Chapter 2: Getting out of Dodge
Chapter 2: Getting out of Dodge
“Fine, so you beat this wave. FINE. What do you want, a pony?
“Yes!”
Mercifully, I didn’t have any terrifying dreams that night, for once. A pale pony didn’t chase me down a hallway made out of fire. A caravan didn’t disappear in front of me in an incandescent fireball. Apparently, the psychological trauma of the alicorn’s mental violation coupled with the horrible remains of those ponies hadn’t set in, which was a good thing. A very, very good thing. I could fall to little pieces later. I had work to do.
More to the point, I was stuck for the time being in the dreamscape equivalent of staring at the ceiling and twiddling my hooves. I couldn’t see or hear anything, and it felt like I had all the time in the world to simply sit in that lightless, soundless void and puzzle out a solution to my problem.
Fact one: During my confrontation with the alicorn, it had mentioned needing to ‘deconsecrate’ the holy ground of the church, presumably with the blood of innocents. The notion was patently ridiculous. The false alicorns created by some Goddess-forsaken pre-war experiment were ultimately governed by the same brand of physics as the rest of us. It should have been perfectly alright standing pretty much anywhere, holy ground or not. Hell, if it had wanted to, it probably could have marched right up to the church in broad daylight and entered through the front door.
Fact two: The alicorn had been playing with me. I’m no unicorn, but I know more about magic than most earth ponies due to my extensive (for the wasteland) library and voracious reading habits. The mind-breaker spell had been hideous, yes, but come on. It was an alicorn. I should have been either gibbering helplessly on the floor or doing whatever it was telling me to do and begging for more, which meant it probably was either holding back deliberately, or something was diluting its strength.
Fact three: As fuzzy as my recollection of the emergence from the church was, I remembered enough to know Texas and I were probably in deep trouble. I could see the situation in my mind’s eye quite clearly, now that I thought of it: I fall over into the dirt. Doughnut tries to cuff me. Texas, being Texas, shoves the sheriff off of me and presumably calls him something that would make a Goddess-fearing person like me blush and mutter a prayer for her apparent degeneracy. Doughnut would construe that as an assault on a duly appointed militia member and attempts to arrest her as well. Tex spits on the ground, curses vehemently, and throws me onto her back like a sack of potatoes. Now, my body was probably resting in my home as Doughnut organizes a militia task force to throw the pair of us behind bars.
Speaking of which, I was getting that falling-to-earth kind of feeling that often preludes returning to the waking world. Sigh.
…
I woke up to the sight of Tex staring out the window, gun in mouth, still wearing her combat armor. The first thing that struck me as odd was the fact that the windows had iron bars on them. Which meant we weren’t in my home. Which meant I was in Texas’ house.
Uh, crap.
Don’t get me wrong, Texas and I are good friends, but she’s the kind of girl that reinforces her privacy with bullets and paint-blistering profanity. In the five years we had known each other, I had never once been in her house. And now I saw why.
Her interior was…cute.
It wasn’t like there were pictures of puppies and kittens everywhere, granted, but she had frilly looking doilies over everything and the entire living space was painted in gentle, relaxed colors that made the whole place look like the home of some little filly’s favorite aunt. I stirred a little, and she noticed, quietly swearing under her breath enough to make me sweat. Like I said before, Texas does not panic easily.
“Heya” she said, closing the curtains and moving to my side. “Git off yer ass and get ready ta move. We’ve gotta leave by noon.”
Once I was vertical, I managed to choke out something amounting to “what’s the situation?” I was still in my clothes from the night before, for which I was thankful. In some ways, I value my privacy as much as Texas values hers.
The big mare grunted, said something not suitable for children, and responded “Doughnut’s on th’ damn warpath fer whatever you did in th’ church.” She paused, rolled her eyes a little, and idly added “or whatever he thinks ya’ll did. Speakin’ of which, what exactly did happen? A big fuckin’ thing busts out of th’ roof and then ya’ll stumbled outta there mumbling incoherently, and passed out.”
I told her. By the time I was done, Texas was frozen so still that it looked like she was shivering, which worried me. When Texas gets angry, she smashes holes in things and ponies get hurt. Being a professional reader of emotion, I sensed that she was a couple of steps beyond that right now.
“That…that…” She stood still for a few seconds longer, her eyes closed. The trembling that had been building up in her abruptly ceased. She opened her cold, steel grey eyes, and in a voice that bore no relation to my friend said, “Preacher. Give me something to kill.”
I broke out into a cold sweat. This wasn’t Texas anymore, that was for damn sure. I didn’t know what caused this…thing…to have some kind of hoofhold in my friend’s mind, and I’m not sure I wanted to. It was like this raw, elemental force, a kind of atavistic loathing so intense that its gaze turned my guts to water and filled my mind with fear. It wasn’t the kind of fear that makes you want to run and hide, or scream in terror. That’s horror movie fear. This was the kind of fear that makes you feel as though you were about to become a byproduct of evolution. It could destroy me. It would destroy me, given half a chance. It would enjoy the experience. The only thing that was keeping it from tearing me apart was whatever tenebrous control Texas was exerting over it.
Perhaps I could use that to my advantage. By directing its thoughts away with promises of future bloodshed, maybe it would be less inclined to tear my face off then and there. Sure. I believed that.
“Texas, I promise. We’re gonna find this thing and it won’t hurt anypony anymore. I swear it.”
The thing that wasn’t quite my friend nodded once, and subsided. Texas—the real Texas—came back to me with a shudder. “Thanks” she said mildly, fishing for her whisky in the endless rows of utility packs. “Needed ta hear ya’ll say it.” She tilted her head toward the hallway. “Go wash up, second door on th’ left. It’ll take a couple of hours fer Doughnut ta get th’ Mayor to sign off on our warrants. After that, we’re free game.”
I felt a little sick to my stomach—and this time it wasn’t for the ponies that alicorn had killed. What Texas was explaining so casually was abandoning our home, my home, thanks to the word of a vindictive snake like the sheriff. Maybe Texas had done it often enough for it to not affect her as much, we didn’t discuss her past, but for me it was different.
The short story is I have abandonment issues. Maybe that makes me a whiny, angsty crybaby but it’s the truth. My parents—under circumstances we won’t be discussing at the moment—died when I was a teenager. I traveled for a while, doing things that, while they don’t get as many headlines as saving orphans or overthrowing tyrants, are just as important. I built churches and schools. I’d like to think I’ve saved a few souls along the way. I’d cut my teeth—ha, ha—on some pretty wild adventures back then, but eventually I wandered into Sanctuary and settled down. Barring some horrific incident like the one last night, I had pretty much planned on living the rest of my life there.
Of course, the wasteland had once again proven to be a completely horrible bitch with an evil sense of humor.
With a nearly imperceptible twitch of a nod to Texas, I trotted down to the washroom, opened the door, and nearly startled myself to death when I accidently looked at her full-length mirror.
Yes, I look so freakish that I scare even myself sometimes. Hardy. Freaking. Har.
Once my heart wasn’t beating at about a million miles an hour, I stopped to take a closer look at myself. Big shock, I looked like ten miles of bad road. Through Hell. I didn’t even know it was possible to for me to get bags under my eyes, but there they were, looking like six sullen, purple bruises all lined up in two little rows. It was almost cute. My lip-membrane-thing hadn’t grown back in—and wouldn’t, for a couple of days at least—so I was able to properly brush my pearly yellow canines. I combed my shoulder-length hair back into socially acceptable parameters—for Pete’s sake, I sound like a dictionary—and splashed water into my face. Like they say, cleanliness is next to Goddess-ness. Nopony says that. I say it.
Oh, and just to start off the morning on a positive note, I threw up in the sink. Like, a lot. Funny, my supper tasted better going out than going in. As I was doing so, a shrill little voice in my head chimed in with the opinion that I going about my business as normally as possible because I was trying to forget about last night and just crawl back in my dim, drab little house and go on living the mundane life I had chosen for myself, because I’m a coward.
I mentally strangled that voice to death while I gargled some mouthwash—without lips, how cool is that?—and it got done with some post-mortem twitching by the time I was trotting back to Tex’s living room.
“Hey Texas,” I said cheerfully, “you got any PTSD-O’s? I’ve got this weird craving for some.”
Tex, who was rifling around in her fridge, looked up, apparently trying to decide whether to be amused, worried, or both. As usual, she settled for pissed.
“Don’t get all weird on me now, Preacher. The wasteland needs a flamin’ avatar of vengeance, not another basket case.”
Without mentioning that the line between the two can and often do blur, I nodded, and sobered immediately. I would do nopony any good if I ended up a giggling, half-mad wreck because of what the alicorn made me experience.
Without further ado, we sat down and ate our breakfast in silence.
*.*.*
My home was on fire.
Let me repeat that, for the benefit of your chickenshit bosses behind the mirror: They set. My house. On fire.
I normally consider myself a polite and genial soul, but at that moment, I swore to Celestia, Luna, and Whoever else happened to be listening that someone, somewhere, was going to pay for that. Maybe with blood, maybe not. But pay.
Somepony was roaring with rage and hate as me and Texas galloped toward my home, past the building that others had crafted with faith in their hearts, past the building that was consecrated with the Goddesses’ Love, past the building that was still filled with the anonymous dead. As we went past, I noticed that the pony screaming was me, and did not care in the least. Something had blasphemed against my faith twice in twenty four hours, and that thing was going to die screaming.
You can cram that ‘turn the other cheek’ thing up your ass. If nothing else, there were at least forty ponies in there that didn’t have names, which probably had families worrying themselves mad over where they had gone, that needed, above all else, to be avenged the hell out of.
If me and Texas wouldn’t do it, who would?
I had screamed myself hoarse by the time we reached my house. To my absently felt dismay, my heavy, steel door that I had spent a small fortune on reinforcing proved to be absolutely no impediment to the sheer speed and size of Texas, who simply ploughed through it in a hoofball-style tackle. I’m not sure she even noticed the door, much less felt going through it. We didn’t have much time, and it was almost noon. Oh, and my house was on freaking fire. I normally don’t put much stock in the material – such beliefs kind of come with the territory – but I was fairly weeping when I saw my Fluttershy poster partially burnt to cinders. Texas, as always, was by my side, stuffing her packs with everything we might need for our sudden, forced exile.
Speaking of which, what are you supposed to pack when you go into exile? Do you pack warm?
Anyway, in went our most vital supplies: healing potions, ammunition, food, that sort of thing. I could hardly see a thing through all the smoke, which proves that a few extra pairs of eyes don’t do jack when your home is going up in flames. After the essentials were all squared away, I realized there was some room for, ah, nonessential materials. In went my copy of Philosophy: Straight from the Mare’s Mouth. Ditto for some of my rarest comic books. My best, least-scratched vinyl records got a lot of space as well. Oh, and my hat. I love my hat. The wide brim, the high peak…perfect. It reminds me of a book I once read called the Friendquisition.
The reason we didn’t even try to put the fire out? That’s easy: water. Even with the advent of a regular, controlled weather patterns, Sanctuary just doesn’t get the water it needs often enough. It’s tightly rationed, and for good reason, because showering for an hour straight in this day and age would probably mean your neighbor dies from dehydration.
“Shittin’ fuck, this thing is comin’ down on top of us, Preacher!” Texas exclaimed, sounding far more irritated than frightened.
We started for the back exit, only to have some of the roof slats come down in front of it, flames licking greedily at every wooden surface. I probably whimpered a little, while Tex just snarled in frustration and hate. She reared back and loudly roared in her not-quite-herself voice, “I am going to gouge Doughnut’s Luna-damned eyes out!” before smashing contemptuously through the wall. We both rolled free just in time for my house to collapse in on itself. We simply lay there for a moment, blinking out the swirling ashes.
Then, I noticed that we were surrounded by militia. After a moment of slack-jawed gawking at the pair of us, one of them dragged their wits together long enough to approach. I recognized the face that came into view from my position on the ground, and almost—almost--breathed a sigh of relief. It was Vanilla Frosting, Doughnut’s daughter. She was, in fact, a decent mare. Unfortunately, she had inherited her brains from her father, but otherwise she was sweet, kind, and completely unsuited for a job as a militiapony.
“Hiya, Preacher!” she shouted giddily despite the fact that I was mere inches away from her face.
“Hello, Ms. Frosting.” I replied, as though we had bumped into each other on the street rather than me sitting face-up in a pile of my home’s ashes. She helped me up, and then she glanced down at Texas, her expression growing concerned as the big mare just lay there, breathing heavily, her eyes screwed shut. I turned and looked her over as well, but I knew better than to try to help her up. Aside from her instinctively contrary stubbornness, Texas doesn’t like being touched at all. Ever.
Vanilla Frosting, however, didn’t know that.
“Ms. Texas, are you feeling okay?”
Sheesh, this was just like the militia in miniature. Generally cordial, maybe a little slow… right up until the point where they shoot you in the face for something stupid. In fact, I was so busy pondering on this line of thought that I didn’t even notice the pale mare reaching down to help Texas up until it was too late.
I snapped out of my reverie and managed you yell out “Don’t!” just as Vanilla touched Tex.
I fucked up. I should have noticed it sooner or at least should have known she would have done something like that, being as guilelessly friendly as she is. I should have been faster. I should have been more proactive in helping my friend. The second she touched the scarred mare, Texas’ eyes snapped open as wide as they physically could. With a growl of utter loathing so deep it was almost subsonic, she slapped away Vanilla’s hoof with a violent motion before hauling herself to hooves.
“This hoof—is going through your spine!”
What happened next still gives me nightmares.
Texas followed through with the threat in the most brutal way imaginable, literally punching her cinder block sized hoof not onto, but through the poor mare’s back. She impaled the smaller mare on a small portion of her heavily muscled, thick fetlock.
“Yesss…” Texas whispered, her body shivering with what looked disturbingly like arousal as Vanilla died. Apparently, whatever lived inside my friend’s head found murder better than sex. Eyes blazing with contempt and madness, she shook off the dead pony’s body with the air of brushing off the remains of an insect from your horseshoe The sound alone made me want to hurl. Speaking of hurling, I threw myself at the big mare like I was shot out of a damn cannon, screaming incoherently.
The whole time I was grappling with her and trying not to get my neck snapped, I was crying through all six of my eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Texas was my friend. She was a good pony, despite being abrasive and more stubborn than was good for her. She wasn’t a monster like that murderous alicorn.
“Texas-look at me! Look at me!” I practically screeched at her, hoping against hope that whatever happens when she looks me in the face, happened.
It didn’t. Instead, this twisted; body-snatcher thing looked at me with Texas’ eyes, and its mouth twisted into what no sane pony would call a smile. It locked me in place with some kind of wrestling move—the real, hard core wrestling too, not the fake stuff.
“Oh, how I have waited for this day, stallion. I will break you exactly like I broke Doughnut’s little bitch, and then study up on necromancy just so I can kill you again and again and again. Will that not be fun?”
Oh yeah, fun, the shrill voice in my head babbled, Getting killed to death by my best friend is fun, fun, fun, fun…
I ignored what it was saying, instead focusing on what was going on past its eyes, into Texas, my friend, my ally.
“Texas, I know you can hear me. What are you doing in there, huh? It must be really fun, sitting on your rump while this demonic thing plays with your body!”
The demon winced, its head cocking to the side as though suddenly struck.
“For that, I am going to tear you a THIRD ASSHOLE!”
The militia, for their part, was mostly running away screaming. Maybe they’re a little more sane than me. On my own, I could never take on Texas in hoof-to-hoof combat. She may not have fancy martial arts training, but she usually relies on overwhelming her opponents with strength enough to crush their bones to powder.
Which is why, after not-Texas hurled me away from itself like a discarded beer bottle, I decided to play dirty.
“Texas! If you don’t take back control of yourself right now, I will call you a sissy girl until the day you die! I will sew an apron onto your combat barding and paint Peacemaker pink! Do you hear that, you stubborn bitch from hell!? Pink!”
Not-Texas lurched painfully to the side, its muscles clenching and unclenching seemingly at random.
“I was so…close…”
One shudder later, and it was gone. Texas regained control with a snarl, and I had the misfortune to catch her eyes, and I could practically hear the thoughts spinning in her head as they widened. ‘What the fuck’ was quickly replaced by, ‘oh shit, not again…’, and then, slowly, horribly, ended up at:
‘Oh Goddesses, no.’
My jaw worked and my vision blurred as Texas forced herself to turn around and gaze at Vanilla Frosting’s corpse. Her scars twisted into an expression of the most hideous agony, and she shut her eyes so tight, I was afraid they would never open again. There were no tears. She knelt next to the body, more vulnerable and in pain than I had ever seen her. Her mouth cycled in and endless litany of apology.
“Ah’m sorry, Ah’m sorry, Ah’m sorry…”
What I had to say next broke my heart.
“Texas, we’ve got to go.”
Her eyes snapped open and she gave me a disgusted glare.
“What?”
I stood my ground, which is not easy when the pony you’re talking to could break you like a toothpick. “Texas, this isn’t your fault, and we gotta—“
“Not mah fault?” she all but roared, interrupting. “Not mah fault? Who th’ fuck killed Frosting, then, Preacher?” she gestured to the entire town, “Did’ja see anypony else punch their hoof inta her goddess-damned spine!?”
I opened my mouth to reply at the same time I winced at her casual blasphemy, but she continued on as though talking to herself.
“No? Ah didn’t think so.” She looked at the ground in such shame and self-loathing that it made the display from the night before seem anemic. “Mah anger. Mah choice. Mah fault.”
I hate being brutally honest with people, I really do. It makes me feel cold hearted. In all honesty, I wanted to do nothing more but crumple to the ground, weeping, at the life cut tragically short at the amused whimsy of whatever shared Tex’s body. But she was at a tipping point: Either she would shut down and kill herself slowly with guilt, or try to do better.
I was really hoping she’d choose the latter.
“Texas, at this point you have two choices: Stay here and wallow in self-pity, or come with me so we can kill the thing that drove you to this so hard, it will die to death.”
She agonized for a second or two. Come on Texas, tick-tock…
She made the right choice, thank the Goddesses. She met my gaze, her expression filling with a determined resolve that I had seen many, many times before.
“Only you, Preacher. Ya’ll had me at kill.”
That statement didn’t disturb me in the slightest. Really.
“Well then, my friend” I said, gesturing to the town gate, “Shall we go?”
*.*.*
As we dashed for the exit to Sanctuary, I thought of Sheriff Doughnut.
I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of him as an overbearing, racist, sexist asshole any longer. I knew that the pain of losing his daughter would be more than enough recompense for any sins. Even worse, no amount of condolences, apologies, or in all likelihood, prayer, would ever be able to heal him. I’m faithful, not delusional. I nearly choked up just thinking about it.
Celestia above, no one deserves to outlive their own child.
Sanctuary’s gate is about three times the height of an average pony, made of corrugated layers of ill-fitting metal. However poorly it was designed, constructed, and implemented, it more or less served its function of keeping the various minor critters of the wasteland out. It also had the disconcerting habit of keeping the citizens in. Various militia members milled about, at times glancing fearfully toward the smoke rising from my destroyed home.
“Hi, fellas. Can we get through?” I said, finally having the presence of mind to put on my hat.
A unicorn I recognized as Crimson Glare stepped up ahead of the rest of the group. Yes, his coat was crimson. And he was good at glaring.
“Sorry Preacher. Nopony in or out without the Sheriff’s say so.”
The solution to this dilemma was relatively easy. Texas marched right up to him and said “Ya’ll are pissing me off.”
Her glare made Crimson’s look like the lopsided stare of a newborn kitten. Needless to say, the gate was opened in short order. For the first time in five years, I stepped out from Sanctuary into the wasteland. Gunfire roared in the distance, and the smell of decay, of two centuries of entropy and neglect, hit my nostrils.
And yet, there She was, the Sun, shining down on us all.
Let the good times roll.
Footnote: You didn’t even do anything in this chapter, so no level up. Sucks to be you.
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My goodness, I just get the first chapter done, and a second one is already out!
This pleases me.
As for how I think your story is, it's great! Love Preacher. My theory is that his mom might have slipped into some taint when he was in the womb, so that's why he's a mutant, but I'm sure you got something lined up for us that explains his frightening visage.
Don't mess with Texas. lol.
That alicorn is no normal alicorn. Something is up, and I don't think it'll be good for Preacher when he finds out. Just a wild guess.
Anyways, this is a great beginning to what I'm sure is gonna be a great story! cant wait to read more!
1651109
Super glad you liked it.
All will be explained in time. including Preacher's face:P
I am sorry to say that you lost me in this chapter. While I know that it is set in a Fo:E world does it not sound rather Fo:E to me and my head. Not that I say that it is bad, it is just not my cup of tea
1657755
How so?
1657769
I can´t put my finger on exactly, it did just loose me about a 1/5 of the way though the new chapter.
1657819
Well, that sucks.
Feel free to think about it more, and get back to me on it. I'm perfectly willing to rewrite it.
1657830
You should not rewrite it just because one reader lost the interest in your story. But if I find the reason am I sure going to write it to you
1657835
I'd appreciate that.
1657835
DOOMANDE!
I, proof read, and helped edit chapter two via PM.
I will agree on some things, but not on others...
Also, the changeling thingy?
I'm going to do it around chapter 19
Ed
1658257
Okay, here are my editors: BronyFable (Chapter 2 onwards) and Sir Leadhead (Chapter 3 onwards), because you guys are cool like that.
1658336
Indeed, also, feel free to comment on
the RP, shit is getting REAL.
Ed
1658349
I already did
Whilst I liked the first chapter a lot, the second chapter feels... off. That's the only way I can think to describe it.
The name Texas always rubbed me wrong, naming characters after real life people and places has always bothered me, but if you could work in an explanation for her name, then it would be alright. The demons stuff with the alicorn in the first chapter and having to desecrate a location to be there was rather odd to me, of course when the main POV character also said it didn't make sense, I relaxed and figured the alicorn was just insane. But then you describe Texas's Dissociative Personality Disorder as a Demon too, which just kinda irked me.
I can tell that this is a FOE story that is trying to do something different from the rest and stand out more. And whilst that isn't a bad thing, I think you could tone down the demonic references. Also why did you make Preacher a mutant pony? Just seems kind of overkill. The story isn't bad, I figure you need to lay off the more religious aspects and try to find a balance between the more science-y/magic elements of the universe and the religious ones that Preacher talks about.
I think a story that might more closely reflect your story is the Dark Tower series, maybe it's just my imagination or that I'm re-reading the books again, but I kind of feel some DT influence. For example, a priest moves into a community and establishes a church, like Father Callahan in Book 5: Wolves of Calla. Callahan and Priest both fight off powerful, foul foes who dislike religious places or places of power.
1830174
I really appreciate the critique, and I'm working hard to make chapter three better.
Also, I've never read the Dark Tower series, but I'll be sure to give it a try
2278167
Dear, you have no bloody idea how long it has been since either of us have so much as glanced at this story. Preacher deeply appreciates your approval, (or would, if he could stop screaming for five seconds) but the truth of the matter is that updates for this shall be few and far between.
Not to worry darling, we have other projects that I do believe will delight and entertain you for some time to come.
Wow. You kill the sheriff's daughter after you nearly survive a burning home, and out you go into the Badlands. That has to suck.
I SO WISH I WAS TEXAS IN REAL LIFE.
I have been told not to read FO:E by so many authors. I like this. It is so beyond what I would choose to ever read, you know? I found it... highly inspired.
PLEASE WRITE MORE.
3499935
Maybe...even if we could, the write-ups, ideas and so forth are on a currently defunct computer. If it could somehow be restored this dusty old thing could be continued. Our mediocre authorship does not deserve the favorite of such a brilliant author such as yourself mother dearest
3527100
Hush you. I LIKE WHAT I LIKE! I'm about as talented as a cantaloupe, anyway.
*snugs*