Worlds Apart

by Elkia Deerling

Chapter three: the Heat Seekers

“Please come in, private Triggerhoof.”

Triggerhoof stepped through the door, gave a quick salute, and sat down in a chair opposite of the general’s huge desk.

Triggerhoof took a moment to look around. The general’s office was such a treasure-trove of information, it almost looked like a communication room, which they didn’t have. Many, many newspaper articles hung on the walls, categorized by the general’s own system. There was news from the time before the war, often with strategic value, or just for nostalgia.

BELARUS ACKNOWLEDGES YAROSLAV’S ‘COOPERATION TREATY’

Yaroslav claims it is best for the country.

ANOTHER COUNTRY FALLS FOR YAROSLAV’S ‘COOPERATION TREATY’

Ukraine is now in Russian hands.

RUSSIANS ANNEX POLAND

Yaroslav says: ‘They supported my decision.’

RUSSIAN INFLUENCE CONTINUES TO GROW

When will they stop ‘reclaiming’ their lost Soviets?

IS YAROSLAV BRINGING BACK COMMUNISM?

All signs point to the obvious.

TENSIONS BETWEEN EAST AND WEST CONTINUE TO RISE

President Winter says: ‘Things have never been this bad since the Cold War.’

Furthermore, there were books, pamphlets, and many posters bearing propaganda.

FIGHT FOR FREEDOM AND DEMOCRACY

HELP TO KEEP EUROPE ALIVE

NEVER FEAR THE RED SEAR

COMMUNISM HAS NO PLACE ON MOTHER EARTH

And at the center of it all was the map.

Over the course of many missions, General Johansson had been vigilant. He had looked with a close eye at the hellscape that was Ground Zero, taking in every building of interest, every mountain or natural obstacle, and every pit of radiation. At the center of the map was the crater, all that was left of the once great Aurora city. But the map was incomplete. At the bottom of the map, a long distance away from the crater, was the little town with the bunker they called home. From there, many military facilities were marked in green; places they could go back to and scavenge weapons, ammunition, armor, gasmask filters; everything the Heat Seekers and the rest of the soldiers needed. Some were crossed out, meaning that they either hadn’t survived the nuclear blasts, or had been scavenged until there was nothing of interest left.

But the farther away from Crossroads Bunker, the vaguer and more imprecise the map became. Miles and miles of land was still unexplored, as no one had needed or wanted to go that far. For all they knew, they could be the last survivors, but Johansson knew that that wasn’t at all true. In a sense, they were a little island in the sea, with other groups who were fighting each other much farther north.

“Would you like a celebratory drink, private?” Johansson said.

A polite smile appeared on the pony’s stubble-covered muzzle. “I would never refuse, sir.”

Johansson grabbed two glasses from a cabinet. Then he unlocked one of his desk drawers with a key, and grabbed a bottle of golden, swirling liquid. Whiskey.

“You know how rare this is, private Triggerhoof, so enjoy every drop,” Johansson said, as he filled the glasses.

Triggerhoof took one of the glasses, and looked at the swirling, almost glowing, whiskey.

“It’s a shame bars and cafés aren’t primary targets,” Johansson said, “or else I would have marked them with gold on the map.”

Triggerhoof’s smile stayed on his face. It grew even broader as he took the first sip. Damn, this is good!

General Johansson sat down and looked at the pony opposite him. “Let’s not get distracted by booze, soldier. Now I want to know how the mission went; you looked pretty beat-up.”

“There were… complications,” Triggerhoof said.

A darkness spread over Johansson’s face. “Reds?”

“No, sir. Raiders.”

A small sigh came from the general. “Good.” He stood up and walked towards the map, where he took an eraser, and erased a line. It was the line which marked the boundaries of what Johansson thought was the territory the reds had annexed. Now Johansson knew that the reds weren’t as close as he thought they were. He adjusted the lines, and sat down again. “How many raiders were there?”

Triggerhoof took a sip of whiskey, paused to let his tongue be treated by the flavor, and then said, “I don’t know. Four dozen, maybe more. They set up shop in a bunker underneath the hospital.”

“That’s not a shop, that’s a compound,” Johansson said. “Did you clear it, or did you have to retreat?”

“Don’t insult me, General. Of course I cleared it. Killed every last one of them.”

The general threaded his fingers. “Very good. They won’t be bothering anyone else.” He paused to look in Triggerhoof’s eyes. They were the eyes of a warrior, of a person—a pony—who was used to killing for a cause, even if the cause was people huddled together in a bunker.

And Triggerhoof looked back. From all the people, all the soldiers in Crossroads Bunker, General Johansson was the man he wanted to be. He was Trigg’s example. The general unthreaded his hands. They were big hands with long fingers. Hands that had taken as many lives as they had made tactical decisions. In Triggerhoof’s eyes, General Johansson was a born leader; a living legend.

“But there’s something you’re not telling me, Triggerhoof,” Johansson said. “What ‘complications’ did you encounter? Surely the raiders weren’t the ‘complications’ you meant.”

“They weren’t,” Trigg said. “It was what they were doing that disturbed me.”

“And what was that?”

Trigg told the story about how the doctors were forced to make drugs for the raiders. “There were many of them, General. Many doctors, I mean. Their bunker wasn’t as advanced as Crossroads, but it did manage to save those people from the atomic bombs.”

Johansson stroked his red beard. “Yes… I know what you mean. I had thought about that, you know, about other settlements; other places where people would be protected from the radiation and try to build a life for themselves. We already know that we’re not the only ones, thanks to those damn Russian scouting parties.” Johansson slammed his hand on the desk. “But enough about my musings. I want to know about the tactical value of the place.”

“High,” Trigg said. “There was practically a whole hall with boxes of meds. We could do a search-and-retrieve mission with the Winter. The raiders are all dead. The only resistance would be from the doctors, but I doubt that they know how to hold a weapon properly, let alone fire one.”

“So you brought the medication back and discovered a new supply location?! That deserves another round!” Johansson grabbed both glasses and refilled them. Then he raised his. “To new hope! Skål!”

“Cheers,” Triggerhoof said, and then both pony and man drank up their whiskey in one gulp.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe Johansson just wanted to have someone to talk to. He suddenly stood up and paced around his office in thought. “You know, Triggerhoof, sometimes I wonder what we are doing here.”

Triggerhoof raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, sir?”

Johansson waved his hands around. “I mean this, Crossroads Bunker. After the bombs fell, we set out with the Winter, looking for the army—our army—to rejoin them. I wanted to fight for America again, my country. I wanted to mean something again, to have a cause and pledge my heart and soul and body to it. But we never found our army. Not one single soldier who carried the American colors. Just reds. Communists… Filth…. And then, well…”

“You found us,” Triggerhoof finished for him.

“That’s right. We had no supplies left, so we knew that the bunker was our only chance at survival. We basically stranded here. And we never left, as you can see.” Johansson pointed at himself.

“I think I understand,” Triggerhoof said. “You want to go to them, to the U.S. military—if they are still out there somewhere.”

Johansson pointed a finger to the roof. “Oh, yes. They are out there.” His voice was as firm as if he were stating a fact. “They are out there, together with our president. There is no way they let our president die in the apocalypse. I’m sure he leads his troops in a base, or a bunker. I know he will never abandon his soldiers.”

“He’s just hard to get to,” Triggerhoof said.

The general walked towards his map, then stabbed a finger to the north. “They are up here. I know it.” His finger was trembling as he jerked it away from the map and waved it around like he was holding a knife. “Dammit! If only we had a functioning radio… Can you believe it, Triggerhoof? Three, almost four years we have been here, underground, in a scientific and medical facility—and yet we have never had a radio that actually works. All we have is that bare-bones piece of junk, which I can’t even begin to call a radio!”

Johansson grabbed the bottle, poured another glass for himself, and emptied it in one single gulp. “For years we have been searching for bullets, weapons, food, medicines, and parts for medical machines for god’s sake, but never for parts for a radio.”

Triggerhoof was unsure if he should say something. He said something. “I reckon the council doesn’t think a radio is a high priority piece of equipment.”

Johansson sighed like a balloon deflating. “Not a high priority… Back in the military, a radio was worth its weight in gold. A radio was our lifeline, our way of communicating to home base.”

“But sir, we are home base.”

Johansson stopped pacing around, and looked with flaring eyes at the pony. “What do you mean?”

Triggerhoof shrugged. “There is no home base to signal to. And then again, maybe it is better that way. Imagine if the doctors got their hands on a working radio. Those goodie two shoes would no doubt broadcast an offer to help everyone. Imagine our position known by all the raiders, reds, and other scum. The doctors could compromise our security, just now when we are so tactically situated.”

Upon hearing that advice, Johansson relaxed a little. “You’re right. We are an island in the sea, after all.”

“An island in the sea, sir.”

Johansson sat down in his chair, visibly cooled down. He fidgeted with his fingers. “But just imagine we would have a radio. The military, I mean. Then it’s just a matter of setting it up and adjust to the right wavelength. I’m sure that with a little searching, we could find them, the U.S. military. Then it’s just a matter of gathering enough supplies and travel to them.”

Something in those words and that intonation stirred Triggerhoof’s heart. “I beg your pardon, sir, but are you thinking of leaving Crossroads behind?”

General Johansson rubbed the back of his head with his hands. “I don’t know, soldier. I just… don’t know.”

Triggerhoof looked at the doubtful face of his general. He still wasn’t sure he just heard what the general told him. “With all due respect, sir, but leaving Crossroads is a bad idea. As soon as the military would be gone, it would be left unprotected, up for grabs by whoever wants to come and live in it. It will be unprotected. Raiders can attack and slaughter us, or maybe we’ll get annexed by the communists.”

Johansson sighed and lowered his hands. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, and I do admire your devotion to our operation here. It’s just that I want to fight for something bigger. I want to kill those communists and rebuild our nation with freedom and security. Those filthy communists who still think bombing our great nation isn’t enough. Those filthy communists who would murder everything we stand for. Those filthy communists who want to annex all of the States. Ha! Let them try.”

“That’s an honorable goal, sir,” Triggerhoof said.

“Thank you.” Johansson stopped pacing around and sat down in his chair again. “Thank you for listening to the ramblings of an old veteran.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes… sometimes I wish they would find us, get us out of here, and unleash our full potential in the army.”

“I hope that day will come soon, sir,” Triggerhoof said.

Johansson still stared at the ceiling, dreaming, planning, hoping. “I hope so too, soldier. Dismissed!”

**

Triggerhoof had an uneasy feeling in his stomach upon leaving the general’s office behind. It could have been because of the words the general had spoken… The voice of his commander and his patriotic mindset always inspired Triggerhoof. But the last things he said, about leaving Crossroads, it sprouted a strange feeling deep inside Trigg’s gut.

Or maybe he was just hungry. Killing things always made Triggerhoof hungry.

He went towards the elevator, pressed the button, and ended up on the first sublevel; the military area. Once he was there, Triggerhoof took a moment to sniff the air. Gunpowder and bravery… the recipe for an unstoppable army.

Imagining a nice late dinner, Triggerhoof entered the mess hall, and saw the rest of the Heat Seekers sitting at a table, eating and playing cards.

“Hey! Look who we have here,” the cheerful voice of Brockheart sounded. He stood up and walked towards Triggerhoof. “We missed you, buddy. For a moment, we were actually concerned about you, you know?”

“I wasn’t!” Andrei called from the table.

Brockheart’s embrace was tight, but not tight enough. With a simple shift of his weight, Triggerhoof managed to break free. “I’m fucking hungry, Brockheart.”

Brockheart patted the pony on the head. “And you haven’t changed a bit.”

Triggerhoof chose not to laugh at that pun, which was easy, and went to get a plate full of food. There were potatoes, vegetables, and even some fruit. No meat. No one had ever thought of bringing animals inside the bunker when the bombs fell. Then again, there were probably not many animals around during that time. Sometimes someone got lucky on Ground Zero and shot a bird, brought it down, and cooked it up. Eating meat had become a status symbol in Crossroads Bunker.

Triggerhoof sat down amongst the other Heat Seekers and dug in.

The Heat Seekers… formed after the Winter reached Crossroads Bunker, bringing in all kinds of protection. They were considered the finest, most versatile, and most deadly team in the Crossroads military. The composition of the team had changed over the years. Members got shot by commies, got irradiated, or disappeared or died from other reasons. But this team had been around for long, very long. With a mouth full of potatoes, Triggerhoof looked around at his comrades in arms.

Next to him sat Brockheart, the dark-skinned demolitions expert of the Heat Seekers. A demolition expert was always handy in a team. Locked chests, locked bunkers, locked storage facilities; they had all bowed to Brockheart’s—sometimes home-made—explosives. Triggerhoof had asked him about his dark skin tone, but hadn’t received a satisfying answer. Apparently, there was a land named ‘Africa’ where everyone looked like that because of the sun. Triggerhoof found that weird. When he walked in the sun, his coat didn’t change, right?

“A-a-are you alright, Trigg?” Amanda said. She had the softest, most delicate and warm voice Triggerhoof had ever heard. She was the team’s sniper. While her voice did sometimes stutter, her hands never hesitated to pull the trigger and take down the enemy. Her auburn hair fell over one side of her face as she looked at Triggerhoof’s injuries with those sparkly blue eyes.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Triggerhoof said. He didn’t snap to Amanda. He never snapped to Amanda. Nobody ever snapped at Amanda. It was just something that was not done, neither in the bunker, nor on Ground Zero.

Opposite of him sat Andrei. “As if it is a rarity for our little pony to get beat up by the baddies, heh.”

Andrei was their Russian scout. Having someone who spoke Russian and wasn’t a communist was a priceless asset to any team. He knew about the enemy, about their tactics and about their motivation.

Triggerhoof gave Andrei a hard kick with his hooves.

“Ouch!”

“I’d say he deserved that,” Simon said. The sixty-year-old survival expert, always properly dressed, knew a lot. He had seen many things, and harbored the secrets to survive them. Everybody could always come to him to ask for advice and counsel, both of which Simon readily gave.

“How was the mission?” Brockheart asked with a smile. “Was it fun? Come on, man, spill us the secrets already!”

Triggerhoof swallowed some potato and took a sip of water. “It was a strange mission.”

“Oh! I like strange missions. Was it a good strange or a bad strange?”

Andrei shot Brockheart a look. “He was out on Ground Zero. Of course it was a bad strange.”

“Andrei’s right,” Trigg said. “It was a bad strange. Lots of fucked-up shit going on in that bunker.”

“They had a bunker? Awesome!” And then Brockheart proceeded to ask Triggerhoof many, many questions. Triggerhoof did his best to answer the demolitionist’s questions, leaving no stone unturned. The only thing he told them nothing about was the pony.

Simon fumbled with his moustache. “That sounds quite interesting if you ask me. Another bunker with people who survived the war, that is not something you see every day.”

Andrei scowled. “I hope you killed every single one of those raider bastards.”

Triggerhoof nodded, and stabbed his broccoli with his fork.

“Heh,” Andrei said. “I guess those doctors didn’t stand a chance against the raiders. I guess they still don’t know what hit them. Why are doctors always so weak?”

Simon shot him an irritated look. “May I kindly remind you that we have many wonderful doctors in our own bunker, who do their best to improve the lives of both the military and everyone who lives here?”

Andrei returned the stare. “I’m just pointing out that without the military, without the Heat Seekers, they are nothing.”

Amanda looked over at the argument with fearful eyes. It looked as if she was going to say something, but then closed her mouth again.

Next to them, at the far end of the table, a young man in soldier garbs sat down. Brockheart had seen him before; he was one of the refugees who had arrived a few days ago. Apparently he had a military background, and was stationed with the rest of the military.

“Hey there, man,” Brockheart said. “You’re checking out the big boys here?”

“I-I-In a way, yes,” the young man answered. “I have heard of you guys. But… I always wondered… why are you called the ‘Heat Seekers?’”

“Because we seek and brave the heat,” Brockheart answered, and patted himself on the heart. The pride radiated off his voice.

“But I still don’t understand the ‘heat?’”

Andrei looked the man in the eyes. “Heat, radiation, kid. What, have you never been to Ground Zero before? I thought you came from up there.”

The young man said nothing, obviously stunned by Andrei’s aggressive tone. As quietly and stealthily as he could, he grabbed his plate and went to sit somewhere else.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Amanda said, barely loud enough for the others to hear.

“What did you say?” Andrei said.

Amanda shrunk. “Nothing… nothing.”

Triggerhoof decided to help Amanda, and changed topic. “So, what were you guys talking about?”

“Oh, same old, same old,” Simon said with a wave of his hands.

“Mutants!” Brockheart said, as if he were happy to see one.

Andrei looked up. “Yes, mutants.”

“Aw, not again,” Simon said.

“Yes again,” Andrei said. “They are real, I tell you. When I was back at checkpoint thirteen, the officers there gave some soldiers the task of scouting out the nearby metro stations, looking for a place to be protected from the fallout. You know, a place where they could make a nice base.” Andrei lowered his voice as if he were telling a scary story around the campfire. “All I can say is that very few soldiers returned from that place. Like, ten went into the tunnels, and three came out. And their stories were insane. They told of slimy things, with empty, soulless eyes, and wings. They were fast, and had fangs that would put Count Dracula to shame. Of course, I was always the first to check on the poor men who had been sent down below. But the commander wasn’t at all happy with what they said. He thought they had gone mad, and he shot them. ‘We have no use for mad soldiers,’ he said, ‘who’s next?’”

Andrei paused to look at his crowd. Amanda was practically shaking, Brockheart listened with childlike curiosity, Simon and Triggerhoof looked bored and uninterested. Nevertheless, Andrei continued.

“So eventually, they stopped sending men down below, said that the tunnels were unsafe and could collapse. But I knew the real reason why they didn’t send any more men.”

“Because there was the danger of a collapsing tunnel,” Simon said.

“No. Because there are mutants! Creatures that have been tainted by radiation, biological weapons, and who knows what more. They are creatures almost from another dimension, ready to devour everything in their paths.”

“And have you ever seen one, Mister Andrei?” Simon said.

Andrei rubbed his bald head. “Well… njet. But I have heard them. I heard their terrible hiss, as if they spoke curse words through clenched teeth. Obviously they scrutinized our way of life. Maybe… maybe they even breed in the metro systems. Maybe they reproduce their evil kind. I tell you, soon there will be an other dominant species on earth, and it will be—”

“Mutants?” Simon said, not at all convinced.

“Yes, Mutants,” Andrei said. “Believe it or not, but I have seen what they could do to a man. I would never, ever, not for one million Rubles, go into a metro tunnel on Ground Zero.”

Triggerhoof looked at the terrified Amanda, and then turned his attention to the Russian storyteller. “Man, you have read too many of those Metro novels, Andrei,” he said. “And I see they have rotten away your brains.”

Andrei veered up. “What?! Those are good, Russian literature. You could learn stuff from those books. Pfa! Read too many metro books… There are just two of them, so I can’t even read too many of them!”

“Lucky you,” Triggerhoof said in a monotonous voice, before he took another sip.

There was a silence in the group. Brockheart decided to continue the card game they were playing, while Triggerhoof finished his dinner. He walked towards the counter to hand over his empty plate, and took a moment to enjoy the silence. He looked over at his friends. From the outside, they didn’t even look like military personnel, let alone a team. But Triggerhoof would gladly put his life in their hands, and so would the others. Triggerhoof had worked hard to earn his place with the Heat Seekers, and had scars to show for it. In a sense, he had reached his life goal; becoming a Heat Seeker. As he walked back to the table, he wondered when they would go on a mission together, and was already looking forward to it.

When Triggerhoof returned and sat down, another conversation was going on. Simon was speaking.

“Well, of course I have never talked to him personally, but I have seen many of his speeches on the television and heard his words on the radio. President Winter is a calm, collective man. He was always serious and honest about the position of America in the world, and the relations with Eastern Europe and Russia. Does that answer your question, Amanda?”

Amanda nodded.

Andrei spat on the ground. “Well, if that president of yours was so calm and collected, then how in the hell did he start World War Three?”

Any other person would have punched Andrei for his nasty words about President Winter. But they were the Heat Seekers, and they had to set an example. And besides, they had had this argument before. ‘Whose fault is it?’

Simon furrowed his grey brows in thought, but he seemed to be at a loss for words. “I… honestly don’t know. It was as much a surprise for me as it was for everyone else, I suppose. The day that I sat in the guards’ office at Crossroads Hospital, watching the television absentmindedly, and when the news reporter confirmed the nuclear strike on New York…” Simon sighed. For a moment, he seemed to be weeping, but then he resumed his tale. “It was the most horrible day of my life. Then the panic came. Panic, screaming, people running everywhere and nowhere, not knowing where to go, what to do. Well, I knew what to do. We rounded up as many doctors as we could, and then sealed the doors, battened down the hatches. God knows how many people we had to leave behind.”

“But remember,” Andrei said, stabbing a finger in the air, “America fired first.”

Simon looked pained. “Yes, Andrei, I suppose we did. But… it was just a warning shot. President Winter said it himself.”

“Warning shot, ha!” Andrei scoffed. “The destruction of a whole town and turning the whole Krym into an irradiated wasteland wasn’t a ‘warning shot.’ Then Hiroshima was a ‘warning shot,’ and Nagasaki also. I had relatives in Sevastopol, for God’s sake.”

“Eh, maybe we should…” Amanda said, but her voice trailed off.

Triggerhoof heard her. “Stop your jabbering about the fucking blame, Andrei, or I’ll stuff a potato in your mouth to help you shut up.”

Not the kind of solution or words Amanda would have liked to use, but they did the trick.

Brockheart saw that the mood was turning sour. With almost comical movements, he faked a loud yawn, spreading his black, muscled arms wide. “Wow, it is late! I think I should go to bed. You folks all know I need my beauty sleep.”

Andrei was about to say something nasty, but shut his mouth. Amanda smiled in silence.

Simon stood up too. “Well, I presume my bedtime has also come.” He wiggled his foot. ”I think these old bones need a rest. Who knows what may happen tomorrow?”

“I hope a mission,” Andrei said. “I’m dying for some action.”

“Hey, me too,” Brockheart said with a smile.

Andrei pointed to the cards. “We’ll continue playing tomorrow. Amanda, guard those cards with your life.”

The voice of Andrei was so threatening, that Amanda could do nothing but nod.

“He was just kidding,” Brockheart said softly to her, and gave her a wink. Amanda returned his wink with a soft smile. “Good night, Brockheart.”

“Good night, Amanda. Sweet dreams.” And then Brockheart waved her a kiss.

They left the mess hall almost completely empty. The only sounds came from the cooks who were scurrying around, clearing away all the plates and putting away their forks, spoons, and knives. But as they worked their way towards the kitchen, those sounds too, died away. Triggerhoof and Amanda were the only two left in the silence.

Both of them took a moment to enjoy this silence. In a world devastated by nuclear fire, or in a bunker with hundreds of other people, a true, absolute silence was rare. Both of them closed their eyes, breathed in, breathed out. When they opened their eyes again, they noticed they were staring in each other’s eyes. Their gazes quickly searched for another target.

At last, after an awkward minute, Amanda spoke. “You… you should get some rest. You know, for the wounds to heal.”

Trigg nodded. “I should.” But then why didn’t he get up and leave?

Another minute of awkward silence followed. Amanda was trying to find a way to stand up and leave and go to bed. But she found that she couldn’t. She mustered some courage, and looked at the scar-covered pony opposite of her. His deep, green eyes betrayed nothing. They had grown cold, Amanda realized. She wanted to help Triggerhoof, to unfreeze those hard eyes. Finally, she figured out something to say, something that suited the silence well.

“Do you miss Equestria, Raspberry Trick?”

That was not something Triggerhoof expected. In all those years, during all of those missions, Amanda had never asked such a delicate, yet direct and exposing question. Trigg looked at the ground, thinking of an answer. “It’s hard to miss something when you barely remember it.”

Amanda looked away. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“No. I was lying on the ground, my head hazy from blood loss. Hell, I could barely see! The only things I could see were fire… magic… death. Equestria is gone, Amanda.”

“That’s just… just so hard to believe.”

Amanda was a huge fan of the My Little Pony television show, ever since she was little. For her, the image of that beautiful, fairy tale world just disappearing in smoke and fire was something she could neither picture nor believe.

“And the main six?”

Triggerhoof looked Amanda in the eyes, and forced his coarse voice to be gentle. “I’m sorry Amanda. I don’t know what happened to them.”

Amanda felt tears burning. “I-I-I just h-h-hope they are alright.”

In another time, in another place, Triggerhoof could have shared Amanda’s sorrow. But here, in this world, he couldn’t care less. There was nothing even the main six could do in this world to make it a nicer place. The only thing he himself could do was try and make it a safer place—for the right people.

“I don’t want to upset you, Amanda. You should cling on to that image you have of Equestria. That might help you sleep tonight. Just… just forget about what I said. It really was a nice place.”

“It was,” Amanda said, her voice a high whisper. “It was…”

Once again a silence, but not quite. In the light of the dimming lamps, Triggerhoof saw her shoulders twitching. He heard some soft sobs, and he swore he could see glistening tears travel down the young woman’s cheeks. In a sense, she was still a little girl deep down inside. Triggerhoof wanted to say something positive to lighten her spirits. He didn’t want to be responsible for sending Amanda to bed with a bucket load of nightmares about the ravaged world he came from. Triggerhoof frowned and stared at the ground in thought. Then he remembered what he had told Doctor Goodman, and knew it would give Amanda some hope.

“There was a pony.”

Amanda’s shoulders stopped twitching. “What do you mean?” she said, her voice betraying the sorrow she felt.

“In the bunker. There was a pony in there. A white one, wearing a nurse’s cap. She had pink hair.”

Amanda suddenly looked Triggerhoof in the eyes, forgetting to wipe her tears away. “Nurse Redheart!”

Somehow, Triggerhoof wasn’t surprised that Amanda too, knew of this pony. He still wasn’t at all curious about the matter, but he saw how just the name of that pony lightened up Amanda’s spirit. He decided to talk a bit longer about her. “What do you know of her?”

Amanda sighed. “Not much. She has only appeared in a couple of episodes, and never played a big role. She was a bit of a background pony. She comes from the Ponyville Hospital, which is a lovely building on the top of some forested foothills.”

“That sounds… beautiful.” Triggerhoof had a hard time imagining such a place again.

“Was… was she okay?” Amanda said.

“Yes she is,” Triggerhoof said, avoiding Amanda’s eyes. “She’s in good care.” That wasn’t even that big of a lie, because doctors are good at caring for people. Unfortunately they are not very good at taking care of themselves—considering the dumb mistake they made of opening their bunker to let the raiders in.

“Couldn’t you take her here?” But as Amanda said that, she realized how dumb she sounded.

Triggerhoof shook his head slowly. “She would never make the trip. She wasn’t a pegasus like me.”

“Yes… of course.”

“But we might get her here with the search-and-retrieve mission to that place,” he added quickly, trying to sound at least a little bit positive.

Amanda averted her gaze. “I sure hope we can…”

Triggerhoof thought the conversation was over, and placed his hooves on the table to stand up. But when he did, Amanda asked him one last question.

“You think there are more ponies out on Ground Zero?”

Triggerhoof turned his head. “I don’t know.” And with that, he walked out the mess hall, ready for a good night’s sleep.

Amanda stayed behind for a while, mulling over the question whether it would be good to have more ponies on Ground Zero, or whether that would be bad. Her tears were all the answers she got.