storm coming. The sounds of the unseen battle nearby seem to be drawing nearer.
“We’ll be fine,” the man with the pompadour calls down from 501’s cab. “There’s others coming to provide us with fire support, and I kept it going the whole way. You two get on back to Boston-you’re needed there.”
“I can’t leave you!” Kraber protests. “We barely made it out of there alive, and-”
“Viktor, you and Aegis are needed in Boston,” the short man says. “We’ll handle this, I promise.” He holds out a hand.
“You’re sure?” Aegis asks, holding out a hoof as Kraber holds out a hand.
“I promise,” the short man says, shaking them both with his right hand. “Besides. This is a hell of a lot safer than New Hampshire at the moment. We’ll probably be fine.”
“Alright, Johnny C,” Kraber says uneasily. Even the old joke of the ‘C’ being an actual part of his first name is running thin. “Just… call if you’re safe.”
“I promise,” the short man says solemnly.
“Give Pinkie Pie’s face a good kick, alright?” another man asks.
“It would be my fokking pleasure,” Kraber snarls, making a smile that uncomfortably reminds everyone present of a hungry wolf.
“Oh sweet Luna you’ve gotten him back to normal,” Aegis mutters. “I hope you’re happy with yourself, Johnny.” But beneath it all, Aegis is looking forward to it as well. They say the Great Equestrian is heading for Boston.
They say Marcus Renee is there, as well as the damn Elements of Harmony.
People say a lot of things about the Battle of Boston, and no matter who wins, it will be legendary. It will be a rumble that lives on in the hearts and minds of survivors for years to come. Every hand or hoof is needed. The PHL is even accepting the help of non-HLF affiliated civilian militias, with flash-enchanted (quick, rather imperfect spellwork that’s not made to last) or or piecemealed munitions made by cannibalizing a runic or enchanted weapon and spreading its parts among weaponry of the same model. An enchanted M16 suddenly goes to feed the guns of a small squad. It’s not as good as an enchanted M16 but it’s a hell of a lot better for the job at hand. They even say the main force hasn’t arrived yet.
“Well then…” Hex says, trying not to be unnerved at the sight of Kraber’s predatory, bloodthirsty smile. “Welcome aboard. As I said, my cargo’s pretty valuable, and you look like just the two to keep it safe…”
As Hex leads them towards the dirty blue bulk of train 8888’s locomotive, Kraber swears and briefly runs back to 501’s leading carriage. He returns with the Ipad, which has gotten stuck on loop, repeating the same song.
“Ride the snake, he’s old, and his skin is cold.
The west is best, the west is best.
Get here, and we’ll do the rest.
The blue bus is callin’ us, the blue bus is callin’ us,
Driver, where you takin’ us?”
“Goddammit, why can’t I get this thing to play Biting Elbows?” Kraber mutters.
Hex lifts an eyebrow as he pauses, halfway up 8888’s catwalk ladder, and Kraber, abashed, struggles to shut off the Ipad, laughing like some deranged vision of Saint Nicholas. Aegis lightly hoofs his own forehead in embarrassment.
’It’s enough’, he thinks to himself, ’to make me wonder how I even befriended this man?’
“Ah, there we go!” Kraber laughs. “Cueing up the Light Despondent in… now.”
“You’re playing that now?” Aegis asks. Then, slowly, urgently: “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“It has a really cool guitar solo,” Kraber protests. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“You sure about that?” Aegis asks.
“I’m sure,” Kraber shrugs. “Besides, after this, I can play the Stampede or something.”
“...The Stampede? Didn’t you get tired of that a couple hours ago?” Aegis asks.
“Bru. It’s Biting Elbows,” Kraber says, and Aegis must concede that point. “When have you known me to ever be tired of them?”
“Okay, good point,” Aegis admits.
Still, he thinks, He’s a better man than I would’ve guessed he’d be back then.
As 8888’s motor ignites with a filthy belch of diesel fumes, Aegis waves over at train 501, and Johnny C waves back and salutes. There is an explosion off in the distance. HLF artillery, Aegis thinks. Gotta be.
Godspeed, you magnificent sonsabitches.
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You know what? I'm going to give you an upvote from just how much words there in the initial submission...
5278850 Ooh, thanks!
5278854 Keep up the good work bruh, but you may have actually been better off splitting the chapter into smaller sections then use those to post a new chapter once or twice a week, eh. That should allow you to write another 40k words worth of story without having to worry much of anything...
5278874 Eh, the next couple chapters probably won't be this long.
...I hope.
5278877 let's hope for the sake of your fingers and brain...
A chapter should never be over 6,000-8,000 words long.
Let alone, 40,000.
That is actually a fatal flaw with this story. There is a reason you split your story into chapters, because people can read, then stop if they want to take a break, which they often do, and see where they left off by looking at which chapters they have read.
If anyone would want to stop reading in the middle of your 40,000 word chapter, they would instead have to continuously scroll down tediously to find the one paragraph that they haven't seen yet.
This is an instant turn off, and I would actually like to read a story with a pretty nicely drawn pencil and paper cover art (though the pony looks very off with his head).
My advice, take the effort to split up your monster chapter into individual ones, or most people won't even bother with your story and read the potentially great content within.
5278912 ...I'll do that later tonight.
Or perhaps I'm not aware the the Conversation Bureau stories posted such monster chapters.
Not to sound contrary ShadowFall, but I usually get excited when I see lengthy chapters (in my mind I consider 10,000 words a moderately short chapter), especially if I'm invested in the story.
Also, is it fair to say what length a chapter should be - I doubt there are hard and fast rules and it that varies from author to author and reader to reader. Michael Critchon for example in some books rarely had a chapter longer than a page or two, whereas the majority Terry Pratchet's books have no chapters at all.
Now admitedly I've got a stake in this story so can't be considered to have an unbiased opinion.
I also do not intend in any way for this to be an attack on your tastes.
5278923 Actually, Spectrum ALWAYS has chapters of 15k words or more. It's like a tradition.
5278912 I drew the cover art by the way.
...Jesus, why do I feel like I got punched in the gut?