Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 5

All day Pestilence drives his horse down the highway at a brisk pace, forcing me to run behind him, or else be dragged by my wrists. It’s a small favor that I’m a firefighter and not an office worker; I’m used to hours upon hours of laborious work. Even still, while I might be able to keep up with rider and horse, it’s fucking uncomfortable, and soon, my warm clothes are dripping with sweat.

We pass through Whistler, and my eyes move from one familiar landmark to the next. This is my hometown, where I was born, where I spent winters snowboarding and summers splashing around Cheakamus Lake, where I learned to drive my family’s car, and where I had my first crush and my first kiss and every other milestone that means something to me. I have to blow a kiss goodbye to it all as we leave the town behind.

Hours I run, until my wrists are rubbed bloody and weariness closes in on me.

Can’t keep this up forever.

It doesn’t help that the horseman gives no indication when—or if—he’ll be stopping. Each kilometer feels like an eternity. When he eventually turns off the highway, I want to cry with joy. I don’t give two steaming shits about what horrors he might have in store for me next. So long as it means this run from hell is over, I’ll take them.

We follow a snow-covered road until it tees into a house. And then—praise the good Lord—we come to a stop in front of a house.

Pestilence hasn’t bothered to glance back at me since this morning, and even now as he hops off his steed and ties the reins against a nearby lamppost, I could be invisible for all the attention he gives me. But as soon as he comes back around his mount, it’s clear he hasn’t forgotten about me.

I suck in a breath at the sight of him. The angelic horseman I first laid eyes on is back, the torn up flesh of his face now mostly healed. There are still some red patches and shiny skin where bullet and burn wounds are healing, but he’s got a nose and lips and ears, so all the important bits are back. Even his hair has returned, though the golden waves of it are only just long enough to thread your fingers through.

Now that he’s all put back together, I can’t stop staring at him. I wish it was just horrified wonderment that pulls my gaze to him, but then I’d be lying.

He’s painfully beautiful, with his mournful blue eyes, and his high, proud cheekbones and the deadly set of his jaw. One of my hands twitches as I self-consciously try to tuck a lock of my sweaty brown hair behind my ear.

What is wrong with me?

“Did you enjoy your run?” he asks.

“Fuck you.” I don’t have the energy to put much venom into the oath.

He curls his upper lip anyway as he unties my rope from the saddle.

Like his face, his hands are mostly healed. I see no bone, no cartilage, no veins and arteries or any other manner of innards that several hours ago were outtards. But they do look a little red and scabby.

He turns from me, and I get a good look at the golden bow and quiver at his back.

He’s killed humans with those weapons, and he’ll kill more with them in the future, and the world is fucked to hell because he can’t die, and short of death, he won’t stop the killing.

So much for ending him.

The blanket is still tied around Pestilence’s waist, and that plus his bare feet and legs (also mostly healed) should look comical, but the horseman is a formidable man.

I stare for longer than necessary, and God forgive me, I can’t help but notice that his form is every bit as pleasing as his face. He’s got massive shoulders and narrow hips and I want to stab my eyes out now. There’s got to be some rule against ogling the guy you tried to murder.

Ahead of me, he jerks on the rope. I curse as I trip over myself trying to keep up as he makes his way up to the house.

I take in the two story home. It’s pretty, but fairly unexceptional; stained wood siding, forest green front door, a snow-covered planter box under one of the windows.

Why in the world did the horseman come to this place?

Pestilence strides right up to the front door and, lifting a foot, kicks it inward. That’s one way to open a door. The other way is trying the fucking knob like a normal person.

He drags me inside by the rope, as though I’m a naughty dog he must keep leashed.

From the silence of the house, it’s obvious the owners aren’t around, and they probably haven’t been since the evacuation warnings went out—thank God. Anywhere is better than here at the moment.

Pestilence crosses the living room, pulling me along by this damnable rope. Now that I’m not running for my life, all my other aches and pains are waking up. My wrists are beginning to throb and the sweat that coats me is rapidly cooling against my body. I’m not even going to think about how sore my legs will be in the morning.

The horseman ties the rope to the stairway railing one, two, three times over.

“You do know the moment I’m out of your sight, I’m going to try to escape,” I say.

“Do I look worried, human?” he asks, giving the knot a final yank.

“I can’t tell, too many bits are missing.”

Not true, but he hasn’t seen his reflection yet, so he wouldn’t know.

Pestilence stares at me for a long second, his dislike for me nearly palpable, then heads upstairs, his footsteps echoing throughout the house.

I wasn’t kidding about the escape thing. The moment he’s gone, I attack the maze of knots like my life depends on it, which it does.

I’m desperately picking at the ties that bind me to the railing (When the fuck did this horseman learn to tie a proper knot?), when he comes back down carrying a fresh set of clothes. Clothes and duct tape.

All we need are some assless chaps and a paddle to round this party out. But I doubt Pestilence has that sort of suffering in mind. Probably for the best. I don’t think it’s appropriate to hate-bang the guy you tried to kill. At least not on the first night.

Pestilence tosses the clothes onto the couch, keeping an eye on me as he does so. He removes his armor piece by piece. Beneath it, the last remnants of the shirt he once wore now disintegrate, revealing his naked torso.

Even injured, he’s a pinnacle of the male specimen. He has muscles for days, his arms both thick and cut, his pecs nicely rounded out, and his abs ridiculously defined.

The skin of his chest still looks raw and red in places. It must have been terribly painful riding through the freezing day in nothing but a blanket while his armor scraped against his burned flesh.

It takes a second for my eyes to register that his wounds aren’t the only thing marring Pestilence’s skin. Ringing his chest like a collar are a series of strange letters that glow. A second set of them start at his hipbones, curving beneath the edge of the blanket; they glitter like amber in the dim light.

I stare, transfixed. I’ve seen tattoos before, but none that glow. If his undying nature weren’t proof enough of his otherworldly origins, this would be.

His biceps bulge as he reaches for the edge of his toga-loincloth blanket, and I look away before I can see anything else.

A minute later, Pestilence returns to my side, duct tape in hand. The outfit he wears now—jeans and a flannel top—is a far cry from the outfit he wore when I first saw him, but it does fit him surprisingly well, considering that most men aren’t nearly as tall or as broad shouldered as the horseman.

He levels those piercing blue eyes on me as he begins to unroll the tape. “Because you were so kind as to lay out your intentions—” He wraps the duct tape around the rope he’s tied to the railing, then around my wrist bindings, sabotaging any hope of me escaping. “I think this should keep you immobile for now.”

Pestilence rips the last of the tape off, then tosses the roll aside.

I glare at him, but the look is wasted. He’s no longer even paying attention to me.

The horseman heads to the wood burning stove and begins to build a fire.

“So what now?” I ask. “You’re just going to keep me captive until I die of plague?”

Plague that I most definitely haven’t been feeling—or maybe I have. It’s hard to say when you feel like three-day-old roadkill anyway.

Pestilence turns his head just slightly in my direction, then continues to tend to his fire. It takes mere minutes to get the flames roaring, and another few minutes to really feel the heat.

Pestilence sits down in front of the fire, his back to me, and he rubs a hand over his face.

“I begged,” he finally says. “Broken and bleeding, I beseeched you for mercy, and you gave me none.”

My gut twists.

“You can’t make me feel sorry,” I lie, because he can. He already has. I was sorry before I even pulled the trigger, and sorry again when I dropped the match. It doesn’t change anything, but still—I was sorry. I am sorry. And it leaves a bitter, brackish taste in my mouth.

“I dare not hope for so much from the likes of your kind,” he says, still not bothering to turn around.

“It was you who came to destroy us,” I remind him.

Like I even need to defend myself. I don’t know why I’m bothering.

“Humans have done a perfectly fine job of destroying themselves without my help. I am just here to finish the job.”

“And you wonder why I showed you no mercy.”

“Mercy.” He spits the word out like an oath. “If only you knew the irony of your predicament, human …”

He turns his attention to the fire and rests his chin on his fist and I guess the conversation’s over. He stares and stares into those flames, and at some point, I think he forgets I exist altogether.

My mind drifts to my family. More than anything, I hope they’re far enough away from the horseman to avoid his plague.

Unlike normal viruses, Messianic Fever doesn’t follow the laws of science. You can be kilometers away from Pestilence, quarantined in your own home and somehow still catch it. It’s not clear how far away one needs to be to avoid the plague altogether, only that if you linger in a city Pestilence passes through, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that.

You haven’t died yet, my mind whispers.

It’s been over a day since I first came face to face with the horseman. Surely I should be feeling something by now.

Speaking of feeling something …

I shift my weight. It’s not just my wrists and legs that are hurting. My stomach has been growling for who knows how long and my bladder is about ready to explode.

I clear my throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Then go where you stand.” Pestilence continues to stare into those flames like he can read the future from them.

He’s making it easier and easier for me to not feel guilty about shooting and burning him.

“If you’re hoping to keep me alive,” I say, “I’ll need to eat and drink and sleep and shit and piss.”

Any regrets yet, buddy?

He sighs, then gets up. Pestilence strides over to me, his stature commanding; he’s hardly the monster who woke me this morning, and that bothers me like no other.

Wearing the flannel shirt, jeans and boots, he looks painfully human. Even his eyes, which had seemed so alien when I first caught sight of him, now look full of life. Life and agony.

He hooks his fingers under the duct tape binding my wrists, and with a swift jerk, he rips it in two.

Note to self: this fucker is strong.

He tears the rest of the tape away and unties the rope from the railing. Once he has it in hand, he leads me down the hallway, only stopping once we get to the bathroom.

Problem number one occurs as soon as he closes the door behind us.

I glance at the massive chest that blocks the exit.

“It’s called privacy,” I say.

“I’m aware of the term, conniving human,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why you think you deserve it is a question for a higher power.”

I huff and turn from him.

Problem number two occurs after I try to undo my pants. I barely have feeling in my hands, let alone the dexterity needed for the task.

Damnit.

“I need help.”

Pestilence leans against the door. “I’m disinclined to give you any.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“God?” he finishes for me, raising his eyebrows. “Do you really think He is going to help you?”

The scholar in me is instantly piqued by his words, but now is not exactly the time to learn all the mysteries of the universe.

I blow out a breath. “Look, if you’re regretting keeping me alive, then kill me, but if you are married to this idea of yours, I’d really appreciate it if you’d pull my goddamned pants down.”

“Would it make you suffer to mess yourself?” he asks.

I hesitate. He has to know this is a loaded question.

Which answer is likelier to not screw me over?

“Yeah,” I finally say, settling on the truth, “it would.”

He leans against the door. “As I said, I’m disinclined to help.”

He doesn’t move to leave, however, and now I’m simply grateful I have a toilet to pee in.

I grit my teeth as I try again to unzip my pants. The rope digs into my chafed wrists, and they scream in protest. It takes an agonizing amount of time, but I finally manage to unbutton my jeans, then drag them, the long johns beneath them, and my underwear all down.

Pestilence’s impersonal gaze is on me, looking at my lady goods, which are on full display.

Kill me now.

He curls his lip.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but if this fucking bothers you, then you can step outside.” And let me pee then escape in peace.

“Empty yourself, human. I’m tired of standing here.”

Muttering several curses beneath my breath, I do just that.

A horseman of the apocalypse is watching me pee.

Of all the sentences in the English language I could’ve come up with, that is not one I ever imagined thinking. I bite back a crazy laugh. I’m going to die, but not before my dignity is murdered first.

Wiping myself, flushing, then pulling my pants back up takes even longer—as does washing my hands.

At least there still is water to wash my hands with. Unlike household electricity, running water was hit far less severely. Why beats the hell out of me, though I’m not going to complain. It’s helped put out many a fire since the world ended.

Once I’m finished, the horseman leads me back down the hall, giving my restraints a jerk that nearly throws me off my feet. And then I’m tied to that damn railing once more and he’s back to the fire.

“So is this what you do?” I ask. “Go from town to town and invade people’s homes?”

“No,” he says over his shoulder.

“Then why did we stop here?” I ask.

He exhales, like I’m impossibly tedious—which I am, but honestly, homeboy has a long learning curve ahead of him because he ain’t seen nothing yet—and ignores me.

That’s his main move, I’m coming to find.

I turn my attention from his back to my injured wrists.

“What happened to the others?” I ask, more subdued.

“What others?” he responds gruffly.

I’m honestly shocked he’s still engaging with me.

“The others who tried to kill you.”

The horseman turns from the fire, his icy eyes catching the light from the flames. “I ended them.”

I don’t see any remorse on his face for those deaths, either.

“So then I’m your first kidnap victim?” I probe.

He huffs. “Hardly a victim,” he says. “But I will keep you and make an example of you. Perhaps then your dimwitted kind will think twice about plots to destroy me.”

Now and only now is my predicament really hitting me.

I’m not letting you die. Too quick, he’d said. Suffering is made for the living. And oh, how I will make you suffer.

An unbidden shiver runs down my spine. Bloody wrists and aching legs might be the least of my concerns.

The worst, I’m sure, is yet to come.