Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 11

We leave not an hour later after the nameless man expires. Pestilence leads me out with a hand on my shoulder, his golden bow and arrow never far from my sight.

Just a reminder of what he can do to me.

His steed waits for us, its reins not tied to anything, just standing there like the creature has nothing better to do then wait on its master.

Pestilence grabs the rope that’s been shoved into one of the saddlebags. Unwinding it, he wraps one end around my wrists, which are still covered in bandages.

All my aches and pains come roaring back at the sight of my bound hands.

Running again. I should’ve known.

But instead of tying the other end to the back of his saddle, he threads it through one of his belt loops.

I raise my eyebrows. That’s unexpected.

Pestilence makes careful work of avoiding my eyes as he turns to me and grabs either side of my torso. Even though he’s carted me to and from the bathroom for the last two days, I still jolt at the press of his palms beneath my armpits. Before I can do more, he hoists me onto his horse. A second later he swings himself on behind me.

The leather creaks as Pestilence settles himself in the saddle. I hiss out a breath at the pain that flares up as I’m pressed against his armor. His left hand loops around me, his hand splayed across my lower stomach. His other hand takes the reins.

He leans in close. “You jump,” he warns, his breath hot against my ear, “I’ll make you run behind me again.”

I don’t doubt him, but right now, all I can think about is how repulsive and intimate it is having him this close.

Pestilence clicks his tongue, and his horse is off.

I’m riding with one of the horsemen of the apocalypse.

Holy shit.

I’ve now got front row seats to the end of the world.

Even with all the aches and pains that pull at me, riding is a far better means of travel than running, wrists bound, behind a horse.

“I was really close to death, wasn’t I?” I ask, referring to when Pestilence dragged my already injured body down the highway.

“Must you talk?”

So pleasant, this one.

“Must you spread plague?”

He doesn’t respond, though I can feel him brooding at my back.

“Why did you save me?” I prod.

“I didn’t save you, human. I kept you alive. There’s a difference. And I kept you alive to make you suffer. I thought I had made myself clear about this.”

I touch my chest. Beneath my layers of borrowed clothes are the bandages that bind my wounds.

“You went to an awful lot of trouble to keep me alive.”

“True,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “But then punishing you over and over again brings me great joy.” His words are bitter, and yet—

I don’t believe them. God, how I want to because oh, how I despise him, but I don’t believe him. Not wholly. And I don’t know why.

We ride in silence a few more minutes, our bodies swaying with the rhythm of the horse’s gait, before I start in again.

“Where did you learn to clean and dress wounds?” I ask.

“What does it matter?” he says.

I glance back at him, meeting his icy blue stare as the wind blows a few strands of hair across his face.

What a waste of beauty.

Pestilence’s jaw locks when I catch his eye, and he tears his gaze back to the road.

“It doesn’t, I guess. I’m just grateful.” I really am. I find that I’m not ready to die, even though it might be the easier option at this point.

“I don’t care,” he says stonily.

Caught him in a good mood, I did.

Not.

“So …” I can practically feel his temper blackening, but I continue on, “I haven’t gotten sick.”

“Astute observation, mortal.”

“Is that just luck, or do you control who gets the plague?” I ask.

“Were you born with all your organs intact?” he responds.

I can’t see his face, so I have no way of knowing where he’s going with this question.

“Yes …” I say cautiously.

“Good,” he responds, “then I expect you to use the one beneath your skull.”

Damn. That insult burned a little.

“So you do control the disease.”

He says nothing to that.

“And you spared me from it,” I add.

“Again you insist that my motives were altruistic. Do not for a moment assume I value your life. You are only alive to assuage my vengeance.”

Yeah, whatever.

I stare down at the horseman’s tan hand, which is still splayed over my abdomen. “Where are we going?”

Pestilence’s exhalation manages to convey his world-weariness.

“I mean,” I continue undaunted, “where’s your ultimate destination?”

That one question has haunted people the world over. Where Pestilence was riding to.

“I don’t have one, human,” he says. “I ride simply until my task is complete.”

Until we’re all dead. That’s what he means.

He’s going to ride his horse across the world until he’s infected us all.

The truth sits like rocks at the pit of my stomach.

Pestilence’s arm tightens around my waist. “Enough idle chatter. Your questions tire me.”

I don’t have it in me to give him lip over that. After that last response, I find I really don’t want to talk to him either.

And so the two of us ride on in awful, unsettling silence, and all the while, the horseman spreads his plague.

Day is giving way to night by the time Pestilence stops us at a house. I eye the single-story home with wariness as the horseman hops off his steed.

Really, really hope whoever lives here evacuated.

Pestilence reaches for me. After sitting in front of him for an entire day, I manage to not flinch at his touch.

I stare at him as he helps me off his horse. It’s a strange feeling, being vulnerable around someone who’s both hurt you and tended to you. Bound as my hands are, I have to rely on this devilish man for even something as easy as dismounting a horse, and I find I’m looking for his kindness, his compassion, in every small detail. It’s completely ludicrous of me to do so, considering that he’s the very evil that landed me in this situation, but it doesn’t stop me from searching for those things nonetheless.

Briefly Pestilence’s eyes meet mine, and for once they’re free of the ire and bitterness that’s usually in them. Of course, the moment I think that, they become guarded once more.

My legs nearly fold when he sets me down.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” I swear under my breath. The inside of my thighs feel rubbed raw, and my thigh muscles ache.

I glance to the heavens. I get it Big Guy, I’m not your favorite person right now.

The horseman doesn’t spare me another glance as he begins walking. A couple seconds later, I feel a tug on my wrists as the rope binding me pulls taut.

“Keep up, human,” he calls over his shoulder.

How very much I despise this man.

I hobble after him, watching with disapproval as he kicks in the front door. He hauls me inside.

It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust to our dark surroundings. The room smells musty, like it’s been sitting in its own juices for a while. Between that and the way my breath mists in front of me, it’s obvious that whoever normally lives here is currently gone.

Pestilence steps up to me and takes my hands gruffly.

“You know the rules,” he says as he undoes the knots. “You run, and my kindness ends.”

My eyes flick to Pestilence’s quiver, where the feathered ends of a dozen golden arrows peek out from over his shoulder. I can still feel the points of those arrows in my flesh. My back begins to throb in response.

“You’ve really latched onto that word.”

Kindness.

Kindness is chopping firewood for the elderly couple who has neither the money nor the means to acquire it. Kindness is a warm hug or a soft smile.

Kindness is not this fuckery right here.

The rope falls away, and I eye Pestilence while I rub at the gauze bandages.

Giving the horseman a sullen last look, I head over to the fireplace. The owners have logs, matches, and scraps of old paper laid out. Grabbing them, I begin to stack the wood and place the kindling in a few choice locations. All the while I studiously ignore the horseman whose gaze I feel on my back.

“Are you done?” I call out.

There’s a pause. “With what, human?”

“Staring at my backside—have you looked your fill?” I ask, my voice dripping with disdain.

“Am I supposed to be insulted by that?” He sounds genuinely baffled.

If he’s going to make me spell it out, then … “Yes.”

He grunts. “I’ll try to remember that next time you cut me down with your scathing words.”

I can just about feel his pleasure at his little comeback.

Good one, horseman. You really got me by the tits this time …

I look over my shoulder at him. His armor and his crown gleam in the darkness. “You are such a creeper,” I note.

His brow pinches.

“In case it’s not obvious, that’s another insult,” I add. I turn back to the fire and focus my attention on it.

Pestilence lingers for a minute or so, and a part of me is curious what he’s doing back there. Hopefully dying of humiliation, though I doubt it.

A minute or so later, the horseman leaves the living room, the clink of his armor growing fainter and fainter. A door closes and then I hear the sound of bathwater running.

I could use a bath too. I smell like horse and sweat, and who knows how dirty my bandages are. But taking a bath means asking for help removing my bandages, and I’m just not ready to go groveling to Pestilence at the moment.

I light the paper shoved between the logs, then I sit down to watch the fire grow.

For the first time since I drew the burnt match, I have a moment to myself not fueled by adrenaline or fear or pain. I try not to think about what that means. It’s easier to understand where things stand between me and the horseman when he’s actively seeking to hurt me. It’s not so easy when he’s just irksome.

For a long time my thoughts are aimless. You’d think that I’d use the time wisely—to plot my escape or think of ways to incapacitate the horseman, but no. My mind is oddly empty.

There’s a collection of fine porcelain figurines lining the mantel above the fireplace. One by one I scrutinize the painted faces. It’s such a specific interest—to collect these little figurines—and it’s just another reminder of how many people are out there in the world. Right now, whole cities of them are fleeing for their lives.

I imagine all the lonely corners of Canada, each one now home to thousands of displaced individuals waiting for the horseman to pass through. We’re playing a lethal game of whack-a-mole, and we’re all the vermin.

I stare down at my mom jeans and outdated shirt. Amongst all those thousands of people are my parents.

My heart lurches. I don’t know why my mind keeps taking me back to them. Guilty conscience, I suppose.

The plan had been for us all to bunk down at my grandfather’s hunting lodge—a hole-in-the-wall cabin located dozens of kilometers northwest of Whistler.

Deep down, I knew I’d never make it there.

“You go on ahead,” I told my parents. “I need to finish evacuating the city.”

The memory still stings.

“Don’t be a hero,” my dad said. “Everyone is leaving their post.”

“I need to do my job.”

“If you do your job, you’ll die!” he shouted. He never shouted.

“You don’t know that.”

“Damnit Sara, I do. You do. What is the survival rate of this thing?”

There wasn’t a survival rate. People either avoided Messianic Fever, or they succumbed to it. I knew that, my dad knew that, the whole world knew that.

“Someone has to help those other families,” I said.

My father stopped listening at that point. That was one of the only times I’d ever seen him openly cry.

He already believes I’m dead, I remember thinking.

And now, to the best of his understanding, I am.

Absently, I touch my cheek, feeling moisture there.

“What a surprise. I half thought you’d try to escape again.”

Instinctively, my shoulders hike up at Pestilence’s voice.

I clear my throat, then swipe quickly at my eyes.

He doesn’t get the pleasure of seeing me upset.

“I get that you don’t think highly of people,” I say, swiveling to him, “but that’s just—Jesus!”

Standing on the other side of the room, his hair still dripping from the shower, is a very naked Pestilence.