Peregrination to the Promised Land

by Alden MacManx

Chapter One- Winter Wake Up

“44-Control to Department Eight, Department Eight is on the air with a signal Ten, automobile accident with injuries, Palisades Interstate Parkway southbound exit ramp, exit Ten. Time out zero-six-thirteen. K-double-E-398 operator two-oh-seven.”

Joe Velloti’s eyes snapped open at the first tones came over the fire radio prior to the announcement. He heard the entire dispatch, coming out of bed and having his pants on by the time the announcement concluded. As the fire department officer living closest to the fire house, a mere block and a half away, he was used to being the first one up and there when a call came in during the off hours, especially on weekends, his job at Lederle Laboratories being nine to six weekdays. The fire whistle, a repurposed World War Two air raid siren, sent up its howl as he sat down to put on his boots, his mind racing some, thinking ahead to the call, wondering how soon it would be before he would be able to send the first truck out on the call.

A white flash happened then, and the warm May early morning suddenly changed, the dawn light going dark, the warmth changing suddenly to biting cold, and the fire whistle stopping suddenly. He blinked at the sudden darkness, becoming aware that he felt different. Odd. Clumsy.

He fell forward off the bed, his nose hitting the cold carpet of the floor, his pants sliding down and off him. He threw his arms out to catch himself to no avail, his hands not working right, thumping oddly on the carpet. “What in the flying fuck is going on?” he squawked as he tried to get up. His body fought his efforts, and he gave up momentarily, sprawling on the floor by his bed.

Joe forced his mind to slow down and get a grip on his situation. It was warmish before, and now it was very cold. A chill wind blew in from his bedroom window overlooking Main Street. Slowly, he went to get up, first going to his hands and knees. Except for the wind, all was quiet in his apartment. No hum of fans, no sound from his radio, which he kept tuned to WCBS Newsradio Eighty-Eight at night, because total silence was anathema to him, no clunks from his old refrigerator. Something was WRONG here.

Joe crawled to his window, aiming to close it. His first discovery was the drifted and banked leaves and frozen carpet he encountered on his way to the window. His hand encountered the screen that should have been in place under a pile of leaves. Getting to the window, he reached up to close it, finding first he could not get a good grip on the sash before reaching up a bit higher and bringing the window down with a squeak, cutting off the flow of cold air.

He then looked OUT the third-story window, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. In the pale moonlight, he could see what he took to be at least a foot of snow covering the street, untouched by plows or tire marks, just a smooth unbroken blanket of white going over, through and beyond the parking lot of the Ambulance Brew House across the street. “This ain’t fucking right…” he muttered as he looked at the wintry scene.

A reflection off the window glass caught his attention. As he looked, the reflection resolved into the image of a horse’s face, a brick-red horse face with a white blaze going down the nose. Glittering golden-yellow eyes looked out of the glass at him. Joe let out a yelp and fell to the floor, into the pile of accumulated leaves and snow, rolling onto his back. “That can’t be me… I’M me, and nothing else!” he gasped in shock as his mind processed what he saw.

An ache on his back prompted Joe to roll off the pile onto his hands and knees, shaking some at the irritation. Something on his back luffed out, dislodging some leaves and sticks before settling down again. He looked again at the window and saw that there were wings on the little horse’s back, red and white mottled wings. Joe screamed in shock before passing out in the pile of leaves and frozen carpet.

When Joe came back to awareness, the sun had risen, bright light filling the bedroom, reflecting off the unbroken blanket of snow outside. The first thing he did was shake and shiver, because it was COLD in the old apartment, the building having been erected some hundred years or so before. The second thing he noticed was that he was hungry, and he had to, if you would pardon the expression, piss like a race horse. A look at himself showed that he was still a little reddish horse with red and white wings, a golden-yellow mane and tail, and grey hooves. “Well, fuck… now I’m a horse… a pegasus, if the myths are right. I’ll see if I can fly later- I have more important things to do first,” he muttered to himself as he finished his self-examination. One thing he noticed was a picture on his flanks, back on his butt. A picture of an open claw on a line, talons open as if to grab something and lift, in a pale gray color, contrasting with his red coat. “Wonder what the hell that means…” he said to himself as he made his way to the small bathroom in the old apartment, where he climbed into the tub to piss out what was inside. A quick check showed the water was off, which he did not find surprising.

Once what was full was emptied, Joe went to find one thing he was sure would tell him what the date is- his watch. As he hoped, it told him the date and time. “Nine-fifteen a.m., Friday February nineteenth? Holy Rip van Winkle, Batman!” he exclaimed in surprise. “No wonder there’s snow on the ground! But, where in hell is everyone?”

He then changed his mind to something more immediate. “Screw that, what in hell am I going to eat?” Joe said, going to his kitchen. While he would not ever think of himself as a ‘doomsday prepper’, he did keep some supplies in the house, because of the not-too-frequent breakdowns in service. Supplies like twenty-five one-gallon jugs of water, preserved foods, ‘camping supplies’, and his own personalized set of fire gear, with some spares. He got that starting when he became an officer two years before, starting his climb up the ranks, beginning as third assistant Chief Chauffeur, or 8-11 as his call sign was then. Joe is currently 8-9, or First Assistant Chief Chauffeur, second-in-line of responsibility of maintaining the fire department’s rolling stock, of which there are a plenitude. Joe’s father, Valentino Velloti, is currently 8-2, or first assistant chief of the department. Val lived farther away, up on the north side of town, where he would be closer to his work, that being Town Clerk for Clarkstown, a post Val has held now for almost as long as Joe has been alive.

Joe, before trying his turnout gear, first thought of getting some food and water out of his stock. To his rather pleased surprise, he found he could use his hooves as some sort of hand, the inner portion having ‘adhesive’ qualities, so he could get a grip. His primary feather tips are capable of manipulations, like fingers, but not as accurate. After sating his hunger and thirst with water and oatmeal, his next decision was to go out and about. Digging into his closet, he found two pair of turnout boots, which to his new form came up past his knees, but were VERY floppy on him, the boots being far too big for his hooves. “Okay, plan B,” he muttered. Talking to himself has been a habit of his since he was little, his older sister Josephine not wanting anything to do with her ‘bratty little brother’, as she said a lot. Seeing as she had moved to Philadelphia with her wife a decade before, Joe really could not care less about her. Damn Eagles fan, she is.

Deciding to improvise, Joe broke out some knee socks, plastic bags and duct tape. With some contortions, he managed to insulate his hooves and seal them hopefully water tight. He loaded spare socks, bags and tape into an old backpack, along with some other supplies, and after rearing up to unlock his door, headed on out to see what was going on in his home town.

The snow was deeper than he had expected, coming up almost to his belly. “Damn… I have not seen THIS much snow in years!’ he said to himself as he decided to go to the firehouse, about a block and a half away. Going out on Main Street, he noticed all the storefronts were closed up, the only exception being that of the butcher shop next to his apartment building, which normally opened promptly at six each morning except Sunday, but one push of the door let out such a stench of decay he let the door swing shut and did, in the immortal words of J.D. Nelson from MythBusters, de-ass the area with alacrity. By the time Joe’s eyes stopped streaming, he found himself on a level with the store’s rooftop, his wingtip narrowly missing the ‘Charlie’s Market’ sign that has been there for as long as he could remember, despite the two original Charlies having left town before Joe was even born, old Johann, who took over the store, retiring when he was ten, and young Johann running the place since.

Joe grunted as he found himself soaring over the rooftops. It felt natural, comfortable, something he was born to do. “Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” he muttered as he turned right, heading for the firehouse. Circling the roof, he could see no sign of damage, the foot or so of snow looking intact, if a little windblown in spots. More recon showed no traces of habitation, no tire marks or even foot traces in the snow.

“Okay, next stop- the Stop and Shop,” Joe told himself, pulling for a little more altitude before following Main Street north to Route Fifty-nine. About fifty feet was high enough for him.

As he flew, he had to admire just how RIGHT it felt to fly with his own wings. His mother is a private pilot, his parents divorcing when he was in high school because the local airport closed, and she wanted to keep flying while his father wanted to keep his job with the town. It was an amicable divorce, everyone in his family keeping in close touch after she moved north near Newburgh, getting a job with an aviation company there. Joe could FEEL temperature, wind speed, altitude, airspeed, barometric pressure and other weather-related sensations almost as if he was watching an airplane’s instrument panel. Not wanting to dump his pack, he refrained from doing any stunt flying.

Soon, Joe was circling the Stop and Shop, a few snow-covered mounds in the parking lot denoting the presence of cars. Heading himself below the roof line of the supermarket, he circled the building. That was when he spotted signs of vandalism- a back door had been punched out and was open, snow and leaves having blown in. Curious, he landed with a minimum of fuss and disturbance, meaning he landed on his hooves and not on his nose.

Walking in to the store, he did not smell much decay, just some traces, nothing overpowering, like the butcher shop. Inside, he could tell other horses had been in there, hoofprints being visible in many of the aisles. The produce, dairy and meat sections have been cleared out, bare shelves and cases being evident instead of piles of rotting food. “So, I’m not alone…” he mused as he looked about.

The place was not stripped bare, but there were places that were, as if whoever was here took what he or she wanted and left what they did not want. Joe selected some canned fruit that was still present, plus several boxes of oatmeal and a jar of peanuts, stowing them in his pack, along with several bottles of water, two of which he managed to open and drink, easing his thirst. He was glad of the lack of chlorine taste which his water had, having added a drop of bleach to each gallon at home to preserve the water for storage.

Feeling better (and less hungry), Joe walked around the big store, making note of what was there. Up at the front of the store, he found a message written on several torn open paper bags, set so it could only be read from inside.

FIRST RAIDED STORE DEC 5, 2015

CLEANED PLACE UP

15 WEST PALMER AVENUE

BEWARE OF CULTISTS

LAST SHOPPED followed by a series of dates, every four or five days, the last one being two days before, according to his watch.

Joe snorted some. “West Palmer Avenue is not that far away. Might as well go look.”

He got back outside and took off, circling around to the front of the store and headed north, over a deserted snow-covered Route 59, heading to the second cross street and taking a left. Again, the street was snow-covered, deserted, pristine. But, house number fifteen did show a sign of occupancy, a chimney trailing a very faint plume of smoke, as well as having no snow on it, unlike the other houses on the street that had snow-covered chimneys.

Joe landed out on the street and made his way to the front door, making no effort to hide his approach. His red fur did stand out against the white snow. He knocked on the door and waited patiently. After a moment’s pause, he knocked again. “I saw your note!” he called out.

Joe heard a window slide open, to his left and down. “Have you seen anyone else?” he heard, a girl’s voice. Looking, Joe saw a black and gray horse head sticking out of the window, with a pinkish horn jutting from its brow.

“No, I haven’t. I woke up sometime last night, then fell back asleep until the sun rose. I’m Joe Velloti, of the fire department. Who are you?” he asked.

“Lindsay Taylor. You know Val Velloti?” Lindsay asked.

“He’s my father. He’s also assistant chief of the fire department,” Joe said. “Mind if I come in? It’s a bit chilly out here, and I’m in snow up to my knees.”

“Sure. Just go to the garage. I’ll open that door,” Lindsay said before closing the window, a pinkish glow surrounding said window as it slid down.

Joe made his way through the snow to the garage door, which slowly rose up, a pink glow by the handle. When it was up high enough, Joe slipped in under the door, which Lindsay let drop down with a bang. “Thanks.” he said to the girl.

Once the door closed, Lindsay hugged Joe fiercely around his neck, pressing her cheek to his. “I’ve been alone for months… you’re the first pony I know that didn’t want to take me…” she said, her voice breaking.

Joe clumsily hugged back. “Easy there… who tried to take you?” he asked, feeling her fright and relief.

“Cultists of Odeum. I heard about them on the radio first, and when they said they were looking for any pony to join them, I made sure I hid, only going out at night to raid the Stop and Shop for supplies. They’ve been quiet now for the past two weeks. They did say all were to join them…” she gasped out, trying not to weep from fright and relief.

“Well, I’m no cultist, just a dedicated fireman and chemistry technician at Lederle’s. Now that you’re no longer alone, can we go and warm up by the fire?” Joe asked.

Lindsay gathered herself visibly. “Of course, Joe. I’ll even make you some hot tea, okay?”

Joe smiled at the black and pink unicorn mare. “For a cup of anything hot, I will pledge you my loyalty… for an hour. Friendship will last a bit longer.”

Joe blinked in surprise as Lindsay fell to the garage floor, laughing like he had just told the best joke ever. He watched as the mare laughed herself nearly breathless before recovering. “Was it something I said?” he asked, perplexed.

“Joe, it’s been what, ten weeks since I showed up here, without talking to anyone! Just to have a friend again is relaxing, and you are as bent as a coat hanger…” she gasped before breaking down into laughter again.

“Who, me? I’m not bent, just twisted…” Joe told her, sounding innocent, which sent her into a fresh giggle fit.

“Coat hangers are twisted too. The wire ones at least,” Lindsay said when she stopped giggling. “Come on, I’ll put a pot on the fire. Or would you like some coffee?”

Joe paused and stared at Lindsay’s face. “Did you say ‘coffee’? I’ll take it any which way you got it!”

“Come on, let’s get warm. I’ll fill you in on what I know, which isn’t much,” Lindsay offered, leading the way into the house, which was much warmer than the garage. After filling an old camping percolator with snow and coffee grounds, she put it on a grate in the fireplace and began to talk. She told of her waking up in her bed as a black, gray and pink unicorn, of finding no one else about, and of her life scavenging what she could from the Stop and Shop.

When asked about the radio, she presented a hand-cranked ‘survival radio’ her parents had purchased when she was younger. “The radio station in Manhattan only transmits for a half an hour or so a day, generally around dinnertime, and not every day at that. I got lucky one night a week after waking up and found that station,” she explained. “There’s also another station I can hear from Toronto, but only at night. That one plays music which I don’t like, so I don’t listen to them often.”

“Might be worth listening to later, just to get a feel for it. What does the Manhattan station talk about?” Joe asked.

“Mostly about where the group of ponies have scavenged from, how many injuries they have, some sporadic contact with a place called Alexandria, how bad the dog packs are, stuff like that,” Lindsay said as she poured coffee into a mug.

“Alexandria? In Virginia?” Joe asked, taking the mug in his wing feathers and sipping carefully. The black tarlike substance was hot, and it fought all the way down. “Potent stuff…”

“I may have made it too strong. Snow melts down farther than one would think. No, someplace farther west. You need a satellite phone to call them. Too bad I don’t have one,” Lindsay said as she took another pot, aiming to fill it with snow to melt.

“I don’t either, but I know where to find some, at the firehouse. Probably dead by now, but if I can get one of the trucks up and running, I can charge them,” Joe said, putting the mug of hot tar down on the hearth.

“Think you can get a fire truck running?”

“I can try. I do maintenance checks on them, and while I’m a chemical engineer by trade, I think I know enough about the trucks to get them up and running. If all else fails, we can go to the Bardonia substation and I can crank up the old seven-fifty. One way or another, I’ll get something up.”

“I admire your confidence, Joe.”

Joe sat on the rug and looked up at Lindsay. “Hey, I can either be confident or give in to despair. Despair can wait its turn. Right now, hope rules,” he said as Lindsay put the pot full of snow on the grate.

Lindsay sat down next to Joe, leaning against him. “Many a night I cried myself to sleep, looking for the strength to wake up the next day. I always found it, but it has not been easy. Can I ask you to stick around, Joe? I don’t want to be alone again.”

Joe put a wing over Lindsay, pulling her against him. “Sounds like a plan to me. I don’t want to be alone either. How old are you, if I may ask?”

“Nineteen. I’m in my second year at RCC (Rockland Community College), studying nursing. My mom is a nurse at Good Sam, and I want to follow her…” Lindsay trailed off, sniffing some. “Will I see her again?”

Joe hugged her tighter with his wing. “Easy there… there are a lot of things we don’t know. We can hope, but let’s see if we can call this Alexandria place. Did you hear how to call them?” he asked in a calm voice, looking to settle Lindsay down.

“Yeah- just dial the operator on an Iridium phone and you’ll be put right through. That’s what they say, at least. Have not tried it yet.”

“Step one, find a phone. Step two, charge the phone. Step three, make the call. Step zero, add water to this coffee before it climbs out of the cup,” Joe said quietly, easing his wing’s grip on her.

Lindsay looked at the pot, a pink glow surrounding her horn and the pot handle, then the pot lifted off the hearth and floated to the mug, tilting to pour water in, nearly filling it. “A little sugar and stirring, and it should be palatable.”

“I’m going to have to remember how you make camper’s espresso. That was indescribable,” Joe said as a spoon and the sugar bowl lifted off the mantel and did their jobs, aided by a pink aura. “Just how do you do that?”

“Now you know why I stick to tea. Just part and parcel of being a unicorn, Joe,” Lindsay said as she leaned against the stallion’s body, the mug drifting to within reach.

Joe caught the floating mug and took a sip. Still hot, but not nearly as ferocious as before. “Much better and thank you. Now, what shall we think about doing later?”

“How about we break out the maps to find some other stores to raid? With you being able to fly, you can do more than I could do. Who knows, there could be more survivors. You CAN fly, right?” Lindsay asked playfully.

“You bet your pretty pink tail I can fly! That’s a good idea, to look around some. I don’t think there will be any storms in the next day or so, so, break out your map book! Yes, I may know the town, but having a map will be the smart thing to do. You have any two-way radios?” Joe asked, honestly enjoying Lindsay’s attention.

“Yes, I do, but we’re going to have to see if you can work them. I would normally suggest clipping a Bluetooth to your ear, but I doubt if the cell repeaters are working,” Lindsay said, but showed no signs of leaving Joe’s presence.

Joe showed no signs of getting started either. He liked the attention the pretty young mare was giving him, and, to tell the truth, he was slightly afraid of being alone again. Even though his ‘isolation’ lasted maybe a couple of hours total, he did not want to experience it again. He took another sip of the coffee and put the mug down on the hearth, using both wings to hug Lindsay to him. She let out a contented sigh and relaxed into his wing hug. “For now, let’s just reassure ourselves we are not alone.”

Author's Note:

Chapter one of a new tale. Good lord, how i miss my old home town.