Apocalyptic Pony TF Story

The nail slowly pushed further into the barricade, inching along with every strike of the hammer.
Then my hand slipped.
I hit my thumb.
By grace, I didn't feel it enough to hurt.
That's probably the only good thing that's come of all of this.

My name is—or at least was—Ethan Clark. I was a pretty normal guy, if I do say so myself. 23 years old, dark brown hair, white skin, about six foot tall and 170 pounds. I worked as a carpenter outside Youngstown, Ohio. It wasn't making me rich, but it was a living, and I liked what I did. I still do. Difference is, now I'm not working on commission. Now I'm just working to keep my mind alive.

A couple of weeks ago, everything went to shit. It was, for all practical purposes, the beginning of the end. The 'apocalypse', if you will. It wasn't a war that did it. It wasn't aliens. It wasn't even zombies. Well, in a way it was. Would be better, though, to call 'em ponies.

It's not clear where everything started, but most guesses I've heard say it was somewhere in Arkansas. All everyone agrees on is that they did start seeing little talking horses with colorful manes, coats, and brands, and when they'd hug you—their favorite thing—you'd start turning into one of them.

It wasn't an immediate death sentence to be cuddled by a filly or colt, of course. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, either; turn all mankind into horses and we'd still find a way to make things work. If there's one thing humanity's good at, it's surviving. No, getting hugged by one of those ponies was a sentence to a slow and creeping death that took first your body, then your mind. I managed to stay clean up until a week ago. I've been hiding in this makeshift bunker ever since.


So what happened? It's like this.
A week ago, I was on the road along with a couple of my friends who were trying to escape the apocalypse with me. We figured we'd take a road trip to the UP. We made it to Ann Arbor without much incident, though it was impossible to ignore the ruins of civilization along the way. The roads were all littered with abandoned autos, wrecks and the occasional stray horse. A time or two, we had to stop off for food, and narrowly escaped stampedes of tiny ponies shouting "Friends!"

When we made it to Ann Arbor, the sun was setting to the west, and the stars coming up in the clear navy skies were still unsettling to us all. When you think about the apocalypse, you expect everything to go to seed, but you don't think about what that'll do to the skies. Without cars on the highways, plants pushing out power, or planes in the air, there was a lot less smog, and a lot less light to drown out the stars. Jeff had been driving all day, and our ginger friend Jessie'd been napping in the back seat. I was riding shotgun. We were low on fuel, Jeff was tired and hungry, and without the noise of birdsong to drown out the engine on the car, driving at night meant taking a chance of waking every pony within a mile of the roadway. And if there's one thing worse than hyperactive horse-zombies looking to hug you and make you a new friend, it's hyperactive horse-zombies fresh woken from sleeping who can't rest for the noise until they stop the 'friend-stealing machine' and 'rescue' everyone inside.

So Jeff pulled us into an Applebee's parking lot for the night. It was pretty close to the highway, so it offered a quick escape, and we figured it should be easy to raid for food come morning and hunger. I was wearing the same blue jeans and gray tee I'd been wearing for three days, and Jeff wore the white polo and slacks that he'd had on for two. We didn't bother changing as we reclined the seats in the car, and proceeded to try to sleep, doors locked and windows open just a crack. The humid summer air of Michigan didn't do us any favors, but the chirping of crickets did help lull us to sleep.

I have no idea how long I slept before I awoke to a scream. I bolted up in my seat and turned toward the source of the sound, only to find it running through the doors of Applebee's: it was Jessie, with a horse hooked to her leg. The parasitic pony was a small yellow stallion, about the size of a large dog. He wore an oversized chef's coat, presumably a remnant of his former life. A pinkish unicorn with what appeared to be a well-prepared plate of Caesar salad in its mouth galloped behind them. I unbuckled my seatbelt and threw open my car door. I got out, slammed the door shut, and ran to meet Jessie—something I managed to do just in the nick of time. She tripped, apparently over nothing, and fell into my arms.

Inspecting Jessie, I noticed two small nubs budding from her back, uncovered by her pink halter top before she turned her face up to me. Inhumanly large blue eyes brimmed with tears. "Help me," she begged, her normally well-kept hair undone and curling every which-way. She threw her arms around me and began to sob. As I looked down at her hug uncomfortably, she took a step closer to me, revealing what had caused her to trip: two hooves emerged from her shoes, ill-fitted and misshapen for human footwear.

"I, uh." I tried to break her grasp and took a step backwards, noticing an orange tail swaying behind her. She clung tighter, as did the stallion still attached to her leg. I watched her nose and mouth grow out slowly into a snout, and felt her fingers harden into hooves as the nubs grew out further from her back, beginning to resemble a bird's wings.

"Please?" she begged, still crying. "...Friend?"

And that's when I punched her.