Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 6

I spend the next couple days breaking into homes and businesses and grabbing what supplies I can.

To properly go after the horseman I need some form of transportation. My shaky legs carry me down the streets of Laguna. I grimace at the sight of birds screeching at one another as they fight over the remains of some poor soul.

For the love of God, Ana, look away.

I take a steadying breath, trying to force down my nausea.

The first time I saw what Famine could do to an entire town, I hadn’t stuck around long enough to see the bodies decompose. Now, my injuries have given me no choice.

As it is, my breath is ragged, and I sway unsteadily.

I make it to the post office, where they have horses and carriages and—

They’re all gone. All the horses.

Inside the post office’s stables, the horse stalls hang open, each one empty. The only explanation for how they came to be that way are the spindly plants that snake up the front posts of each stall, their vines still curled around the latches.

Famine released the horses?

I stare for a little longer before I leave the stables. It’s probably for the best that the animals are gone. I’m in no position to feed and water and shelter a creature—especially one that spooks easily.

The post office also has rows and rows of bikes on their property, several which are already hitched to carts. I snag one of these, and roll it back to the bordello. From there it’s simply a matter of dumping all my supplies into the cart. Food, water, blankets, a first aid kit, a tent. Shit, Ana, who knew a hussy like you had a campy side?

I stack a hefty amount of weaponry into that cart too. I don’t know who I’ll come across, but considering how my last encounter with an outsider went, I’m feeling pretty fucking stabby at the moment.

By the time I’m done, the cart is nearly overflowing with supplies. I feel a small spark of excitement.

I’m leaving Laguna. Permanently. I never thought I’d actually escape this city.

But before I do so, I make a final stop back inside my room. I stand just inside the threshold for several seconds, taking the place in. These four walls have been mine for years, and I have all sorts of memories in here—most of them unnerving, some degrading, but then I have plenty of happy memories here too. It’s a funny, uncomfortable thing, remembering it all. I’d practically sold my soul to The Painted Angel. I thought this was all I’d ever be.

Slowly, I begin to meander around the room. My eyes pass over a series of paintings hanging on my walls of nude women lying in various, suggestive positions. Elvita called them tastefully sensual when she had them put up. Leaning against one wall is a gilded mirror. Across the room is the window with my mostly dead plants and near that is a single shelf that holds a blown glass vase, a book of erotic poetry and a basket full of seashells.

My gaze drops to the chest at the foot of my bed before moving to my closet and the filmy clothing hanging inside. Lastly my gaze stops at my vanity, with the glass vials of perfume and my bag of makeup. I move over to the low table, my fingers skimming over the wood. There’s a small wooden jewelry box next to a jar of lotion and my oil lamp.

All of it is so impersonal. The closest I get to any meaningful belongings is in a box pushed to the back of my closet, but even that holds nothing much of value. Just a small, carved horse I bought with my first paycheck, a stack of letters several different admirers wrote to me, a bracelet Izabel once braided for me and a couple other knickknacks.

None of it is particularly sentimental, and I find that I don’t want to take any part of this past of mine with me. Not the makeup, not the clothing, not any of the mementos. These things are reminders of who I have been forced to be. But I don’t intend to stay that woman. Not any longer.

On a whim I blow the room a kiss and walk out of there, shedding the past like a second skin.

I leave the city and get out just far enough to leave the stench of death behind. Then I stop and pitch the tent, and I stay put for well over a week, letting my wounds heal. I keep my weapons close—highwaymen are infamous for committing all sorts of crimes against travelers—but my fear is unnecessary in the end. I don’t see or hear a soul.

Once my wounds are healed enough, I begin traveling. And traveling and traveling. The days blur together, one bleeding into the next until the days become weeks. My progress is slow, both because of my injuries, and because I have to stop to scavenge for food—which is a pretty way of saying that I have to enter more cities full of the rotting dead, and I have to break into more homes and steal food from those who no longer need it.

There’s also the issue of following in Famine’s wake. There’s no one to ask for directions, so I have to use my intuition when tracking the horseman. To be honest, it’s not too difficult. The man kills off crops wherever he goes, so it’s a simple matter of following the dead fields and orchards.

And everywhere I go, there are bodies. In trees, next to fields, strewn across the road, outside of homes and outposts, and everywhere in between—all of them caught up in those awful plants. The sound of flies buzzing has become almost constant. I was foolish to think that leaving Laguna would somehow insulate me from the sight of so much death. That’s all that’s left of these towns and cities.

But even though the journey is full of horrors, there’s beauty too. I see kilometer after kilometer of the Serra do Mar, the mountain range that stretches like a reclining woman along the coast. I hear the call of birds and insects that I never heard so crisply while living in the city. And sometimes, when the night is clear, I forgo the tent altogether and sleep under the stars, staring up at those distant lights.

So it’s not all bad.

Not to mention that living through the end of the world means no more sex work for me, and that means I don’t have to give a shit what my face or body looks like. Which is nice. Also, I don’t have to have a horny, heavy body bearing down on me. That’s nice too.

Fuck it, even after everything, I’m still an optimist.

The entire time I ride, I only end up seeing one other soul. I happen across him while passing through the coastal town of Barra Velha. I don’t know who he is or why he was spared, but my best guess is that he was a fisherman out at sea when Famine struck his town. It makes me wonder if during that first feverish week after the horseman’s attack some other local fishermen docked back in Laguna, coming ashore only to find a city full of death. The thought has the hairs along my arms standing on end.

I don’t approach the weeping man—though I do wave at him when he glances up at me, his eyes going wide. A month ago I might’ve stopped to talk to him and make sure he was okay, but a month ago I had a little more heart and a little less vengeance.

The trail I follow turns inland, and the bodies I pass seem … fresher. That’s when I know I’ve just about caught up to Famine. By then, it’s been roughly a month since I was stabbed. I can’t imagine I’m even a flicker of a thought in the horseman’s mind.

Just considering that has my anger rising anew. He might’ve forgotten me—twice now—but I have to live with the horrors he’s inflicted. Movement still pulls at my wounds, and then there’s all the pain that isn’t physical. I couldn’t forget that if I tried.

I finally catch up to the horseman in Curitiba, and I know it only because I can hear the moans carried on the wind.

I stop my bike, gazing at the city’s skyline. I’ve seen skyscrapers before, but I’ve never seen so many, all of them clustered so close together.

Humans made those.

Sometimes people talk about what it was like before the horsemen came, their voices full of wistfulness. The past sounds like a dream, one that, most of the time, I can’t believe. But then there are moments like this one, when I stare at the incredible evidence that once man’s abilities rivaled God’s.

It’s only as I get closer that I notice how decayed they are. Many of them look like molting snakes, half of their surfaces fallen away. Vined plants seem to have taken root in the bones of these skyscrapers, making them appear even more ancient than they must be.

The horsemen only arrived a quarter of a century ago, and yet this city looks a thousand years old.

A moan tears my gaze from the buildings.

Not three meters from me a young woman is caught up in the twisting branches of one of the horseman’s plants, this one producing clusters of bright berries. There’s a thick vine wrapped around her neck, but it’s not tight enough to suffocate her—yet anyway.

Dismounting off my bike, I grab one of the knives I packed. Approaching the plant, I begin to rip away at the branches. In response, the branches encircling the woman tighten, causing her to choke. Her eyes bulge a little—either from fear or suffocation. Frantically I begin hacking away, trying to get to her. All at once the plant squeezes the woman impossibly tight. I hear some awful, snapping noises. The woman’s eyelids flutter and the light leaves her eyes.

“No.” I choke out.

I drop the knife and back up, staring at the plant. My stomach churns at the disturbing sight. It’s all I’ve seen for weeks and weeks.

The shock of all this death has worn off, and beneath the horror only one thing remains.

Rage.

I am full of it. So full it’s hard to breathe.

I get back on my bike and begin to ride again, moving through the dying streets of Curitiba. Street vendors have had their wares upended by these savage plants, and in some areas where there was heavier foot traffic, whole forests have sprung up in the streets, making roads inaccessible. Just like in most of the other cities I’ve visited, the plants here seem to have swallowed these people up within minutes.

What’s the point of a Reaper blighting the land if he’s going to kill people before anyone can starve to death?

He wants to watch them die. The thought whispers through my mind. I can see the cruelty on his face still. He wants to watch the earth squeeze the very life out of us.

I ride around the city, hunting for the horseman. There’s a very real chance that Famine is still here in Curitiba. The thought thrills me, though finding him in such a large place is going to prove challenging.

I’m almost to the center of the city, where the structures appear especially dilapidated, when I hear another choked cry, this one coming from inside a building that showcases woven baskets, pottery, ceramic figurines, and some traditional Brazilian clothing.

Bringing my bike to a stop, I lean it against the building and head inside.

Inside, the store is dim, but it’s not dark enough for me to miss the four separate trees that rise from the floor, their canopies pressed against the ceiling. Caught in each one of them are dark forms. One of these forms shifts, letting out another pained sob.

My eyes snag on the figure. Slowly, I approach.

“I can’t cut you out,” I say by way of greeting. “The last person I tried to help was killed by that …” I can’t bring myself to say tree, “thing.”

In response, I think I hear soft sobs. The sound twists my gut.

“Can you speak?” I ask.

“He killed my children and their children too,” the man rasps out. “He didn’t even have to touch them to end their lives.” He begins sobbing again.

“I’m looking for him,” I say. “Is he still in the city?”

The man doesn’t answer, just continues to cry.

I step in closer. Way up in that tree, I can just barely make out the man’s eyes.

I pause, assessing him, before I lift my shirt, showing him my own grisly wounds. I can’t say how many times I’ve stripped for men, or how many eyes have taken in my naked flesh. This, however, is one of the few times I’ve showed my skin for something other than money or pleasure.

After several seconds, the man goes quiet.

“He tried to kill me too,” I say, letting the stranger take in the various scars from my knife wounds. “I intend to return the favor. So, do you know where he is?” I say.

“God has spared you, girl,” he wheezes out. “Leave this place and live your life.”

I want to laugh at that. I took that option once; it landed me in a whorehouse. I’m not taking it again.

“God spared me nothing,” I respond. “Now, do you know where he is?”

The man is quiet for a long time, but finally he says, “Seven kilometers east of here, there’s the neighborhood of Jardim Social. I’ve heard that he’s staying somewhere in there.”

Seven kilometers. I could get there within an hour or two—assuming I can find the place.

“Thank you,” I say.

I hesitate then, feeling like I owe the man something.

“Leave me,” he wheezes. “I belong here, with my family.”

The thought sends a shiver through me.

“Thank you,” I say again, then turn to leave.

“It’s suicide,” he calls out to my back.

I don’t turn around. “It’s revenge.”