Title:           Fall of Cleveland 57 - If Only It Were Traffic
Author:          Spaghetti_Land
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/YgR27qfL
First Edit:      Tuesday 21st of January 2014 10:29:05 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Tuesday 21st of January 2014 10:29:05 PM CDT

http://www.fluffybooru.org/post/view/3353
 
Written by Mayclore
 
If Only It Were Traffic
>You are a soldier in A Company, 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry Regiment.
>Your unit is currently in Humvees travelling toward the city of Cleveland along Lake Erie on Ohio State Route 2.
>Just about to reach the interchange with I-90, and there's not a soul on the roads.
>You'll be meeting up with C Company, 2nd Battallion, 56th Stryker Brigade, a unit from the Pennsylvania National Guard.
>They've been here for a while; their vehicles were required to help make a path for evacuees.
>Clumps of fluffy ponies dot the roadside.
>You've lost count of how many your vehicle's run over.
>It's not long before you see the Strykers up ahead.
>After coming to a halt and exchanging hellos, their company commander and yours start fleshing out details.
>III Corps in Fort Hood, Texas, the final word in the field for this operation, issues orders.
>They want your two units to determine how far light vehicles can penetrate into the city.
>You're not even bothering with the theme park itself, it's overwhelmed.
>”Pway?” a fluffy pony asks, waddling over.
>“Why hooman fwuff wook funny?”
>Kick that bastard clear off the bridge.
>You hear a chorus of 'new fwiend!' and 'gif huggies!'
>Mount up again and continue down I-90, Humvees leading the way.
>The closer you get to Cleveland, the more fluffies begin choking the roads.
>Pretty soon, you're driving through a living sea, screaming 'pwease move!' and 'fwuffy no can wun!'
>”Damn it, it feels like ice!” the driver complains.
>Fluffy pony gore defeats the traction of your tires.
>He opens the door and looks down.  Several fluffies try to hug him.
>”Hey, Ramirez!  Open up with the forty!”
>The gunner, standing up in the back, acknowledges.  Grenades begin pelting the fluffy ponies.
>The explosives manage to dent the squirming fluffy glob, and the noise makes them scatter.
>Scatter might be a generous term.
>They waddle at top speed, which is approximately not very fast miles an hour.
>You can move forward again, but you only reach Gordon Park before you get bogged down.
>”Fuck me upside down on a pogo stick,” the driver exclaims.  Fluffy ponies choke the landscape.
>Untold hundreds are washing up on the shores of Lake Erie to your right.
>”Charlie Company, bring up your Strykers and clear us a path, would you?”
>The IFVs rumble past you, their sloped forward undersides shoving piles of the screaming creatures away.
>They look like wakes of water, if they could talk, bleed, and cry.
>Your Humvees fall in behind them and continue on
>When you reach the East 55th Street bridge, there are so many ponies, their compressed corpses lift the Stryker's front ends up.
>Not even their eighteen tons can squish the dead enough to press on.
“I'm calling the Captain.  Sir, we got to East 55th and I-90, but not even the Strykers can get any farther.”
>You have to yell over the noise of fluffies begging for food, screaming in pain, and asking where Spaghetti Land is.
>”Roger, I'll send it along to regimental HQ.”
>”Man, we need a fucking Abrams,” the guy in the left rear seat says.
“Now that you mention it, where the hell is Dealer Company?”
>Before you can ask the Captain, you realize something.
>Your vehicles are surrounded by fluffies, two and three deep.
>They want hugs, and food, and directions.
“Oh...shit.”
>You try backing up, only for the pile of dead you create to lift up your rear tires.
“Captain, we're stuck and surrounded!”
>The Strykers have better luck.
>Their infantry passengers emerge and start blasting fluffies with their M1014 shotguns.
>The shots scatter enough grieving fluffies for the Humvees to start rolling.
>”Why huwt fwuffy?!”
>Fuck, do these things ever shut up?
>Everyone but the drivers have to get out now, stomping and kicking and shooting fluffies so their vehicles can get going.
>This oughta look real good in the regimental history.  From Hemingway in France to slaughtering living kids' toys in Ohio.
>More fluffies are coming in from behind you, half screaming about that damn theme park.
>Others are crying about a 'big wooshy munsta'.
>You look up.  Thank fuck, an M1A2 is coming.
>Its sixty-eight ton bulk flattens the little bastards into bloody puddles.
>It pulls up to the rear of your procession, does a pivot turn, and plows a path back.
>After a lot of three point turns, you fall in behind it.
>The fluffies waddle away from the turbine noise, so you have much better luck getting back to the interchange.
>Now the ruined theme park is off to your right.
>The best way you can describe the sight surrounding it is a pile of fluffies.
>Once you get back, your company checks in and gets the word from other companies that have attempted to reach Cleveland.
>Sounds like those west of the city have fared a little better than you, as they were going with the fuzzy flow.
>Fluffies continue to accost you, begging for help in reaching the 'big sgettis'.
>You kick them.  Some of the other soldiers turn them into bloody poofs with a shotgun shell.
>The company commander is already talking about artillery and air support.
>He also remarks about reports of people still in the city, but they're on their own.
>III Corps will have to take the fluffy problem a bit more seriously now.
>You continue to kick fluffies that waddle up to you.
>You're not shooting them, yet.
>Probably will on your way back to the camp at Lost Nation Municipal Airport.
>If these fluffy little bastards haven't overrun it by now.