Dirt
Dirt changed: it was a defining feature wherever one went. In Siberia, the soil was hard and cold with permafrost. Farming was difficult in the northern provinces, but it could be done. Further south, nearer to Mongolia, and Northern China, the dirt became softer—loamy—and helped in the formation of thick sod fields and grasslands. The Asian Provinces had the most fertile dirt; a soil that was wet with life.
Ocean sand was coarse and rough.
Volcanic ash was fine and soft.
Lakebeds of black silt billowed and puffed with every squelching step.
The dirt sifting through Pile's rough fingers felt unreal—warm; clumpy, like a toasted confection—and it should have been worrisome, but the gasping sniper didn't care. Shoveling and grunting his way forward, Pile crawled over the lip of otherworldly soil onto level ground. Ahead of him lay a yawning opening: a cave large enough to be visible from the forest floor, and Pile's new temporary home…
… hopefully.
Pile spat blood and saliva into the dirt, rolling onto his back and sullying his coat to the edge of unrecognizable territory. He stared at the sky, breathing heavily from exertion. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, betraying the late hour—betraying him. Soon, night would come, and Pile needed a place to hide.
The cave would have to do.
Fingers scrabbling weakly, the sniper grasped at his bayonet, slipping it from his boot and clutching it like a drowning man. He had seen the game trail ending at the mouth of the rocky shelter. It was the same trail he avoided following during the climb, using several rockslides and narrow passes to scale his way to the top in hopes of avoiding any hungry predators. Using his supply bag for support, Pile pushed himself to his feet, bayonet held aloft. He would have used his pistol, but he didn't have it—lost it in the forest below that morning.
In the distance, Pile heard an anguished roar.
Leaving his rifle and heavy pack to wallow in the odd earth, the sniper stole into the dark opening. He ignored the fiery itch clawing up his ribcage; ignored the throbbing pain in his right forearm; ignored the clawing hunger in his gut and the intense fatigue tugging at every thin muscle. He held his makeshift knife at the ready, waiting for some shadowy thing to leap out at him. Steadily, the tunnel widened, forming a small, continuous antechamber before cutting off abruptly about a hundred yards in. A mound of stone and sediment—an obvious rockslide—blocked him from traversing further.
The only shadow that moved was his own.
Judging the cave safe for the moment, Pile slunk back outside to grab his few possessions. As quickly as he could, he dragged his weapon and supply-bag inside. Leaning the Nagant against the cave wall, he quickly rifled through the contents of the bag, intent on finding a single thing—something he'd noticed during his search for medicine that morning.
Where is it where is it where is it—ah! There you are…
Hands shaking, Vetrov reached deep within the contents of his bag, grasping something heavy, cold, and very, very powerful. Carefully lifting the object out, quickly observed its metallic outer casing: it didn't appear damaged, and maybe, just maybe, it would suit his needs.
Five-point-five kilograms of TNT all wrapped up in a cylindrical, metal casing covered in etched, Aryan lettering:
Tellermine – 42
Whoever had the balls to pry that little fucker out of the ground deserved a medal, and perhaps a kiss. German anti-tank mines weren't exactly on a hair trigger, but if it had one of those special T-MyZee anti-disarmament fuses, well, an engineer could practically be considered missing in action. Oftentimes, not even steel dog tags survived the blast.
Slowly, and with no small amount of reverence, Pile carried the mine to the mouth of the cave, holding the device as far away as he could by its small, built-in handle. The shelf of level ground before the steep drop to the forest lay before him, and to his left he could see the beginnings of the game trail. Padding quietly over the paw-prints of countless unknown creatures—a single, enormous, saurian claw-print gave the sniper pause, but he quickly shook it off—Pile followed the trail for several meters, looking for a place to bury his treasure.
Finally, nearly two hundred paces below the cave mouth, he found the perfect spot.
The mountain rose up on either side of the trail, forming a narrow choke point that lasted almost ten meters. A choice between the perilous slope downward and the impossible cliff up to the peak above left only one option: the path. Pile smiled tiredly to himself, and, choosing a spot where the slope on either side looked the most solid, he dug a small hole in the dust. Packing down the loose dirt at the bottom as much as he could, Vetrov set the explosive inside and covered it, pushing sand in around the canister while leaving the pressure plate clear and free in the open air.
Pile let out a deep breath, scratching the bridge of his nose. All that was left was to arm it.
Now, mines like these weren't supposed to go off if something considerably lighter than a tank rolled over them, but the weight limit was more of a guideline than a rule. Pile knew he would be safe, but the mere prospect of being torn to shreds in the blink of an eye was terrifying, and a part of him screamed not to do it—the dark, forgotten place where rationality feared to tread.
Dusty, shaking fingers caressed the edges of the steel pressure plate. It was cold, and felt sharp against Pile's pale skin. Steadying himself, the sniper began turning the carefully-disarmed pressure plate back into position.
Seconds felt like hours, and Pile became increasingly aware of how tired he had become. He had been awake for nearly twenty-nine hours. He was hungry, thirsty, and unbearably, unshakably afraid.
Fear… he felt fear…
He couldn't be insane, could he?
Did the insane feel fear?
What of the lion? The Forest?
Sweat pooled at the tip of Pile's nose, threatening to patter-patter-drip down down down onto his hard work and the wind was blowing dust around and around and where, when, and how didn't matter.
It was the 'what' that could bring down mountains.
A sharp click rent the evening air, and Pile froze. His eyes darted across the now set and armed Tellermine. It was small and unassuming, but exceedingly out of place in the middle of such a remote mountain trail. Daintily, like one of Stalin's own personal chefs, Pile took up a handful of sand and sprinkled it atop the pressure plate to—hopefully—conceal it from any attentive guardians.
Satisfied with his work, Pile let out a sharp sigh of relief and turned to leave, but stopped at the sound of something familiar dancing on the wind:
Distant pops and cracks down below.
Gunfire. Gunfire far, far away.
Frowning, Pile rose, tearing off a sprig from a nearby mountain shrub and marking the trail next to the mine as an afterthought, before he crept back along the trail back to the cave. It would be cold that night, but he didn't want to risk a fire—he was too tired to gather firewood anyway—so he would have to manage.
At least I'm not still down below with the murderous beasts, Pile mused. Ducking down into the spreading dark, he allowed himself a small smirk. Or the ones that aren't Aryan.
Dirt remained the same.
Or, at least, in Applejack's experience it did.
Born into the soft, clumpy soil of an apple orchard, the orange mare grew up amongst clinging mud and fertile pastures all her life—the short hiatus to the cement streets of Manehattan didn't count—and would most likely die amongst the same, beautiful filth. She chose the life of a farmer long ago, a testament to her bloodline. There was nothing—simply nothing—that was unknown to her on her land.
Every laden tree, every pond, every stone, every twig, every smell, every presence, every sound was familiar.
That was, every sound except one:
Dreadful, aggressive roars carried over the still air, but that wasn't it: everypony in Ponyville was privy to the unique squawks and growls of the Everfree Forest at night, especially her.
It was what came in-between that confused her: the pronounced, rattling and banging echoing through the trees behind every roar; the guttural, foreign shouting.
Applejack shuddered, gazing past a sea of empty groves into the dark pines of the wild, and, under the influence of Celestia's will, the sun dipped out of the sky. A full moon quickly rose to take the place of its sister-body, brightening the land with its silvery glow, and the sound persisted.
Turning away from the forest, the farmer trotted through the patch of thin snow still left on her front walk and mounted the wooden porch jutting from the southern-west face of her family's rustic home. Ears still trained on the wilderness behind, she pulled open the screen door and slipped inside.
Moment's later, the lanterns dimmed, leaving the Luna to light the constant, sleeping earth.
Deep in the Everfree Forest, the noise continued.