Fall of Cleveland: Contents Under Pressure

>You are a soldier in A Company, 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry Regiment.
>Ever since the C-17 went down, your unit has been killing fluffy ponies as fast as it can.
>The number of them you've killed by yourself is probably incalculable.
>Your company has become experts at using the M202 on them.
>One of you will fire a rocket that scares them and makes them run as one in a direction.
>The rest of you, waiting in ambush, pelt them with rockets as they get tired.
>Something is happening, though.  You're beginning to see fatter, slower fluffies.
>They're not pregnant moms.
>Something is definitely wrong with them.
>”Fwuffy tummy huwt,” they moan.
>The other soldiers have asked if it's all right to kill these, since they might have some sort of disease.
>It takes a couple of hours to get an affirmative reply.
>Now that you're back on patrol, you see a whole clump of them.
>They're hardly able to move, crying in pain and begging you for hugs.
>Instead of a hug, you give them a rocket.
>As usual, it catches a lot of them on fire.
>The corpses, however, start exploding.
>Everyone gets behind their vehicles for cover as the fluffies cook off.
“What the hell is this?”
>You can hear little dings as their broken bones strike the Humvee's side.
>You radio the camp to warn them about the exploding fat fluffies.
>Sounds like it's too late; you can hear popping in the background.
>Your Staff Sergeant decides to take the patrol back to camp and see what's going on.
>When you get back to the airport, small fires are everywhere.
>Soldiers are trying to stomp them out, or run them over.
>Sure, they could use fire extinguishers, but those are being saved for things that actually matter.
>The Captain comes over, weaving his way through B Company as they stomp out some fluffies.
>”Why are the fat ones exploding?”
“No idea, sir.  The ones we killed over at Primrose Acres did the same thing.”
>”Well, they're causing chaos.  We'd better figure out what's going on before we start killing more.”
>All the companies are brought into the camp perimeter.
>You're no longer allowed to use the incendiaries,
>Your tactics are limited to shooting into the air and using flash-bang grenades to scare the fluffies.
>Flash-bangs produce an interesting effect.
>Whenever one is used, the fluffies scream and run around in little circles.
>”Why dawk?  Why noisie huwt fwuffy?  Why no see?  Why buzzy?”
>Some of them even faint and fall over.
>This is all very amusing, but it doesn't make them leave.
>They couldn't get out anyway.
>The concertina wire is smothered with corpses.
>It's sunset, and the troops are ready to give up for the evening.
>God knows what the airport will look like tomorrow.
>The next morning, you look out the window and are amazed.
>The ground looks like carpet.
>That is, if it were carpet commissioned by Peter Max during a bad acid trip.
>There are literally piles of fluffy ponies squirming around.
>Fat, normal sized, pregnant dams, foals, adults, every shape and color and size is represented.
>You need help shoving the door open to even get outside.
>”Meanie munsta no gif owwies!” an angry yellow unicorn dam says.
>She has four foals on her back, crying for food.
>You kick her aside.  You kick every fluffy pony that comes near your legs.
“This shit is ridiculous...”
>The officers are meeting in one of the small hangars while the enlisted guys play fluffy pony soccer.
>When they finally come out, they have to wade through the pastel blob.
>You learn from them that the Air Force is sending a couple of CV-22B Ospreys from 8th Special Operations Squadron.
>They're carrying a few necessary supplies and a special passenger.
>While they're here, they'll use their powerful rotor down-wash to try and sweep away the fluffy hordes.
>You spend the next hour slaughtering the regular sized fluffies.
>When the Ospreys arrive, you all take cover in the hangars.
>The air they displace sends fluffies tumbling across the ground, screaming in terror.
>The fatter ones roll, lethargically yelling “No huwt fwuffy...”
>The tiltrotors land in swept-clean circles of their own making, and your company rushes over to help unload them.
>As it turns out, one of the Ospreys has two passengers.  One is a grizzled-looking Lieutenant Colonel in an Army Combat Uniform.
>The other is someone in glasses wearing the insignia of a Chief Warrant Officer 5 on his Army Service Uniform.
>The former you know; he's the battalion commander.  Quick salutes are exchanged as he leaves the Osprey's cargo bay.
>”Good lord, the report didn't do it justice,” the Colonel says, surveying the scene.
>Fluffy ponies are stuck on their backs, waving their hooves and crying “Upsies!  Upsies!  No can wun!”
>The warrant officer notices some of the fat ones that rolled up against the front of the hangar.
>The company commanders brief the Colonel on the fat ponies as the WO examines them.
>Since no one is ordering you around, you follow the new guy.
>Around you, the other soldiers are back to keeping fluffy ponies away from the Ospreys.
“Hey, sir, do you know what's wrong with them?”
>He nods up at you.  “They've been eating garbage.  They're full of methane.”
“Natural gas?”
>”That's right.  When they catch on fire, they explode and spread the flames.”
>The WO is called back by the Colonel, so you follow him back over.
>”Colonel, these fat ones are a fire hazard.  They're loaded with natural gas.”
>”What happens if they go up?”
>”The sewer is clogged, the water is out, there's no way to fight it unless you bring in airborne tankers, like a wildfire.”
”I think I already smell something burning...”
>You all look around until a column of smoke from the other side of Cleveland catches your eyes.
>Two F-15s fly over to your south.
>”Yeah,” the WO says,  “Something like that.”