Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 7

I wake in the middle of the night, ripped from sleep by the sound of crying.

I blink, looking around.

Thought the neighbors had all evacuated …

I grope for my bedside oil lamp before I realize there is no bedside oil lamp.

Not my room. Not my apartment.

Then the last few days wash over me like a cold shower.

Drawing matches, shooting Pestilence, the brutal runs I’d been forced to endure until I could no longer. As the memories flood in, so do all my lingering pains.

You made this shit sandwich, Burns, now you got to eat it.

The sound of crying cuts through my thoughts, and I remember the homeowner. How many hours has it been since we showed up on her doorstep?

Twelve? More? Less?

I grope around again for an oil lamp; now that power is spotty, people keep lamps and lanterns around. My fingers slide over a bedside table, but what they bump into isn’t a lamp. I feel around the glass of water and the pitcher next to it.

Did Pestilence leave this here?

I balk at the thought. That would be far too kind for the likes of him.

Pulling off my blankets, I get out of bed and slip down the hall, ready to head towards the sound of the crying, which seems to be coming from a room at the back of the house. But then I hesitate.

What are you going to do, Sara? Comfort her? You’re a stranger playing Goldilocks in her house. You think she wants anything to do with you?

I stand there, second-guessing myself, when finally my head catches up to me.

My eyes pass over the dark hallway once, twice, looking for Pestilence. I prowl back to my room and peek inside. The darkness obscures a lot, but it can’t hide a horseman, and there isn’t one in my room.

He’s gone.

I don’t give myself time to wonder where Pestilence slunk off to. I’ve got who knows how much time until he returns.

Not going to waste it.

I have to force myself to ignore the woman’s cries. Can’t help her now. She’ll die like the rest of them—like I should be dying—and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I tried, I want to tell her, I tried but the horseman can’t be killed, and I’m so sorry but I don’t think any of us are getting out of this alive.

Except that I am. Tonight. Right now.

I grab the pile of clothes I shed earlier from where they lay next to the bed. As silently as I dare, I slip them on, my hands fumbling with the buttons as they begin to shake.

Hurry, hurry. Before he comes back.

Grabbing my boots, I slip them on and pad softly to the window. I wiggle the pane open, wincing against the blast of frigid air that blows in, stinging my lungs and rustling my hair.

Damnit. Really don’t want to go out there on a night like this.

I hesitate. I could stay with Pestilence; he’s not trying to kill me after all.

He wants to make you suffer.

There will be more running, more bleeding wrists and more days like today where I can’t keep up. And that’s assuming Pestilence doesn’t decide I need to suffer more than I already am. I’d rather not stick around to see what creative punishments he comes up with.

Mind made up, I punch out the window screen. A moment later, I hear it thud softly as it hits the ground below.

Deep breath for courage.

I swing first one leg, then the other, out over the window ledge. Outside, it’s snowing again, a thin layer of it carpeting the ground. It’s that ground that has me nervous. Sitting two stories up as I am, the drop could break my legs. It would have to be a bad landing, but it could. Painstakingly I lower myself until I’m dangling out the window by my hands and thanking the fates that firefighting has given me good upper body strength.

And then I let go.

For one long moment, I’m weightless. Then the moment ends, and my feet slam against the ground. Slowly, I straighten. No rolled ankles, no broken bones—for once, luck’s with me.

I give the house a final, passing glance, and then I bolt.

I sprint for the road, even though my body is in no condition to run.

I’m free. Holy freaking shitballs, I’m free!

Behind me I hear a faint, slick hiss, a sound I mistake for the wind until what feels like a knife slams into my back, just below my right shoulder blade.

I choke against the pain, my feet stumbling as warmth spreads out from the wound.

Blood, my mind puts together. You’re bleeding because there’s an arrowhead embedded in your back.

I should’ve known better, but when I saw that empty bedroom, I couldn’t not act.

Hope is a damnable thing.

And now—Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, the burn of the wound seizes up my windpipe.

I don’t bother to glance behind me as I force my feet to continue moving. I know what I’ll see. Proud Pestilence, bow in hand, sighting me like a hunter.

If I stop now, he’s got me.

I fucking sprint, snow crunching under my boots as I make for the tree line ahead of me. If I make it to the forest, I might still be able to escape him.

With every pump of my arms and sway of my torso, the arrowhead cuts deeper into muscle.

You’ve endured worse, Burns. You’ve walked through fire, felt the flames sear your skin and cook your body. You will live through this.

I will live through it … so long as this arrowhead wasn’t tipped with poison … or plague. I try not to think about that latter one. I try not to imagine what will happen if I get away. How I might escape him only to die of the Fever.

I’m almost to the woods when the next arrow hits me, the tip of it driving into my lower back.

Again I stumble, nearly going to my knees. This one, this one feels like it hit more than just muscle. There’s a sick, tugging sensation that feels wrong every time I move.

Behind me I hear the gallop of hoof beats.

Move! I scream at myself as snow flurries swirl around me.

I stagger to my feet, forcing myself to keep going.

My energy is quickly flagging, and I can feel more blood soaking into my ripped clothes, the fabric quickly turning icy.

It takes the horseman less than a minute to reach me, his mount’s breath steaming in the night air.

I can feel Pestilence’s burning gaze on me, even though I don’t dare look at him. Escape is now futile, but I still won’t force myself to stop.

I hear the heavy clink of his armor as he dismounts, his boots crunching into the snow and dead underbrush.

In two long strides he’s upon me. His hand wraps around an arrow shaft.

“No—”

Mercilessly, he yanks it out. I scream as the blade of it cuts into more muscle and sinew as it’s removed.

He tosses it aside, never saying a word. I feel another sickening pull as he grabs the other arrow lodged into my back.

Please. It’s on the tip of my tongue to beg him, but I have a feeling that is exactly what he wants—for me to plead for my life the way he did his. I grind my teeth together. Damn him, I won’t give him what he wants.

When he yanks the second arrowhead out, the pain has my legs folding out from under me. I can feel rivulets of my blood dripping down my back, the sickening sensation setting my teeth on edge.

“Because you’ve proven yourself to be every bit as conniving as the rest of your brethren,” he says, his tone just as cutting as his weapons, “you will no longer sleep. It’s a luxury you can no longer afford.”

Roughly, he grabs my hands, pulling a rope loose from where it’s been secured at his hip.

I tug against his hands. “What are you doing?” I ask, beginning to panic in earnest.

Not the rope. Not again.

Oh God.

It’s hitting me, that I tried to escape and I failed and now everything is going to be so much worse.

Kneeling in the snow, he begins to bind my wrists, his expression grim and angry.

If I don’t get away now, I am going to die.

I kick out at him, my boot landing heavily against his thigh. He doesn’t so much as sway.

He tightens the knots on my wrist and I cry out at the stabbing pain. His lips thin as he loops the other end through his saddle.

“No.” Please. “No-no-no.” I’m muttering almost senselessly, a couple tears squeezing out of my eyes.

I have two open wounds at my back, and the night air is so cold it rips through my clothing and burns my skin.

“Why are you doing this?” The question is almost a sob.

Pestilence glares at me. “Have you so recently forgotten what you did to me?” He gives a yank on the rope. “Up.”

I don’t get up. I don’t have it in me to get up.

The horseman doesn’t stick around to see whether or not I follow his orders. He mounts his horse and makes another clicking noise.

The steed begins to trot away, and I only have one swift second to get my feet properly under me before I’m forced to move.

And then we’re off again.