Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 3

No one knows why the horsemen arrived five years ago, or why they disappeared so soon afterwards, or why now Pestilence and only Pestilence has returned to wreak havoc on the living.

Of course, everyone and their Aunt Mary has their answer to these questions, most that are about as plausible as the tooth fairy, but no one has actually ever had a chance to corner one of these horsemen and pump them for answers.

So we can only guess.

What we do know is that one morning, seven months ago, the news bleated to life.

A horseman, spotted near the Florida Everglades. It took the better part of a week for the rest of the report to drift in. About how a strange sickness was taking the people of Miami by storm.

Then the first death was announced. They did a big spread on the woman, for the few hours she held the sole title of tragically deceased. But quickly the death count doubled, then doubled again. It grew exponentially, first wiping out Miami, then Fort Lauderdale, then Boca Raton. It moved up the East Coast of the United States, right along with the movements of this shadowy rider.

This time when the horseman passed through a city, it wasn’t technology he destroyed, but bodies. That’s when the world knew that Pestilence had returned.

I stare at Pestilence. This is no human any more than his mount is a horse.

The last footage I saw of him, he was storming through New York City, an arrow notched into his bow, firing into the retreating stampede of screaming people bent on fleeing him.

I had to watch the newsreel five times before I believed it. And then I could watch no more.

Now here he is. Pestilence, in the flesh.

Clop—clop—clop. The rider and his horse move slowly. Snow has gathered on his shoulders and in his hair. And somehow, on him, even the white flakes add to his strange, alien beauty.

I hold still, afraid the mist coming from my breath will tip the horseman off. But he seems utterly unconcerned about his surroundings. He wouldn’t need to be; no one except me would willingly choose to get this close to the literal embodiment of plague.

Never taking my eyes off of Pestilence, I raise my shotgun. It only takes a few seconds to line up the sights. I fix my aim at his chest, which is really the only thing I can hope to hit. My stomach begins to churn as I watch the horseman through my weapon.

I’ve seen men die. I’ve seen fire blister bodies beyond the point of recognition and I’ve smelled the sickening scent of cooking flesh.

And yet.

And yet my finger hesitates on the trigger.

I’ve never killed (pheasant aside). Forget that this creature isn’t human, that he’s been carving a path of carnage through North America; he looks alive, sentient, human. That’s reason enough for me to fight with myself.

I adjust my grip on the gun and close my eyes. If I do this, Mom will live, Dad will live, Briggs and Felix and Luke will live. My friends and teammates and their families will live. The entire world Pestilence has set his sights on will live.

All I have to do is move my finger an inch.

I’ve never thought myself a coward, but for a single second, I nearly fold.

Fuck your morals, Burns, don’t make your death all for nothing.

I suck a breath in, exhale, then pull the trigger.

BOOM!

The explosive sound is almost more shocking than the shotgun’s kickback, the blast echoing throughout the silent forest.

Ahead of me, the horseman grunts, the spray of pellets hitting him in the chest, the force of it knocking him off his steed. His horse rears up, pawing the air and letting out a frightened shriek, then takes off.

My gut roils.

Going to sick myself.

The horse is still racing away.

Perhaps it’s the horse that’s spreading the plague and not the man. Or perhaps both are.

Can’t risk it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I line up my sights once more.

It’s easier to pull the trigger this time. Maybe it’s because I did it once before, maybe it’s that I’m ready to feel the jerk of the shotgun or hear the blast of fire and gunpowder, or maybe it’s that killing a beast is easier than killing a man—no matter that neither is what they appear to be.

The steed’s front legs kick up, its body briefly contorting as it lets out an agonized bray. It collapses onto its side a hundred feet from its master, and then it doesn’t move.

I spend several seconds catching my breath.

It’s done.

God save me, I actually did it.

Setting my weapon aside, I head for the road, my eyes glued to the horseman. His armor is a mess. I can’t tell if the pellets bit through his breastplate or if they simply twisted the metal, but several of them have torn through that pretty face of his.

Hot bile burns the back of my throat. Already a corona of blood is blooming around his head, and even though his face is a mass of wounds, I hear him groan.

“Oh God,” I whisper. This thing is still alive.

I barely have time to turn to the side before I retch.

His breath is coming in wet pants. He reaches for me, his fingers brushing my boot.

I jump back, letting out a cry and nearly falling on my ass.

I didn’t even realize how close I’d crept up to him.

Need to end this.

I race back to my gun on unsteady feet.

Why did I leave it behind?

Through my haze of panic, I can’t remember which tree I left it at, and the horseman is still alive.

I give up my search for the weapon and head back to the little camp I set up for myself. Among my things are matches and lighter fluid.

My hands shake as I grab them. Mechanically I head back.

Are you really going to do this? I stare dumbly down at the items in my hand. He’s still alive and you’re going to burn him while he breathes. You, a firefighter.

Fire is no clean death. In fact, it’s got to be one of the worst ways to go. I don’t hate Pestilence nearly enough because I can barely stand the thought of what I’m about to do.

I step back up to the horseman and flip open the lid of the lighter fluid. I bite my lip until it bleeds as I overturn the bottle, the liquid glugging out of it. I douse him, head to foot. I have to pause to vomit again.

Then the bottle is empty.

I can’t manage to keep hold of the matches I pull out. My hands are shaking so badly I keep dropping them. Finally my hand steadies enough for me to grip one, but then the issue is striking the matchbox.

Again the horseman gropes for my ankle.

“… leeeeeseee …” he groans from the ruin of his mouth.

A cry escapes me. I think that was a plea.

Don’t look at him.

It takes five tries, but finally, I light one goddamn match. I don’t consciously mean to drop it—if I had it my way, I probably would’ve stared at the flame until it burned down to my fingers—but alas, my hand shook and the match fell.

Pestilence’s clothes light on fire immediately, and I hear him give an agonized shout.

The smell of burning flesh wafts up from him as the fire builds on itself.

I realize belatedly that his armor is blocking the bulk of the fire, making an already slow death that much slower. He’s burning too hot and too thoroughly to touch, or else I might’ve removed his armor or stamped out the flames.

I begin to dry heave. I’m not sure I could’ve given this creature a dirtier death.

He screams until he can’t.

No one deserves to go like this. Not even a harbinger of the apocalypse.

I back away, and then my legs give out.

This doesn’t feel like some noble deed. I don’t feel like the hero, saving the world.

I feel like a murderer.

Should’ve packed myself a beer—or five. This is not something to watch sober.

But I do. I watch his skin bubble and blacken and burn off. I watch him die slowly, each second so obviously agonizing. I stay rooted there for hours, sitting along this abandoned road that no one travels anymore. That entire time, my only witnesses are the trees that stand like sentinels around us.

Snow gathers along his body, melting against his smoldering remains.

At some point, I look up from him, only to notice that his horse is gone, a trail of blood and trampled snow leading off into the woods. Rationally, I know I should retrieve my shotgun and follow the horse’s trail until I find the beast, and then I should kill it.

Rationally, I know it—but that doesn’t mean I do any such thing.

Enough death for one day. Tomorrow I will finish the job.

The sky darkens. And still I sit, until the cold has seeped its way into my bones.

Eventually the elements force me to my tent. I unfold my stiff limbs, my entire body sore and sick. I don’t know if the creature’s plague has taken hold of me yet, or if this is simply what it feels like to neglect eating and drinking and finding shelter and warmth all day. Either way, I feel terribly sick. Terminally sick.

I collapse onto my sleeping bag, not bothering to pull it around me.

For better or worse, I did it.

Pestilence is dead.