Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 43

“I understood Ezekiel’s intent,” Pestilence says, once the prophet and his people are far behind us. “There is much about this world that baffles me, but that did not.”

So he did understand that the women were meant as sexual offerings.

And just when the horseman’s gotten a taste for womanflesh …

Ezekiel must’ve heard whispers that Pestilence kept a captive female, one who didn’t succumb to the Fever. He must’ve thought that if he offered up a few more women, he could arrange for his chosen people to live.

Bet he thought he was pretty clever too.

We pass through several successive towns quickly, only stopping once at an outpost so that I can go to the bathroom and Pestilence can swipe a tent and a few other odds and ends.

Guess we’re camping again tonight.

And naturally, as the day comes to a close, the heavens decide to unleash yet another torrential downpour. Because camping isn’t shit-sucking enough.

By nightfall, rain batters outside our tent, and not even the waterproof material is enough to keep it all out. It seeps in from the muddy ground outside and in through the tent’s seems. The flimsy structure shivers and shakes as it gets pummeled.

The horseman and I are twined together in the darkness.

“So, this is fun,” I say.

Pestilence huffs out a laugh. “It isn’t our worst night together.”

No, technically it’s not. What a depressing thought.

I can’t see him in the darkness, but his warmth is everywhere.

“Poor Trixie,” I say.

He’s still out there. Shortly after we dismounted, Pestilence gave the horse a pat on the flank, and the creature trotted away into the woods.

“My steed is undying. I assure you, he is fine.” The horseman’s breath brushes against my cheek. “You still haven’t finished reciting that Edgar Allan Poe poem.”

From this morning? He actually remembers that?

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was, though I’m not sure your macabre poet is the type to pen ‘A-holes’ into his poetry.”

I smile in the darkness, remembering when I went off script to get the horseman’s attention. “Poe has a sassy mouth.”

“Does he?” I can hear the grin in Pestilence’s voice. “What other well-kept secrets of the universe do you know?”

“Hmmm,” I pretend to ponder this. “Wednesday is the most underrated day of the week. Hot baths can take away just about any ailment. Phlegm is the most horrible word in existence—not moist, like my mother insists. The world is worth saving, and I want to call you by something other than Pestilence because, despite what you say, names do matter.”

I hadn’t meant for the conversation to suddenly get deep, or for me to get preachy, but there you go.

Pestilence stiffens around me. “I do not seek to change you; why must you try to change me?”

Because you are destroying my world.

“I can’t change you, Pestilence, only you can do that.”

“Hear me, Sara: I won’t change.”

Now it’s my turn to stiffen in his arms.

He turns us so that he can gaze down at me. “I am merely pretending to be a man, nothing more,” he says. “My body does not need food, nor water, nor sleep, nor all the mysteries of the flesh. I indulge in them because I indulge in you.”

“Oh, and that’s the only reason?” I say, just a wee bit snidely.

I mean, give me a goddamn break. He indulges in all those things because he enjoys the taste of food and strong spirits and the feel of his body close to mine. Pestilence may not be a man, but he very desperately wishes to be one.

“Enough of this,” he says, sharp like a knife. “Do you want to know why it is I wear this crown?”

I can already tell by his tone that he means to hurt me, to scare me, to remind me of the monster he is. Should I tell him that this, too, is a human trait? How we mortals love to push each other away to protect ourselves from our own pain?

“I am the first horseman,” he continues, “the one who was tasked with toppling your old way of living. You and your foolish brethren believed you could outpace God. You built and innovated, and in your quest you robbed the earth of its purity and forgot that you all had another master.

“You all turned your backs on God—yes, even you, dear Sara—and I am here to make you remember.

“I am your mortality. I am the ugly truth that your bodies are impermanent, feeble, corrupt. I am the reminder that all men must face a great and fearsome reckoning.” The rain thunders with his voice. “This is who I have always been and will always be—undying, unchanging.”

He falls to silence.

“That is such horseshit.”

I feel, rather than see, his surprise. “You think I’m lying?”

“You’re acting like you cannot change, but to live is to change, and right now, you are alive. Even though you can’t die, you still walk among us. You love like us, and you feel pain like us.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, so I plow on.

“Maybe the world has forgotten God, and you’re supposed to rain down His righteousness, but don’t act like it isn’t a choice. Every time you pass through a city, you choose to infect it. You choose to kill, and no god you stand behind can protect you from that truth.”

Several seconds pass, the violent patter of rain against our tent the only sound between us.

“If I am such a monster,” Pestilence finally says, “then what does that make you, who have willingly fallen into my arms?”

“A fool and an idiot,” I say, “but that’s nothing new.”

“I will not stop.”

I could swear he sounds bothered, but I can’t say which part of our conversation got under his skin.

“And I won’t shut up about it until you do.”

“You cannot hope to win this,” he warns.

“If you think this is about winning,” I say, “then you haven’t been listening to me at all.”

“Hmmm,” he muses, stroking his hand down my arm while he gazes down at me. “You have given me much to think about.”

Wait, something I said actually got through to him? And just when I’d assumed I’d have more sway talking to a wall.

“Enough of this for tonight. I want to feel those foolish, wicked lips of yours on mine and your body beneath me—for such is the price of my companionship,” he says, his breath fanning against me.

“Awfully optimistic of you to think about getting boned after that little speech of yours …”

“Boned?”

“I’ll explain it later.”

“Good. I’m tired of making war with that mouth of yours.” He leans in. “Show me the other side to living.”

And so I do.