Worlds Apart

by Elkia Deerling

Chapter twelve: retrace your steps

Without his squad, Triggerhoof was able to cover ground much faster.

He flew in the air, scanning the perimeter with his eyes. He knew it had to be somewhere. He had taken a moment to orient himself on his surroundings, and was heading towards the Channel Twenty-four building. He knew the chances were slim, but he somehow hoped to find his squad members there. They couldn’t just be gone like that. Maybe Amanda survived, or Andrei, or Brockheart? He hoped and hoped as he flew.

The Channel Twenty-four building came into view. Swooping down, Triggerhoof had a good view of the battlefield. Changelings were scattered everywhere. They all had holes in their bodies where Twilight’s and Rarity’s magical beams had struck them. But there were also piles of ash, which were probably changelings that hadn’t been so lucky.

Triggerhoof looked everywhere. He searched the building, lifted up the corpses, checked the surroundings, the nearby apartment buildings, the piles of rubble scattered here and there. Nothing.

And that was when Triggerhoof realized that they were gone. His squad, the Heat Seekers, had been wiped out.

Trigg always fancied that they were unstoppable, invincible, invulnerable. He always fancied that they could go through everything, as long as they were together. For him, the Heat Seekers were legendary. He was part of a living legend.

He had been part of a living legend.

They were gone. Brockheart, Simon, Amanda, Andrei; all gone forever. Something within Triggerhoof snapped. He just couldn’t compute. With a few hard flaps of his wings, he landed right on top of the Channel Twenty-four building. He screamed. He screamed for minutes until his voice was hoarse, not only from the screaming, but also from the tears in his eyes. His gasmask clouded.

In his mind, he stood there, Triggerhoof, surrounded by his squad. And they were shooting, shoulder to shoulder, back to back. There were enemies everywhere, but they didn’t care; they just shot. Triggerhoof opened fire on his imaginary enemies. They tried to storm the Heat Seekers, but Triggerhoof knew they wouldn’t succeed. The first wave was communists. Those filthy freedom haters went down before the hail of lead. The bullets tore through their bodies, leaving wounds as red as their ideology. Triggerhoof grinned as he saw the blood flying everywhere, splattering in his face. It felt good, almost like a refreshing spring.

The second wave was raiders. Humanity at its worst, reduced to savages, with only a loose set of laws that favored the strong and punished the weak. Triggerhoof scowled at the sight of them. There they came, dressed in filthy rags or makeshift leather armor. They had guns of the poorest quality, and already Trigg could see some of them jamming. The raiders opened fire, but Trigg wasn’t afraid. None of their guns would be accurate enough to hit him. His guns, on the other hand, were fully-maintained, fixed, and oiled. They were ready to fire, ready to kill. And that was exactly what Triggerhoof did.

The raiders went down, stacking on top of each other until little heaps littered the street. They were like little islands surrounded by a bloody sea. Trigg grinned as the colorful metaphor came to him.

But then, the bullets stopped. Triggerhoof had fired every round he had. His guns went clicking instead of barking. Smoke came from the barrels. He looked at his squad members, but they were gone. He was once again alone.

Did they betray him? Did they flee and hide like cowards? No, they couldn’t do that. They were brave and strong and living legends. But if that were true, then why was Triggerhoof standing alone on the battlefield?

When he turned around, he saw the third wave incoming. They were changelings.

Hundreds of them flew towards him in a straight line. Their mouths were opened, and they showed their long, poisonous teeth and their forked, slithering tongues. They rushed at the pony. Two seconds and they would completely overwhelm him. One second.

“RAAAGH!” Triggerhoof crouched and covered his head with his hooves, ready to die a horrible death.

But of course, nothing happened. The scenes were just in his mind. His mind which denied what had happened.

An alarm rang, bringing the pony back to the here and now. Triggerhoof looked at his digital watch. The numbers flashed. It should be time to change the filter on his gasmask. If he didn’t, the clogged-up old filter wouldn’t protect him from radioactive particles in the air anymore, and they would infest his lungs immediately.

Triggerhoof let the alarm ring for a while. He cried on the dusty rooftop, while his alarm kept beeping. When was the last time he ever cried? Probably when he lay in his parent’s hooves that fateful day one year ago.

He wanted to rip off his gasmask, and let himself die right there and then. At least he would die with his squad, just as a captain went go down with his own sinking ship. The Heat Seekers were Triggerhoof’s ship, and without them, he was adrift at sea. A glowing, radioactive sea.

But his survival instinct told him otherwise. Survival was a part of his organism. With robot-like movements, and without seeing what he was doing, he reached into his pack and fumbled around. In the end, he threw the entire contents of his backpack everywhere. When he finally gathered himself together, he picked himself up and looked through his stuff.

He stood rooted to the ground, as he realized that this was his last filter.

The familiar panic overcame him. His grief was pushed aside in his mind. He had to find a filter—fast.

In a cloud of dust, Triggerhoof took to the air. He made sure to stay low and not enter the green clouds, trying to breathe as little as possible. Fear accompanied him on his way to Crossroads. He raced through the sky, following the exact same route he had taken with the heat seekers towards their demise.

He reached Crossroads in a new record time. He swooped down, crash-landed onto the ground, and headed straight for the reinforced door.

“Anyone! Let me in! It’s me, Trigg!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, while banging on the door. But when he paused to catch his breath, he realized, much to his astonishment, that the door was open.

But that couldn’t be. They never left the door open.

Triggerhoof had no ammunition to shoot. “Let’s do this the old-fashioned way, then,”he said, as he reached back and grabbed his combat knife with his mouth. It had a strap through which he could stick his hoof, so that even a pony was able to wield it. With slow, careful steps, he entered the bunker.

As he closed the door behind him, he threw off his gasmask, so he could see better. He clicked on the flashlight at his side, for everything was dark. That meant that the generator had been turned off. That couldn’t be good.

Leaving the airlock behind, Triggerhoof proceeded towards the staircase—the elevator had no power. Even though he was no expert on stealth missions, he wanted to make sure he saw the enemy before the enemy saw him, especially if all he had to defend himself with was a knife.

He went down and down and down, until he reached the level of the military. The hallways looked clear. Triggerhoof stopped to listen, but he couldn’t hear any footsteps or hoofsteps. He passed the briefing room, the living quarters, the rec room, and ended his sweep at the office of General Johansson.

The door was unlocked and opened to a slit. Triggerhoof went inside.

Of course, Johansson wasn’t there. There were the familiar newspaper clippings and some papers lay here and there on the ground. Triggerhoof knew that something was wrong, because the general’s desk was always tidy and organized. He walked around the desk, and noticed something lying on it. It was a small tape recorder, a bit old-fashioned, but in good condition. There was a tape in it. Triggerhoof pressed the ‘rewind’ button, and then hit ‘play.’

This is General Johansson speaking, and this message is for the Heat Seekers. I have great news to tell you, although it might also upset you. They have found us, finally! The American military has found our little island in the sea.

Johansson’s voice was kind of giddy, as if he had a special surprise to reveal. But it also had an undertone of concern. Triggerhoof couldn’t believe his ears. The military had finally found them, just as General Johansson always wanted! Trigg pressed the recorder to his ear, eager to hear the rest

I guess they must have spotted that glowing sign we always turn on from their helicopters. I know I have always complained about that thing, but, hell, something good has finally come out of it. They landed and entered the bunker. I believe Andrei was on watch that day. Ha! I would have liked to see the look on his face when he realized who it was on the other side of the door.

“That day?” Triggerhoof said to himself. “Then how long had I been out?” He concluded that it must at least have been a couple of days. He shrugged, and continued to listen. Johansson let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

But, obviously, if you all hear this, then it means that we are gone. The government officials ushered me to go and pack up, so they can leave with us as soon as possible. But instead, I’m recording this so that you guys can hear it. I overheard them talking, and they are taking us to their biggest base, which they call ‘Democracity’. Heh, what a name. Their base is situated in the north. I have managed to get the coordinates, which I will dictate now.

Triggerhoof quickly put the recorder down and grabbed some paper and a pen, which he held in his mouth. As Johansson began to dictate the numbers, Triggerhoof wrote them down. When he was done, Trigg pressed his ear against the tape recorder again.

I am… very sorry to lose you. I did realize that going with the government officials meant losing you all, Heat Seekers. It has been a few days since your mission, and I reckon it didn’t quite go as planned. I hope you are all alive and in good health when you find this message. And if not… god, why am I saying this? It’s not as if your spirits can hear this or so. I’m going to say it anyway. If you died during that mission, then I’m sorry. I hope you will rest in peace—you deserve it.

But I’m afraid I have no choice than to go with the American military. They are very… insistent. Nevertheless, if you can hear this, then try to find us using the coordinates. They are always looking for new soldiers, farmers, or scientists.

Another voice was heard somewhere else, but the words it spoke were unintelligible.

I have to go. I hope to see you soon, Heat Seekers. This is General Johansson signing off.

Triggerhoof rewound the tape and listened to it again. Then two more times. While he listened, he thought. Now he had a mission of his own; finding that base and getting in contact with the general. Triggerhoof wanted to be with him. To him, General Johansson had always been like a dad, and after the loss of his entire squad, he needed him; if only to inform him about the battle and just talk about it. What else could he do?

Trigg slipped the tape recorder in his saddlebags, and turned back the way he came. He proceeded towards the armory, got a few fresh clips for his assault rifle, and some drum magazines for his combat shotgun. He also grabbed a GPS system, and all the gasmask filters he could find. Then he went to the kitchen, and took some instant meals and plenty of water.

Walking towards the hallway, Trigg headed for the stairs. He was going to see what medical supplies he could scrounge together from the infirmary. On his way, he passed the office of Doctor Goodman. Trigg paused to take a quick peek. It was empty. Trigg concluded that Doctor Goodman too, had followed the American military.

A bag full of medical supplies later, Triggerhoof was ready to go. He went through the hallway—his hallway—one last time. When he reached the airlock, he grabbed his gasmask, changed the filter, and put it on. He decided to close the heavy iron door. Although Crossroads might be a place fortunate travelers could stumble upon and rest, the last thing Triggerhoof wanted was for raiders or other scum to take possession of his home, just as they did to that other bunker he encountered so many days ago. With a grinding sound, accompanied by the squeak of the massive hinges, the door to Crossroads Bunker closed. Triggerhoof left his house behind.