Sunset: Stranded

by Viking ZX

Concealment

Concealment

Three more sets of screams had joined the other two by the time Sunset reached the camp store. Her legs felt molten, seething with heat that burned down to the bone, while her boots felt like lead horseshoes that tugged against them with every step. Her arm throbbed, as if it would fall off at any moment, each bump the wagon hit sending a new wave of pain rolling up to her shoulder. But she couldn’t stop, and what food she’d brought was in the wagon.

Stupid. She’d already berated herself for not bringing her backpack and putting food in that. Now she couldn’t afford to leave the wagon in case she got stuck somewhere.

But the camp store was in sight, almost enough to distract from the pain in her side. Which she hoped was just from lack of breath and not actual injury, like those on her arm and back. Both of which were still bloody, though dried. So the haziness in her head probably wasn’t blood loss. Just pure, animal panic.

There! Sunset rushed up to the front door, yanking it open and throwing herself through. The wagon bounced once again as its tires hit the chain that had once held the entryway shut, jostling its load but not spilling it as it too rolled into the store. The chain just slipped slightly, not shifting from where she’d cast it after cutting it days earlier.

Now she wished she hadn’t done that. She crashed into the front shelves, scattering flashlights and other small items across the floor as her legs threatened to give out. The wagon slammed into her legs from behind, and this time she did fall, her kneecaps slamming into the display and eliciting another cry of pain.

There was no time to worry about the tears. She blinked them away, pulling herself back up and scattering small stuffed plush toys across the floor. Moving with a limp, her muscles threatening to seize up with every step, she crossed the space back to the front door, yanking it shut before it could swing closed on its own and clicking the latch lock over. Only then did she step back and sink slightly, her shoulders heaving as a sob tried to force its way out of her throat.

She wasn’t sure if it was out of relief or from the pain. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t have time to stop and figure out which it was.

Back door. The front door was thankfully reinforced, one reason why she’d opted to break in the back. By destroying the latch that holds the padlock in place, and then prying the latch lock out. She staggered for the rear of the shop, pausing only to grab the lantern out of the wagon, her legs knotting and refusing to bend properly. The glow of the noonday—Or was it afternoon?—sun was still enough to permeate through the small windows around the upper rim of the store, filling it with a dim glow of sunlight, but the back rooms and side entrance had no such access. She flicked the lantern on, the click of its switch melding with another faint scream from somewhere outside.

How many of those things are there? What few warning documents she’d found had indicated that the creatures traveled and hunted in packs, so to be wary if one was sighted and notify authorities immediately while getting to safety.

Shame the flyers hadn’t actually specified what safety was past “someplace defensible with guns.” Speaking of which ...

She’d dropped her borrowed firearm during her mad flight, though when she wasn’t quite certain. The door to the employee area slammed open with a crash as she half fell into it, striking the wall with a loud bang. So they can hear me that much easier, Sunset noted, though it didn’t stop her from staggering onward, past the empty cupboards she’d cleaned of supplies and toward the rear entrance. The latch was broken, but the wretch at the plaza hadn’t been smart enough to use the gate, only batter themselves against it.

What drives something to be so aggressive? The thought drifted out of her panic as she reached the rear door. Why would anything be so hostile?

Answers she’d not found scattered across her research into the “Locust.” The serans had never found any either. Not before they’d been forced to fire on their own cities.

Focus. The thoughts were keeping the pain at bay, but they weren’t helping her stay alive. The lock on the rear door was just as heavy as the one on the front door, and she shoved it into place with a satisfying thunk, sagging slightly as she stepped back. Hopefully it would hold despite the damage.

One of her legs was trying to cramp up under her. The other wasn’t far behind, but there was no time to rest. The wretches had to be getting close, and—

A thud from the front of the shop caught her attention, and she spun, limping back through the employee rest area and drawing her hatchet from its sheath. If this is the end … She almost couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. The flyers warned that the wretches ate their victims.

Sometimes alive.

I won’t let that happen. Even if that meant turning her hatchet on herself, like some of the old griffon warriors had done in the clan wars, before the founding of the Empire. If she could.

The impact came again, and Sunset let out a faint whimper, both shocked at the sudden sound and surprised she could make it as dry as her throat felt.

Another thud, this one from above. She tracked the beam from the lantern up toward the ceiling, but it was simply tile. There were no air conditioning vents that she could see. She turned, looking back, but there were none in the break room either.

No vents. Only two doors. There was another thud from the front of the shop, and she fought back a choked gasp as a snarl echoed in the sound’s wake.

They know I’m here. The next thump of impact made the door shake, and then she heard the faint sound of the thing moving away, snarling as it moved around the building. Likely checking for another entrance.

Where did they come from? What if they find a way in? There were a million questions buzzing through her mind, but Sunset had attention enough for only a few. She staggered over to the store’s counter, where dusty rays of sunlight glimmered across the one section of the shop she’d not messed with yet.

Weapons.

That one. Her eyes fixed on a boxy, stubby looking firearm inside a glass case. There was a plaque next to it, designating the weapon’s martial history across decades of the “Pendulum Wars.” It had served three generations of soldiers before the war had ended, and then been put on display inside the family’s shop.

It was also was, from what she understood about the design, the best weapon of choice for her current situation. A “shotgun” like the one she’d used in the plaza, only far deadlier, designed and engineered for ease of use and maximum lethality.

The serans called it a “gnasher,” like the snapping of a predator’s teeth. It was simple, brutal, and violent.

Exactly what she needed.

She swung the hatcher with a yell, snapping the case’s simple display lock in two. Growls and barks rose from outside as the wretches reacted to the noise.

For the moment, she didn’t care. If one of them got inside the shop before she was ready, it would kill her. And everything, her destiny included, would end.

The gnasher was both lighter than it looked and heavier than expected. She stared down at the ancient metal for a moment, feeling the smooth, cool, oiled surface under her fingertips.

How many lives has this weapon already taken? She imagined she could feel the weight of each firing sliding out of the gun and up her arms. And how many has it saved?

Another thump from above shook her out of her reverie, and she ran her eyes over the components, matching each of them with her study of the firearm manuals she’d brought back to her hideout, one of which had detailed military-grade weaponry. Trigger. Safety. Lever for chambering another shell. The latter was currently back, and she pushed it forward with one hand, noting the resistance the firearm offered at first but then the smooth ease with which it snapped all the way forward once it had moved far enough. The chamber was open, bare, and there was no ammunition inside its “magazine.”

There were, however, several boxes below the case. She grabbed one and slammed it against the counter. The aged cardboard came apart under the impact, splitting like an overripe fruit. Shells scattered across the counter, rolling past her fingers, but she managed to clench several in one hand.

Load. The manual had made it look simple. Easy, even. Shiny part to the back. There was a proper name for it, but she couldn’t remember it at the moment. The first shell slipped through the opening but then slid back into her hand, bouncing off it and down to the floor. The barrel of the firearm needed to be down, or she needed to be faster.

She flipped the gnasher downward, and the next shell slid out of sight. As did the last. That’s two. The weapon would hold eight, according to what she’d read. There were still a few shells on the countertop that hadn’t rolled off of the edge, and she gathered them together and slid them into the gnasher. Five.

She broke another box open, heedless of the shells that rolled away. She could gather them later. If I live.

Another thump sounded, this time from behind her, and she turned as she dropped the last shell into place, her eyes searching the rear wall. The lever slid back, loading the weapon and pushing a shell into place. It was ready to fire. Something scrabbled across the roof, and she raised the weapon up. Safety? She probed with her thumb. There was a small metal lever she could just reach with it, but she wasn’t sure if it was on or off.

Now what? For a few seconds she stood there, the gnasher raised, waiting as the growls and barks outside the shop moved. Wait it out? She moved toward her wagon, her eyes slipping to the canteen sitting in the back and her small supply of food for the day. Another impact sounded from the rear of the shop, but again it sounded as ineffective as the others.

Maybe the things would give up. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. They’d still be in the city.

And they probably wouldn’t give up anyway. A Guard had once warned her about that, before one of their camping trips. An animal that was driving out of its territory would stop chasing you once you’d left, but if you stayed in its territory, stuck in a tree, it would wait. And if it wasn’t territorial but hungry … How long could you stay in the tree, and would it be worth it to the animal to look for anything else?

A shiver rolled down her back, bringing with it another sense of burning pain as the motion aggravated her wounds there. She’d seen the fury in their eyes. They had her trapped. They weren’t going to give up. Another bang sounded from outside the building as if to drive home the thought.

The water in her canteen was warm, but it felt like liquid gold as she poured it down her throat, soothing the raw edge brought about by her ragged escape. She drained it almost to the bottom, stopping at the last second and eyeing the dried blood on her arm.

I need to clean that. Her stomach twisted as her gulps of water hit it, writhing before forcing a faint burp out a moment later. An acid stink came with it, and she cringed.

Another thump came from the roof, but nothing yet that suggested the wretches had found a way inside. She gave it a glance before looking back down at her wagon. Everything she’d placed in it was scattered and in disarray after her run, but she’d not lost anything aside from the first of the lanterns she’d left in the clothing store. Better yet, the emergency medical kit was still there, and she pulled it out from beneath a pair of pants, wincing as the bending motion sent sharp pinpricks of pain up her back.

The longer you let your injuries sit without cleaning them, the deeper an infection can run. If—when—she made it back to Equestria, she’d need to thank the Guard for their instructions. But before that …

She lifted the shotgun, squinting at the lever just before the grip and casting her mind past the pain in her body to the manual. The lever was currently in a position that put it close to her thumb, which meant …

The safety is on. Push it forward, toward the enemy, to fire. Pull it back to engage the safety once more. The words floated through her mind like a leaf caught in the breeze, summoned by her thoughts. She remembered them because of her acknowledgement of what it had said about the weapon’s creators: it was easier to disengage the safety than it was to enable it.

At least it would be easy to disengage if something went wrong. She left it in place, still mindful of the faint thuds from the roof as her pursuers looked for a way in, and then slowly set the weapon atop the countertop, making sure that the handle was within quick, easy reach.

Okay, let’s clean this off. There was a bang from above that made her freeze in place for a second, the foil of the medical kit partway peeled back. The inner side of the foil was reflective, sending bouncing glints of brightness across the room as it caught the sunlight. For emergency signaling. The Guard had explained that to her as well, how a mirror or a piece of metal could be used to attract the eye of a search party if one’s magic was disabled.

At the time, she’d rolled her eyes, because when would she ever be without magic? And yet …

You don’t need it right now anyway. The only things looking for you already know where you are, and they aren’t looking to save you.

The medical print on the small packages inside the kit was large and clear, easy enough to read. She pulled out several sterile cleaning wipes, tearing the top off of one with a quick jerk of her hands. Her shaking hands. How much blood had she lost?

Another scream sounded from above her, dust falling from the ceiling, and she cringed. How many were out there now? Ten? Twenty? More? She tore her eyes away from the roof before the dust could reach her, forcing her focus back to the long, red slashes on her arm surrounded by dried blood. She swept the cleaning cloth over the injury—

And sucked in a hurried breath through clenched teeth as a fresh wave of stinging fire rolled up her arm. “Celestia’s tits that hurts!” Even the use of her name wasn’t enough to drive away the sudden sting of her injury. But there was still dried blood all around it, so she wiped a second time, only whimpering slightly as the pain rolled through her. By her third swipe most of the dried blood was gone, and she folded the cleaning cloth, balling it up a little to present a clean side at the three tracks of blood still left on her arm.

This time she let out a cry of pain, tears filling her eyes as she pushed the ball of cloth directly over the wound. Fresh blood began to pool in the wounds, and she grabbed a cotton ball, blinking away tears and trying to control the shaking in her limbs as she sopped up the blood.

Those look bad. Her mental “voice” stayed steady, even as another choked sob tried to force its way out of her throat. She could see three jagged tears in the flesh of her arm, the skin peeled back and loose in some places. The flesh below it—

Didn’t actually look that bad. She blinked, staring in mute shock. From the pain, she’d expected to see torn muscle and tendon. Instead, while the wound was bloody and definitely deeper than the surface, she couldn’t make out any obvious deep damage.

Still, it was deep enough that the flesh needed to be knitted back together. She bit at her lower lip, eyeing the three gashes. One of them was already coagulating once again, her body sealing the wound off at an impressive rate. But it would still scar and take time to heal if she didn’t press the sides together, but without her horn …

“Serans had to do this,” she muttered, tossing the bloody cotton ball aside and digging through the small medical kit. “Unless they really liked scars.”

It was possible, she noted as she dug through the small kit. They had just been in a multi-generation war. Scars were considered badges of combat among many of the Eyries of the Griffon Empire even in the modern day.

Then her searching fingers closed around a small, plastic clasp, one that opened and shut with a faint pinch of her fingers. There were several in the kit, at the bottom, attached to a container of—

“Medical glue?” she said aloud as she read the characters. “As in actual glue?” Actually, that sounds better than stitches. And it did make sense, since she didn’t have the slightest idea how to sew, especially on herself with fingers that she didn’t trust that much.

Five clasps, she noted, counting them out as she set them on the counter. I’m going to need at least three, maybe four for each gash—make that four for the middle gash, since it’s the deepest. All three had stopped bleeding already, but according to the instructions on the back of the glue packet, you didn’t want the injury to close up before you could apply the glue to it. Great. A bang from above made her jerk her eyes up for just an instant, but she still didn’t see any sign that the wretches were getting in.

I need more medical kits. Thankfully, there was a whole supply of them in the shop, and she’d taken only a few. Her legs felt weak as she forced herself over to the display, trembling and almost failing to lift, but somehow she made it with each shaky step. She grabbed two of the remaining kits, tucking one under her injured arm and peeling the other open. A few quick seconds worth of work later, and there were two more of the glue pouches sitting on the table, along with their collection of tiny plastic clasps.

The instructions were simple, marked out with small but basic pictograms: Clean the wound with a sterile cloth—she opened a new pouch, pulling out a fresh, unused square—then apply glue and use the clasps to force the edges together. Then let it sit for what looked to be an hour or so to harden, and remove the clasps. The actual time required was probably less, not that it mattered too much.

She scrubbed down with the fresh cloth, a new whimper of pain filling the shop as fire rolled up her arm. All three of the tracks began to bleed once more as she scrubbed, and she managed to move up and down twice more before tossing the now-bloody cloth aside. The trembling of her shoulders was so severe she almost dropped the first glue packet, but then she managed to peel the top away and—

That’s too much blood, she thought, eyeing the bleeding gashes in her arm once more as a small bubble of clear glue formed at the corner of the packet. She shifted the packet to the hand of her injured arm, freeing her good hand to pluck another cotton ball out of the medical kits and dab the excess blood away.

There! She dropped the ball of cotton and switched to the glue once more, squeezing the packet above the first of the wounds and watching as a thin strand of glue drizzled down into the long gash. To her surprise it didn’t hurt, but in fact a sort of soothing numbness began to settle over the injury, a sharp contrast to the burning pain that had enveloped it a moment before. Blood began to pool over and around it, and she squeezed the rest of the packet out, burying the red under layers of clear goo.

She tossed the spent packet aside and grabbed the nearest clasp. In a way it looked a bit like a mane-clip, just smaller and with nub-like teeth for it to grab at the skin.

There weren’t instructions on where to place the first clip, so she started at the top and worked her way down, wincing slightly as each clip went into place, pressing out a mix of clear glue and red blood. It took four clips, but the gash was sealed up, and she used one of the cotton balls to wipe away the excess blood and glue before it could harden. Or at least smear a thin layer of it over her arm.

She repeated the process—clean, glue, pinch, smear—with the other two gashes, the third and final only taking three clasps to seal. Sunset sagged as she tossed the last bloody cotton ball aside, looking at the mess she’d made of the countertop.

A positive toward the end of their world, she thought as she stared down at the mess, her breath still coming in what felt like too-large gasps. I don’t need to bother cleaning any of this.

Scattered growls were coming from the roof and around the shop now. At least four independent sources. Maybe five.

And she still had her back to look at. But for that, she needed a mirror.

Bathroom. There was a mirror there, at the back of the store. Dusty and long-since dry, but she didn’t need the plumbing.

Wretches continued to growl and move across the roof as she gathered the few things she’d need—spare medkits, a lantern for light, and most importantly the shotgun. Sunset swallowed, her eyes turning upward once more as she moved to the back of the store.

How long will they wait for me? she wondered as she moved down the aisles. The pain in her back had lessened, but she still felt shaky. She’d need to drink more water once she was done, fight off the queasiness brought about by her blood loss. Will they stay for hours? Days?

Or would they move on once they were certain she wasn’t coming out? Then again, as the door to the bathroom creaked open, light glimmering off the dirty mirror, she wasn’t sure that would be any better. At least atop the roof of the camp shop she knew where they were. If they leave, I don’t have that luxury.

Worse, what if they were smart enough to hide nearby and ambush her as she left? Were they intelligent enough to do something like that? Timberwolves could be, but how smart was a wretch by comparison.

I want to go—

She cut the thought off with a quick, vicious shake of her head. No. You can’t. And it’s not your destiny. The mirror was dusty from years of disuse, so she set the gnasher aside, wiping the glass with one hand. The light provided by her single lamp wasn’t spectacular, but it would have to do.

She twisted, standing with her back to the mirror and wobbling from side to side as her balance fought against the unfamiliar stance. Her mane was hanging over her injury, making it even harder to see—Stupid inflexible neck!—and she swept it over her shoulder with a quick wave of one arm. There were rust colored clumps holding some of the strands together, dark blights against her already dirty colors.

Dried blood. Her mane out of the way, she could see the source: Three neat red tracks along her back, framed by perfect slices through the thin cloth of her shirt.

So much for protection. But then her arm hadn’t been covered by a sleeve, and it had looked worse. The injury to her back, by comparison, almost appeared tame. There was a little blood staining the cloth around it, as well as dying her skin, but the injuries themselves didn’t actually look that bad.

She cracked the pouch of another sanitation pad, still eyeing the trio of shallow cuts. It had certainly hurt plenty. She clenched her teeth as she reached around behind her back—her balance wavering only once—only to be met by a faint stinging sensation as she pulled the cleaning wipe across her back.

Or rather, across her shirt, the cloth stretching slightly and pulling with the diagonal motion of her hand. She pulled back, bringing her other hand around to pull the back of her shirt up around her shoulders, and then wiped at the wound once more.

This time the stinging sensation was much more distinct, but it was nothing like the wave of burning flame that had rushed up her arm. It was more like a small stampede of pinpricks by comparison, rising up her back and into her shoulder blades. It set her teeth on edge, but it didn’t hurt the way her arm had.

A few seconds later she could see why. Through the dust on the mirror she could make out three clean, shallow cuts. Scratches, by comparison, to what had happened to her arm. Just enough to bleed, and bleed well.

Sunset let out a sigh, sagging slightly and leaning back against the edge of the sink. Lucky hit. It had just hurt a lot more than she had expected.

Still, it needed to be cleaned. She craned her neck back once more, twisting and rubbing the cleaning cloth over the trio of scratches. After several passes the dried, crusty blood had flaked away, leaving her skin marred only by the three red, angry lines, faintly shimmering as new blood welled out of the reopened cuts.

Good enough. There were gauze coverings in the medical kits, each varying in size and shape. She settled on a large pad almost as wide as the medical kit itself, and after a few moments working at one corner, slapped it down over her back.

I’m done. Sunset slumped against the sink, brushing away the paper backing from the bandage she’d stuck to her back. It fluttered down to the floor, and she stared at it for a moment before eyeing herself in the mirror.

She looked like a wreck. Dirt and leaves had gotten caught in her mane, probably from her tumble to the ground in the plaza, and her face was smudged with filth. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her tears had left pale tracks down her cheeks through the dirt. She stared at herself for several seconds, taking in the injuries on her arm and her general disheveled look.

Is this what she saw? Is this what she was afraid of?

The paleness to her face wasn’t great, she could admit that. Nor was the shakiness in her legs. How much blood had she lost?

It didn’t matter. She clenched one hand into a fist, glaring at the mare—woman—in the mirror. “You were a coward,” she said aloud, heedless of the sudden faint growl from the roof at the sound of her voice. “What? Did you think I couldn’t do this? Well you’re wrong. This is my destiny.” Heat began to bubble up from deep within her, a seething wave of anger. “You can’t keep me from it. And neither will they.” Her eyes shifted upward, looking up at the dark tiles of the ceiling.

I’m going to figure out what to do about them, and then I’m going to do it, she thought as she wrapped one hand around the grip of her shotgun. And then I’ll go back to where all my things are, finish getting ready, and leave Holton. Her arms were still trembling, but there was a faint steel beneath the muscles, a pressure brought about by the anger in her core. “I won’t stop now.”

She left the bathroom, her legs still trembling and weak but feeling better than she had. A gulp of warm water from her second canteen made her feel even better, washing the dryness out of her throat and hopefully bringing a bit of color back to her face. The quivering in her arms and legs faded, leaving behind a faint tiredness in its wake, but still preferable to her limbs feeling as though they would give out at any moment.

“All right,” she said as the last of the queasy feelings from her stomach faded. “Now, how to get out of here?”

The answer seemed obvious. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been in the store—though it certainly felt like it had been hours—but one thing was certain: The wretches didn’t appear to be giving up. The creatures were still making their way across the roof with their strange, irregular gait, growling and snarling just softly enough to hear.

Which doesn’t leave me with a lot of options. There are only two exits from the building. If I run, they’ll just chase me again, since they followed me all the way here. And the garden shop … Gooseflesh crawled down her arms at the thought of what the pack of wretches would do to the glass-walled shop or its upper floors.

Should have thought of that before I kept everything there. But there wasn’t much sense in regretting the action now. Either way, if they chase me, I end up in a much worse position. So I have to stay here … Until they’re dealt with.

The gnasher suddenly felt leaden in her arms, and she turned her eyes down at it, running her gaze across the smooth metal. So that means …

The trembling sensation was back now, along with the fluttering in her stomach. Maybe it hadn’t had anything to do with blood loss. Maybe it had just been fear.

Her fingers danced slightly against the gnasher’s foregrip. You already killed two of them, Sunset. And they’re trying to kill you. The Guard talked about that. It’s self defense.

Somehow it didn’t feel like it, though.

That … or you can stay in here and die of dehydration. Her meager supplies stared up at her from her wagon, woefully inadequate for the rest of the day, much less more than that. I can stay here and die of thirst. An inglorious end to her flight through the portal.

No. She squeezed the shotgun’s grip. I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I am Sunset Shimmer, and I have a destiny. I will not miss it.

She turned toward the front door, then shook her head. No. This room is too large. If they get inside, I’d be surrounded. The rear door’s entry was much more confined, with multiple doors to fall back to, like an old fortress or redoubt.

Granted, the interior doors didn’t look nearly as sturdy as the exterior doors, and the walls probably weren’t as solid either, but the back rooms would still be a bit of a choke point. Better than nothing if everything went wrong.

I’ll need a lure. A large campfire pan from one of the shelves would probably work to get the things’ attention. And after that … I just need to not miss.

She moved into the back, each step feeling like it crossed leagues. Her lantern sent shadows arching around the employee area, and she paused to block the doors to the rest of the store as well as to the side room with chairs, giving her a quick path of retreat if things went wrong. After what felt like minutes, but couldn’t have even been half of one, the rear door was in front of her, innocuous in its plain appearance.

Here goes. The lock gave with a faint click beneath her fingers. She paused, waiting, but no angry snarl or sudden growl came with it. So far, so good. She eased the door open, bright light spilling in the entryway and drowning out the glow of her lantern.

The rear alleyway was clear, the overhang above not nearly wide enough for one of the creatures to fit through it. A turn to the side, and the parking lot stretched in front of her, wide, flat, and empty. Bits of grass that had poked through cracks or grown in tiny patches of dirt waved in a faint breeze. Weathered, empty carriages sat in the street, silent.

That’ll work. Sunset hefted the frying pan by its handle, giving it a quick swing and feeling its weight. A snarl from nearby made her pause for a moment, waiting, but the shuffling sound that followed it was moving away, not nearer.

Now! She hurled the frying pan with all her might, watching as it flew out into the air … and crashed down with a loud bang, tumbling and spinning and not even coming close to the carriage she’d been aiming for. Still, the metal rang like a bell as it bounced, skittering and sliding until it slammed into the side of one of the carriages with a final clang.

Screams and snarls arose all around her, and she stepped back, yanking the door shut as quickly as she dared, only catching it from slamming into the wall the instant before it could add another bang to the still ringing pan. The irregular cadence of the wretches’ footsteps rolled by above her, followed by several heavy thumps from right outside as at least two of them landed in the lot.

Wait … She tightened her grip around the shotgun’s stock, listening to the odd barks and growls as what had to be several of the creatures came to inspect the noise. She could hear sniffles too, wet snorts as something sniffed at the air. Wait … The beat of their feet was slowing, the creatures coming to a stop. Any second now …

“Now!” Sunset shoved the door open with her shoulder, lifting the gnasher as she stepped out into the light. Three wretches turned their eyes toward her, the closest only a dozen feet away. It’s jaws opened, needle-sharp teeth on clear display—

The gnasher let out a quiet click, and all three wretches let out screams, turning their hunched bodies toward her.

The safety! She shoved her thumb forward, and suddenly the trigger gave, sinking back beneath her frantic clenching. With a boom that felt like a kick to her chest the gun fired—and the wretch closest to her let out a scream as a chunk of its arm evaporated, blood and gore spraying out across the parking lot. One of the carriages jerked as the rest of her shot buried itself in the metal, making fresh holes in the side of the vehicle.

She’d missed. One shot down. Seven left.

All three of the wretches began to rush toward her, including the one she’d wounded. Sunset backed up, squeezing the trigger but once again getting no result.

Lever! She shoved her rearward hand forward, a spent shell flying out of the side of the gun, and then snapped it back. The closest wretch let out a shriek, only a half-dozen feet away now, entering the alley.

Again she fired, the boom of the gun washing out the creatures’ cries as it swept down the alleyway. This time her shot was better, at least half of the pellets catching the thing and jerking it to one side. One pellet entered through its mouth, teeth shattering and the back of its head blowing out. It dropped to the ground, rolling and twitching.

Forward! Back! She stepped backwards as she fired again, her third shot striking at both of the oncoming wretches and slicing through flesh. Each stumbled, only to pull up seconds later and continue rushing at her heedless of the blood leaking from the massive gouges in their flesh. She fired a fourth time, her ears ringing from the blast. This time her shot struck the lead wretch dead on, and it came apart, the massive pellets slicing through one forelimb and the thing’s neck with equal, brutal efficiency. It crashed to the ground, blood oozing from gaping holes in its flesh and armor easily the size of Sunset’s fists.

Two. Forward! Back! The third skidded to a halt, throwing its head back to let out another scream … only for her fifth shot to turn its legs to paste, both of them giving out, the thing’s near scream transforming into a howl of pain.

Sunset stepped to the side and yanked the rear door closed, her ears ringing. That’s three of them. She’d guessed there were five. Now what? Wait for a minute and then try it again, see if I can lure the other ones? Or—? Her musings were cut off as several snarls sounded from outside the door, followed by another screech of pain from one of the wretches.

What? She eased the door open, sticking one eye up against the crack, and let out a gasp. Two other wretches had arrived, and they were eating their wounded comrades, digging into them with a violent relish that made her stomach churn.

Still, both of them had their backs to her as they tore into their fallen allies. She wouldn’t get a better shot. She leaned forward, pressing the door open and raising the gnasher.

She fired, and the nearest wretch came apart, shredded by the heavy pellets. As it dropped the remaining wretch spun, strings of flesh dangling from its teeth as it spotted her.

Bracing herself, Sunset fired for a final time. The shot knocked the wretch from its feet, the creature slamming into the pavement and twitching, letting out maddened rasps as its shattered limbs twitched and jerked.

Bile rose in Sunset’s throat. Now that it was down, she could see what had become of the wounded wretch behind it. The thing had clawed its pack-mate’s throat out.

Worse, it was still alive, barking and jerking, its limbs refusing to cooperate, but its jaws still opening and closing in her direction, blood-tinged flecks of drool shooting from its teeth.

Sunset stood there, silent, watching as the creature’s jerky motions slowed, coming in shorter and shorter gasps, before going still altogether.

Then she turned and vomited, clear bile splattering across the alleyway as she emptied the contents of her stomach out onto the pavement. The heaving continued long after her stomach was empty, her chest and insides kicking as they tried to void what she no longer had.

After what felt like an eternity the spasms stopped, and she sank back against the side of the building, a shudder running down her body. Bits and flecks of vomit and blood marred her pants and boots, and her mouth tasted like something had died in it.

But I’m alive. The thought brought a sort of smile to her face, even through the tremors running through her body, or the faint ringing in her ears. I did it. I killed them. And I’m still alive. She let out a nervous laugh, the sound almost alien as it rang out across the parking lot. “I’m alive!”

She closed her eyes and let her head tilt back, colliding against the wall of the shop with a quiet thunk. “I did it,” she gasped again. “I’m alive. I—”

The ground shook beneath her feet, and she froze. Did it just—? Another tremor bisected her thoughts, the ground beneath her boots quivering.

Elation fled as swiftly as a sparrow before an oncoming storm. There was no mistaking the sudden dance of nearby pebbles, or the scattering settling of debris. A third tremor rippled through the ground, faint but still perceptible. For a moment she simply stood there, shock and disbelief vying with fear inside her mind.

Then Sunset turned and began to run, even as a larger tremor rippled through the building. She knew what the vibration meant. Seen the alerts in papers and slapped up on posters around Holton.

The Locust Horde was coming.

Author's Note:

As a reminder, if you've enjoyed my work here (regardless of my stance in the opening chapter, some still might) or want to see this writing taken to its prime, then I'd urge you to check out the rest of my work here on fimfic as well as my website, which is a springboard to a number of my published novels and epics you can enjoy.

Comments

[Postwarmonkey50]

Now she will soon face the Locust. But what of the Gears? Where are they?

[Sol Nemesis]

Good my dear Sunset. But you'll have to do better. You're playing with the big boys now.

May the Gears of War turn you into the weapon you need to be. This is, as you say, you're destiny.

[Nosoni]

The Horde approaches Sunset lets hope the Crimson Omen doesn't find you wanting

[Voltaje]

Well, now is where things start to get better, where they story is taking forma, hopefully sunset survives.

[Warrior of Virtue]

Keep running and don't stop. You are not trained or equipped to deal with a Locust kill team.