Document 6 is an unfilled notebook. It comes from a stallion by the name of Needlepoint, a possible neurologist attempting to work on converting black collared mares into red collars. From detailed pieced together from the notebook, he and another male survivor were put into a group of uninfected mares, all black collars. They were outnumbered and didn’t lack the weaponry or skills to incapacitate all of the mares, who forced them to travel with them in order to be safer from the infected, who could’ve infected the mares with a touch.

The notebook’s first entry was written about 4 weeks after the outbreak. The Caribou Empire from the north has kept a steady supply of ordinance and weaponry to a border from just a little south of the ruins of the Crystal Empire, spanning from Vanhoover to Manehattan. Everything south of that border was assumed to be overrun by infected, outside of Caribou control, and populated only by wandering hordes of infected, as well as small pockets of uninfected survivors, who had begun acting out of their own accord, scavenging from ruins and avoiding the infected.

It is believed that the entry rewritten below was during a mission into a small school in Dodge Junction. Needlepoint was sent in along with another male survivor, a Pegasus by the name of Broken Glass; a bartender. They were accompanied by three black collars of the group, and the males were only to serve as the colloquial ‘pack mules’ of the trip.

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Dear Journal:

Why? Can a piece of paper answer what the hell happened today, or why it happened? Can a bunch of papers linked with metal hoops give a better explanation to the bloodshed today than any of the mares that have enslaved me can?

I’m sorry. I’m a little fucking stressed at the moment, and the ink doesn’t come out of the paper, so sorry if you have no clue what the hell you’re reading.

I’m Needlepoint. I am, well, was, a doctor. I helped mares make sense of their place in society. I got them to stop fighting it and take it like they should.

Now, they started bleeding from their eyes, and would sooner cut your dick off with a spork and beat you to death with it than they would ever even suck it. Dainn doesn’t know what the hell to do, Nopony knows what the hell to do. I don’t even know how many sane ponies are even left on this Dainn-forsaken continent. Every day it just seems to get worse… The Ponyville Masacre, The Battle of Canterlot, the daily screams in the distance, and the pools of blood everywhere… I don’t even think it was a week ago until I had realized that all the red collars are gone or infected.

I found another stallion, a bartender, looking for his son. Then we ran into five armed black collars. I was glad that they were uninfected, but they decided to put a gun to our heads, and gave us a deal of fight the infected up close for them or get a bullet to the frontal lobe. We’ve been travelling with them for a while now, and we had arrived in Dodge Junction last night. We thought the place was abandoned, so the mares got us to set up camp inside an old inn. Then they ordered us to look for supplies in the old school. The bartender was happy, anyway. He was hopeful that he would find his son. I told him I would try to help, so we went, three mares with guns following us in.

I had a small pocket knife, while the bartender had a piece of lead piping. All the mares had pistols. Talk about role reversal…

I digress. We entered the building slowly. We hadn’t seen any mares when we entered the town, but there wasn’t any evidence that none had wandered into nearby buildings or were hiding. As we went into the building, it was certainly an interesting scene, but nothing like we hadn’t seen before. Blood stains on the walls, broken bits of furniture and glass, the normal ordeal. The one thing that I had noticed afterward was that there were no corpses.

We had searched around a bit, the mares sidestepping the pools of blood while we bashed open a few lockers in search of food, with luck we uncovered a couple uneaten contents of lunchboxes. We were opening the last one when we had the feeling something was up.

We saw a skull, stripped of most of its flesh and facial features. There was a sticky note nailed into its forehead, with an arrow drawn on it, pointing to another hallway. It was a dodgy move, but we thought we might as well follow it. If mister luck shined down on us, we’d come across a stockpile of weapons the infected decided to leave behind.

Turns out that was a pretty dumb move, but onto that later.

We heard some noises behind a metal door that made us all freeze. We heard sobbing. No steel hitting bone, no cutting, no shooting, just sobbing. We couldn’t tell who or what it belonged to, so most of us wanted to ignore it and leave. Of course, the bartender wants to just look for a moment, thinking it’s his son. He promised to “deal with any unsavory business behind the door,” to quote him, should infected appear. The mares groaned, but let him do it.

He opened the door slowly, and the crying got louder. His face looked into the room with horror, as if his expression reflected the very expression of somepony looking at a victim in Tartarus. His lips quivered. The crying stopped. We all froze.

From within the room, we heard the cocking sound of a pistol.

His screams… his screams. They sounded so painful and afraid…

“NOT MY SON! NO! NO!” Was all he could make out, charging into the room with his lead pipe in tow. I tried to follow him in, maybe I could get him away from whatever danger was behind the door, but before I could, it shut in front of my eyes. I pulled and pushed the handle as hard as I could, but it was stuck, as if held from the other side.

We heard screaming and the noise of the pistol firing and we ran. We went through the exit like sheep running from slaughter. We packed our bags, got back to the others, and bolted from that town. There was nothing worth saving. We couldn’t help the bartender... We couldn’t help the crying pony… nopony. I was powerless… I wasn’t strong enough, and now he’s dead. Probably butchered and made into lunchmeat to be force fed into somepony’s mouth.

Now I know the real law of the land as I write this. You don’t save anypony unless you want to die. You don’t fuck with the mares unless you want to die. You don’t sleep, you don’t even fucking pause to breathe unless you want to die a slow and gory death at the hands of those who would eat your children in front of your very eyes and then pluck those out for dessert.

We never should’ve done this. We. Fucked. Up. We screwed with Equestria, and it doesn’t fucking like it. We’re on the brink of death every day.

I’m worthless without my protectors. I’ve seen them kill more infected than I ever probably could. They may use me, but they protect me, they give me food, they let me sleep under their watch…

I never should’ve wronged them… any of them… my providers… my protectors…

My masters…

---

It should be noted that the behavior seen in the end of this document has become a somewhat common belief in the infected-controlled territory, among survivors. Many stallions have become servants and slaves to black collared mares, who vastly outnumber stallions due to the fact that mares are not actively hunted by infected, only sought out when stallions aren't killed for a few days. Even so, black collared infected are rarely seen trying to hunt down other mares, even to infect them. Infected mares' views on uninfected stallions and mares are to be found in later documents.

Author's Notes:

Sorry for the wait, and the shortness of this one, I keep getting a bad case of writer's block for some reason :P

I've decided to write less exposition in the documents, and make more stories. This one was a little bit depressing, if you look in the context, but that's for you to find out :P

Expect future documents a bit more frequently in the future!

~Senor Butter