Crystal Apocalypse

by leeroy_gIBZ

7: Zen

Dear Book

Met Indigo Zap again. I won. Went to Cloudsdale. Lemon Zest kidnapped by Jet Set. Jet Set killed. Neon Lights killed. Hotel burned down. Found food, water for another week. Would last longer if I was alone. Found more guns. Out of ammo. Will stay here a few days. Recuperate before using map to find Sunny.

One day after writing, with nothing of note to write, Sugarcoat was still recuperating. Jet Set had sliced her harder than she had originally thought; she’d exhausted Snips’ first aid kit trying to properly disinfect her arm, cauterize the cut, stitch the wound, staunch the flow of blood. It was deep red by the second day – arterial and not showing any sign of stopping. Sugarcoat was lying on the bedroll, trying not to stain it.

“And that’s why Cheese Sandwich is actually completely overrated. I mean, I’ve met people who’s favourite song was Beat It, right? But nobody liked Eat It that much. Even though the parody got way more views, it couldn’t exist without the first one. So, the first one is way better, see?”

“I’m trying to sleep, Lemon.”

“Whoops. Sorry. I just kinda like talking about music. Especially since I’ve got somebody to listen now.”

“I gathered that from the fact that you’ve talked about ‘parody as a legitimate genre’ for two straight hours.”

“Well, I haven’t reached an answer yet. Is Ghast AD actually a parody band or not?”

“They’re terrible and now they’re probably dead. Who cares?” Sugarcoat said, rolling over on the bed roll onto her bad arm, wincing, rolling back over, satchel-cum-pillow pressed over her ears.

“Come on! Ghast is amazing and Tobias Ferrier is super cute. And nice too. You have to admit that.”

“I’ve seen enough corpses to know not to fuck a man dressed like one.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You and Sunny are still a thing.”

“Exactly. Now please be quiet – I’m trying not to bleed to death here.”

Lemon Zest obliged, and left her white-haired friend to rest for the rest of the morning; only waking her hours later after her search for a can opener had proved fruitless.

“You don’t need a can opener. They’re a waste of space.” Sugarcoat mumbled, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, fumbling for her glasses.

“Well, I can’t chew through metal. So do you have a pocket knife or something instead?”

“No. Barnyard Bargains was looted by the time I got to it and they’re the only place I know that sold them.”

“So?”

Sugarcoat took the can – tomato puree – and started rubbing the top of it against the concrete floor of the airplane hangar. “Use a brick, or the road. It’s rough enough to wear away at the can’s lid.” She said, handing the can back to the girl. “Now you try.”

“Doesn’t this make loads of noise though?”

“If you’re worried about being ambushed, you obviously shouldn’t be eating lunch. Besides, it’s worked every other time I’ve tried it.” Sugarcoat said, standing up, checking the bandage.

Although blood-soaked, it was finally beginning to dry. Sugarcoat still felt faint, but she did feel well enough to walk around; she walked over to the destroyed hotel, still smouldering, and lit a torch, planked wood wrapped with torn denim, to start a fire.

When she returned to the hangar, after ensuring Indigo was still secured to the lamp post, still screaming indignantly beneath her gag, Lemon asked her what was for dinner.

“Spam and tomato sauce. I felt like a hot meal tonight, so I’m lighting a fire.” Sugarcoat answered, building a fire a few feet away, beneath the airplane itself, out of reach of clumsy friends or icy winds.

She used the stuffing inside the plane’s seats as kindling, and took a bundle of it for later use. The rest of the fire consisted of the discard clothes and fabric Sugarcoat found – the material being too shredded and filthy for any other use.

Soon the blaze burned hot, warming the cold hangar with a hearty yellow glow. Both girls sat next to it, toasting slices of meat on the tips of their knives, dipping the cooked pork in a lukewarm bowl of tomato sauce afterward. It was as good as meals got in Canterlot these days, cooked, balanced and shared with friends.

“So, you never answered my question. Is Ghast parody or not?”

“I don’t know. What’s it parodying? A decent choice in religions?”

“Yeah, actually. The whole “Nightmarist” act is faked, they don’t actually believe in any of that stuff. Besides, aren’t you atheist?”

“Antitheist actually. It’s stupid to believe in anything you can prove.”

“Magic is literally real. How can you not believe that Celestia loves you?”

“Because the only Celestia I ever met was a second-rate headmistress of a second-rate public school. When she comes down and starts smiting people, then I’ll believe. When she starts smiting people I want smitten, then I’ll worship her.”

“Cool. Not my problem when you wind up in Tartarus.”

“We’re in Tartarus. I saw a three-headed dog last month. It was barking Power Ponies quotes at somebody.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah. And I’m never eating mushrooms again.”

Lemon laughed so hard she started coughing.

Once lunch was over, it was about two in the afternoon, and it looked to be about twilight because of the clouds. The bodies of dust never went anywhere, ever, and Sugarcoat suspected that they were the reason anything more electrically complicated than a spark plug failed to work. She chalked it up to magic, which seemed to be a far more rational explanation than anything else she had heard. Science didn’t work like that – capacitors didn’t just break – therefore science itself had to be broken.

She thought that about her cut too, until another walk around the hangar found her the cleaver, and a deep gash in the sole of her boot, luckily not her foot. The tool-turned-weapon was razor sharp, and wickedly serrated. No wonder it had hurt so much. Jet Set had probably poisoned it as well. After being safely wrapped in a scrap of cloth torn from the old flag, it too went into the bags hanging off of the bike, just in case the rest of her knives somehow failed.

After that, and after the rest of her scavenged belongings were secured to the bike, and the bike’s tank was again filled with the remaining canteen of gas, Sugarcoat sat down again next Lemon, lying next to the fire.

“You’re back. Thought you’d gone out looking for food or something.”

“We have enough food for the next few days. According to the map, there should be a few more settlements on route to Las Pegasus. We can resupply there.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“What does? My arm still hurts if that’s what you mean.”

“Nah, I mean living in somebody else’s clothes, eating their food.”

“Not really. It’s just cloth. They’d want me to have it, considering I’m alive and they’re not.”

“You know, Su, I don’t think Jet Set or Indy would want you to steal their stuff.”

“And if they don’t want me to have it, obviously they don’t like me. Therefore, I don’t feel bad about stealing from them.”

“But, isn’t it still gross to, like, take stuff off a dead body?”

“You get used to it. It’s way more gross trying to eat sand, because you couldn’t bring yourself to take anything from somebody who didn’t need it anymore. That’s how Fleur died.”

Lemon chuckled, “That’s pretty funny actually. I mean, she literally bit the dust.”

“I guess. Though I think she always wanted to die. Some people aren’t built for this world, even if they survived the initial events.”

“But we are. The school’s resident nerd and stoner. Just the two of us, alone against the entire universe. Philosophical, right?”

“I never thought of myself as a nerd. That was Twilight’s role.”

“So, what were you then, Su, some kind of prepper?”

“I’m only wearing this cardigan because its cashmere, and its warm.”

“No, I mean like a doomsday survivalist type. ‘Cause you’ve adapted the best of anyone I know.”

“Sour Sweet is better.”

“You actually saw her? I thought she was with Sunny Flare?”

“She was, yes, and I didn’t personally see her. But she was the leader of a scout troop, and a champion archer, and had actually tried to prepare for the apocalypse. I’m just, well, me.”

“Yeah, but we don’t know if Sour’s alive or dead right now. You though, you’re alive and doing pretty well, to be honest.”

“I guess, it isn’t like I ranked any of this. As long as I’m not starving or in immediate danger, I’d say we’re fine.”

“Then we’re fine.”

“Exactly.”