Pestilence by Laura Thalassa
Chapter 37
The next week is a miserable series of days as we move south from Seattle to Tacoma to Olympia, the endless stretch of cityscape keeping me on edge.
At night, most of the houses Pestilence and I bunker down in are empty, but in one instance the recently deceased was still lying in her bed, her body a wasteland of sores.
As Pestilence and I travel through the unending urban centers and I come across more dead and dying people speckling the streets, it becomes clear that the horseman is making a habit of leaving me after I fall asleep to race ahead and spread his damnable plague. He makes no further mention of it, but he doesn’t need to, the proof is right in front of me.
It’s not until Olympia is far behind us and fields and forests replace the dilapidated buildings that I feel I can breathe again.
That night, the cabin we squat in is obviously a bachelor pad. There are posters of sports teams and half naked women and beer brands all over the place. Shit from before the Arrival.
Real tasteful.
Pestilence eyes it all with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion.
At least the owner made himself motherfucking scarce. He might like his titties to look like flotation devices, but the dude’s got enough practical sense to get the hell out of town before the reaper comes knocking. Literally.
After I light the few candles and oil lamps I can find, I move to the kitchen. Unfortunately, Bachelor Dude only has a jar of beets (Seriously man—beets? Beets?), some greasy leftovers in his icebox that will definitely give me food poisoning, tabasco sauce, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. Moonshine, fancy ales, bottled brews, and even some pop-top pre-Arrival stuff.
Whelp, guess I know what I’m having for dinner.
While I rummage around, Pestilence forgoes starting a fire and instead heads out to the back of the house, where a huge balcony showcases a view of the thick evergreens that skirt the property.
I keep an eye on the horseman as I grab things from the kitchen. He hasn’t said much all day. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Pestilence was a bit … melancholy.
It’s hard to pity the very force that’s ruined your world, yet that’s exactly what I feel. He sits down at the edge of the balcony, letting his feet dangle through the rails. I can’t read his emotions based on that broad back of his, but I have a feeling they’re stormy.
Grabbing the goods I’ve gathered, I head outside. A chill wind rustles my hair, carrying with it the scent of pine. I sit down next to Pestilence and hand him a beer, the cap already popped off. It’s been a long day. Beers are good for these kinds of things.
“You don’t like killing people, do you?” I ask.
It’s an almost unfathomable thought, but I don’t know, Pestilence just seems … upset.
He frowns at the tree line. “It’s not about what I like.”
It’s about the task he was sent to complete.
“You don’t have to do it,” I say, so very, very softly.
“And what do you know about my choices?” He turns to me, his expression tumultuous.
“I know you have them,” I say.
We all have them. Even I do. That’s why I carry this guilt around despite the fact that situation was thrust upon me. Because I have been complacent when I don’t need to be.
“Do I?” Pestilence says it challengingly, as though I don’t have the first fresh shit of an idea what choice he actually has in the matter. He glares down at the bottle in his hands, like he only just realized it was there. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks, lifting it up.
I lift a shoulder. “Drink it, pour it out, blow a freaking tune across its rim. I don’t really care,” I answer, bringing my own beer to my lips.
Done giving advice to Pestilence; it only ever backfires anyway.
The anger fades from his expression, leaving him looking bleak. He watches me with those sorrowful blue eyes before facing forward again. After a moment, he brings the beer to his lips and takes a long swallow of it. He winces at the taste, then takes an even longer pull from the bottle.
He lowers it. “I cannot let my feelings get in the way of my task.”
Of course he can’t.
“But it is kind of you to care about my feelings, no matter your motives,” he adds.
The sound of the wind whistling through the trees fills the silence that follows.
I rub my thumb over the glass shoulder of my beer.
“Who are you, really?” I ask, lifting my gaze to his.
The horseman is right, I do care about his feelings. I care about him, and I want to get to know him and understand why it is he cannot waver from his purpose. Maybe then it will make sense to me. Maybe then I’ll stop pushing him.
Pestilence’s brows furrow. “That is a strange question, Sara.”
He always says my namewith such strange inflection, and I always get a small thrill from it.
“I am Pestilence,” he finally answers.
“No, that isn’t who you are, that’s just …” I struggle to find the right words, “your task.”
Those full lips of his pull down at the corners. “I do not work like you think I do,” he says, his features troubled. “My past is a series of impressions completely removed from this body and experience. And since I came to earth in this form, well, I am my task and it is me—it is the sum total of my existence.”
But it isn’t, and it hasn’t been for who knows how long. Probably ever since the horseman picked me up and started getting a taste for the very things he’s destroying.
And that makes me wonder: is Pestilence impervious to God’s wrath? Ever since Ruth brought the topic up, I keep coming back to this question. I mean, Pestilence is carrying out the Big Dude’s task, so he should be, and yet … his deeds are weighing on him. I can see it now more than ever. There’s uncertainty there, like he’s no longer sure whether what he’s doing is right. Even though God must’ve decreed it, and even though it’s been branded onto his skin, Pestilence is wavering.
On a whim, I take his hand and squeeze it, threading my fingers through his.
He glances down at our joined hands, then lets out a breath.
His eyes meet mine. “My favorite possession is my steed.”
At first I don’t really understand what he’s saying. But then, it clicks.
I soften. He’s trying. Trying to tell me about himself.
“The steed you won’t name?” I ask.
“The steed you already have,” he corrects. “And you’ve given him a terribly ignoble name at that.” He takes a drink of his beer, clearly unsettled about having an opinion and voicing it.
“And why is Trixie Skillz your favorite thing?” I prod.
He sets his beer down. “Because he is a faithful, steady, and constant companion.”
“Those are good reasons,” I say.
“You’re talking down to me,” he says, his gaze thinning.
“I’m not.” I’m really not.
He must see the truth because his attention turns to the view and he continues. “I love the dawn—the birth of day. Snow makes everything easier on the eyes. Human food is either surprisingly terrible or surprisingly good—” he lifts his beer, “though sometimes, I will admit, it can be both at the same time.
“I find human clothes to be coarse, I like making fires, falling asleep is a troubling experience—but it is oddly enjoyable when you have someone to hold onto—”
Color rises in my cheeks.
“—and my favorite person is you.”
Now my face is flaming in the darkness.
“I’m the only person you know,” I respond. I could be the shittiest person out there, and I might still be his favorite.
“I have met many people. I assure you, you haven’t won the title by default.”
I don’t know what to say in the face of that kind of flattery. Not to mention that every time Pestilence admits something like this, my body goes haywire.
Hate having a crush.
But this is more than just some crush, and there’s no pretending otherwise. I like the way Pestilence talks, the way he thinks. I like his compliments, I like his consideration. I like his gallantry, his gentleness. I like him despite the fact that he’s bringing about the end of the world—and that is immensely troubling.
He looks down at his drink. “I don’t want to talk about myself anymore,” he says. His focus swivels to me.
“What?” I say.
“It’s your turn to tell me about yourself.”
Shit, he’s putting me on the spot.
I rub my thumb over the neck of my beer bottle. “You already know so much about me.” I talk about myself all the time when we’re in the saddle together, often simply to fill the silence. “What else could you possibly want to know?”
“Quote me more of your favorite poems. Tell me more of your life. It is all so very fascinating.”
See, that right there is proof that this dude needs to get out more.
“It’s not that fascinating. I am not that fascinating.”
Even in the darkness, I see Pestilence’s eyes squint as he scrutinizes me. “Do you honestly believe that?”
Do I?
Sure, I had a cool job as a firefighter, but what really was there to my life other than work and my humble collection of books?
I let out a gruff laugh. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then you are wrong.” Pestilence states this with such certainty. “You are compassionate to even the worst of your lot. You give aid to the dying. You care fiercely, so fiercely. These are no ordinary feats. And this is not touching on what you mean to me.”
My breath hitches.
“You have managed what no one else has: you have awoken my heart. So, no, Sara, of all the words I’d use to describe you, fascinating would definitely be one of them.”
