Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 40

We’ve only traveled a kilometer or so past the church when I hear the gun blast.

I don’t have time to think about the fact that the horseman must’ve stopped riding ahead at night. I jolt just as the air stirs violently next to my left temple. In the next instant, Pestilence’s body whips back, his hold on me slackening even as his blood mists against my skin.

Someone shot my horseman.Oh God, someone shot him.

I swivel in the saddle. “Pestilence?”

His body sways, and I have to catch him to keep the horseman from sliding off his steed.

Pestilence’s head rocks forward, and I see the blood, the blood and—

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Where the left side of his face should be, now there’s only a mangled crater.

Going to sick myself …

His blood is dripping everywhere. So much blood.

People in gas masks begin circling us. Trixie rears up, pawing at the air. I scream when I feel the horseman slip through my clutches. He falls off the saddle behind me, hitting the ground with a dull, wet thump. At the sound, I nearly lose the breakfast Pestilence made for me.

I stare down at his prone, lifeless body, unable to rip my eyes away.

“It’s alright, he’s gone.”

“He can’t harm you anymore.”

The townspeople’s words are faint and distorted behind their masks. They’re coming closer, looking strange and sinister.

They hurt him.

Coming to the side of Trixie, they forcibly remove me from the horse. I lunge for Pestilence, only to have them pull me away.

My last words to the horseman were oaths shouted in anger.

I’m fighting to get back to his ruined body, but these people hold me back.

You’d think I’d be used to the sight of him like this, but no matter how much I reassure myself that he’ll be alright, my eyes tell me otherwise.

From the ground he groans.

Jesus. Even though half of his face is gone, he’s still aware. I let out a shriek. He’s aware.

Pain must be unbearable.

Someone shoots him again—and again, and again—trying to kill an unkillable thing.

I scream at the sound of each bullet, horrified at the way his body dances beneath the gunfire.

I’m still shouting as I’m forced away from the road and into a nearby building. It’s only after someone’s pushed me into a pew, that I realize they dragged me to a church.

The idiot wanted to marry me!

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe the morning would’ve gone differently had I said yes to Pestilence’s proposal. He’d been so eager, and I’d thrown it in his face like what we did last night didn’t matter when it did. God, it did.

I take in a shuddering breath and glance around. One by one, the people who led me hear disappear into another room to remove their masks. When they return, they no longer appear so menacing.

The men and women that fill the church are civilians, civilians who decided to sacrifice their lives to take down the horseman. Civilians who are bringing me blankets and coffee—civilians who are helping me, an ex-firefighter, the best they can.

Doesn’t change the fact that they hurt him. That they might be hurting him still.

I stand, the woolen blanket sliding off my shoulders, feeling like my emotions have been pushed through a meat grinder.

Where is he?

“The others are dealing with him,” someone says, and that’s the first I realize that I’ve spoken out loud.

“We heard about you, you know,” says one of the women milling about. “The reports kept mentioning that he had a prisoner.”

“She didn’t look like his prisoner,” someone else mutters.

“Shhh!” another hisses.

I wipe my eyes and glance around me. There are eight women and three men, all between the ages of twenty and sixty. All of them now slated to die. (The gasmasks were a cute accessory, but not even they can stop Pestilence’s plague.)

When will the media figure out that the horseman cannot be killed? When will people stop sacrificing their lives to end an immortal thing?

An immortal thing I happen to care for.

Got to get to him.

Got to save him.

I begin to make my way down the center aisle, heading for the exit.

I’ve only gone several feet when I’m intercepted by one of the men. He’s a big, burly guy with a white handlebar mustache and a firearm holstered at his hip.

“Let’s sit you back down,” he says, his tone so damn condescending.

Taking my upper arm, he leads me back to a pew.

“Am I under arrest?” I ask.

“Of course not,” he says, “but you’ve had a trying morning. Why don’t you rest a little?”

I glance at him, then at the others.

They’re not going to let me go. I can see it on their faces.

I don’t know why they care. Then it dawns on me—

I survived the plague. They must be aware of that.

And who wouldn’t want to keep someone like that around? I could know the cure; hell they might think I am the cure.

I return to the pew like a good little girl (ugh), and sit there, letting everyone believe I’m meek.

Five minutes tick by agonizingly slowly.

In the distance, I hear a faint neigh.

Trixie.

I mean to wait longer, but hearing Pestilence’s horse is what breaks the last of my patience. I can’t keep sitting here when have no idea what’s happening to my horseman.

I push myself out of the pew again.

Handlebar Mustache tenses when he sees me back on my feet. Before I can so much as exit the pew, he heads me off.

Don’t look at his belt.

“Is there something you need?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, there is.”

Before he has a chance to respond, I make a grab for his gun. My hand cradles cold metal just as he lets out a surprised shout.

I level the firearm at him and flip off the safety. “Get out of my way.”

Around me, I hear gasps.

The man lifts his arms, “Now wait just a second there. Let’s not do anything hasty. We’re just trying to help you.”

I must not look nearly as threatening as I feel because several other people begin to creep in.

Better make your stand before this unravels.

Raising the gun to the air, I fire off a shot. The sound, already deafening, is made all the louder by the church’s acoustics.

People scream, several covering their heads. Above me, plaster rains down.

I train the gun once more on the man I stole it from.

“I’m leaving,” I say. “And you can help me by getting out of my fucking way.”

Handlebar Mustache must see that there’s just a little too much crazy in my eyes for his own well-being. He steps aside.

I swing the gun towards the other people who stand between me and the exit. They back up, their arms in the air.

The church is uncomfortably silent, the only sound my muted footfalls on the worn carpet.

I’m nearly to the double doors when Handlebar Mustache calls out to me, “Why have you forsaken your own people for that thing?”

He has the audacity to ask the question while standing in a church.

I turn back to face the man, my gaze sweeping over the rest of the wide-eyed men and women that watch me.

“I haven’t forsaken you,” I say. “God has.”