Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1)

by Laura Thalassa

  “Get up,” Mac orders, amused.

  I bite back a moan at the pain as I push myself to my feet, then resume walking. A few steps later, he kicks me back down.

  Again people cackle and Pestilence cries out. And again Mac orders me up only to kick me down soon after. The whole scenario happens a few more times, until the laughter dies off and the horseman’s moans become one continuous wail. Then I simply hobble down the road, my heart sitting like an anvil in my chest.

  I think this is what it feels like when your spirit breaks. When there’s nothing left to believe in anymore. The unconquerable Pestilence has been conquered, these humans have lost their humanity, and I’m going to die on the most beautiful winter day.

  When I reach my destination, Mac orders, “Stand there. Just so.”

  I turn and face him as he backs away from me, his shotgun held loosely in his hands. He’s almost to his comrades, some of whom are now staring at us, when Mac trains his gun at my midsection. The group of them have arranged themselves so that, even tied up, the horseman can clearly see me.

  Pestilence cries out weakly, and my eyes meet what’s left of his.

  “Don’t forget your mercy,” I tell him as Mac pumps his gun, loading a cartridge into place. “Or what you mean to me. I would’ve given everything up for you—”

  “Hey!” Mac calls. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, skank? Oh—” he adds, “and say hi to Satan for me.”

  BOOM!

  I don’t hear Pestilence’s roar over the sound of the gun blast.

  My body jerks as a spray of pellets tear through my torso. The pain is sudden and everywhere, blinding me and stealing my breath away. It blooms from a dozen different places.

  I fall to my knees.

  Can’t catch my breath.

  I hear the horseman’s bellow as I put my hand to my chest and watch my blood slip between my fingers.

  All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

  It’s that senseless line that runs on repeat in my mind. And I know it’s senseless and that my life is bleeding its way out of me and these final seconds are more precious than whatever it is any of us hold dear anymore, but I can’t shut my brain up from that ridiculous nursery rhyme.

  Mac doesn’t bother shooting me again. Instead he laughs with his comrades over his witty last line as he slings the shotgun over his shoulder. Someone begins to pour lighter fluid over dried wood piled at the horseman’s feet.

  They’re going to burn Pestilence. Just like I did.

  The last thing I smell is smoke.

  I don’t know how long I linger on the very edge of life.

  The pellets must’ve missed the important bits, part of me thinks. Another part of me thinks that maybe I have already died. I mean, how do any of us really know what death is like?

  “Sara …”

  “Sara …”

  “Sara …”

  Someone keeps calling my name. I try to peel open my eyes, but what I see makes no sense.

  The gang is gone. All that’s left of their memory is a smoldering pile of ash. That, and the stump of a man who’s blindly dragging himself away from the remains of the fire.

  Pestilence …

  “Sara,” he croaks. His body is blackened and his face … it can’t be called that. I can’t make out any recognizable features, though obviously there’s a mouth somewhere amongst it all since he’s the one who’s been calling out to me with the mangled remains of his throat.

  I make some small sound. I don’t have enough life in me to be sad or surprised or horrified.

  My surroundings fade.

  When they come into focus again, Pestilence has managed to drag what’s left of himself to my side. He curls his charred body around mine, almost protectively.

  “Sara, Sara, Sara …” This time his voice is stronger. Still hoarse, but now he sounds like he has a bad case of laryngitis rather than a charbroiled voice box. “Say something.”

  Speaking should be easier for me than it is for him, and yet all I manage is a low moan.

  I feel the weight of an arm fit around my torso. I feel it tug me close. And then Pestilence’s body begins to shake.

  I never knew the horsemen could cry. Not until I hear his sobs. The sound is awful, even more awful than his screams.

  “Forgive me, Sara.”

  What’s there to forgive?

  That’s what I want to say, but I can’t seem to form the words. My mouth won’t work properly; I’m pretty sure it’s only my mind clinging to life. Even the pain isn’t so bad anymore. It’s just there, like a pulse.

  And then I’m relieved I can’t voice my thoughts because there’s really so much that does need forgiving. His cruelty, mine, all that death and violence.

  These violent delights have violent ends …

  Before it was nursery rhymes; now it’s Shakespeare running through my mind.

  But Pestilence wasn’t all that violent in the end, was he? He was sad and strange, and he came to earth with a purpose that I caught him questioning a time or two.

  God, please don’t let me die.

  Otherwise, Pestilence will be all alone, and that thought cuts deeper than my bullet wounds.

  We lay there together, our limbs entwined. A peaceful sort of darkness licks at the edges of my vision. I rally against it.

  But eventually I lose the fight against the darkness, and I slip softly into it.

  Chapter 46

  I’m jostled awake by the pain. A cry slips out of me, weak and pitiful.

  Can’t be dead if it hurts. Right? You’re not supposed to feel pain in death …

  Unless I’m burning in the fiery pits of hell. That’s always a possibility.

  My eyes crack open, and I stare up at mottled skin.

  It takes me a moment to focus my vision, and then I’m staring up at Pestilence’s still very damaged face. His eyes have reformed but not his nose yet—it’s just a blackened pit—and not much of his lips. But there are areas where the dark flakes of skin are sloughing off. Underneath them, his flesh is a healthy pinkish hue, which I know in a day will deepen into a golden tan.

  My horseman.

  He stares down at me. “Stay with me, Sara. Stay with me, beloved.”

  My body rocks again, the pain stealing my breath away. It’s only then that I realize he’s walking. I can’t look down to see the burned remains of his legs and feet, but they must still be grisly. He’s walking and—even more astounding—he’s doing it while carrying me in his arms.

  I still catch no sign of the people who hurt us, though they must be around here somewhere. Or maybe they’re like my childhood dog, who crawled beneath our deck to die, heading back to their own quiet corner of the universe to wash off the stink of murder and let the plague take them.

  A pained whiney pulls me from my thoughts. I manage to turn my head just enough to see Pestilence’s mount. Trixie Skillz lays on his side, his body mostly burned.

  They didn’t spare the horse?

  Bastards.

  Trixie is looking at his master, pawing weakly at the ground. I didn’t think I had energy left in me to grieve, especially not for an undead horse, but I do. I pinch my eyes shut and lean into Pestilence’s chest, my body screaming in protest as a silent sob racks my body.

  The horseman’s arms tighten around me. When he gets to Trixie’s side, he lingers there for a moment. Then he begins to walk again, leaving his steed behind.

  The world loses focus as I fall asleep and wake up, fall asleep and wake up.

  I’m not sleeping. The thought cuts through my groggy mind. I’m losing consciousness.

  At some point, the smell of smoke is replaced by that of strong antiseptic. I rouse at the odor, too weak to lift my head or open my eyes.

  “ … heal her …”

  “ … could, there’s still infection to worry …”

  “… care … or die …”

  “No.”

  “
No?” This, from Pestilence.

  I moan a little. In response, Pestilence’s lips press to my forehead. “Stay with me, Sara,” he whispers against my skin.

  Weakly I press a hand to his chest, my fingers touching the warm skin at the base of his throat.

  I want to tell him I’m alright. To not worry about me, but there’s a wall of pain I need to break through first, and I just can’t seem to.

  “Do you care about her?” the stranger’s voice says.

  “I love her.”

  My fingers flex against his skin.

  I need to open my eyes. I need to see the look on his face as he says those words. I need to hear them again while he gazes down at me.

  Despite my best efforts, my eyes stay firmly shut.

  “You love her?”

  “That’s what I just said, human.”

  Through my dim awareness I can already tell Pestilence is losing his temper.

  “Then I hope it hurts to watch her die.”

  A horrible, yawning silence follows.

  “So be it,” the horseman says solemnly.

  Even through my haze of pain I get chills from his tone.

  The stranger—a woman I think—begins to scream. The sound echoes down the corridor, gaining strength. Strength, or … Are those other voices?

  Stop. I try to say it, but all that comes out is a moan.

  And then the voices are in my head, giving sound to my pain. It builds and builds in my ears and beneath my skin, burning me from the inside out.

  I fall into the darkness again, and this time, it’s not so easy to claw my way awake.

  I blink my eyes, taking in the muted light. It’s everywhere—above me, below me, to either side of me.

  I touch my stomach, but it no longer hurts. I’m no longer hurt; there’s no blood, no broken skin, nothing.

  “So this is the mortal my brother has fallen in love with.”

  I squint in front of me, at the muted glow of light. From it, a shadow begins to appear, its outline blurry.

  “Pestilence?” I call.

  “Not quite.”

  With each passing second, the shadow deepens, its form sharpening until I can make out the dark shape of a disfigured man.

  Wait, not disfigured, I think as I take in the lumps at his back. Winged.

  Thanatos.

  The Fourth Horseman.

  He stares down at me, and that’s the first I realize that I’m lying on the ground—if you can call this insubstantial thing beneath my body ground.

  After a moment, the horseman reaches out a hand for me.

  “Am I dead?” I ask, ignoring his hand.

  “Momentarily.”

  I’m … dead.

  That should bother me—as should the frightening, winged horseman in front of me—but for whatever odd reason, I don’t mind the situation so much. Maybe it’s this place.

  Thanatos’s hand is still extended, and reluctantly, I take it.

  “I need to get back,” I say as he pulls me to my feet. “Pestilence needs me.”

  “Does he now?” Death cocks his head, his black hair shifting, the waves framing his face like a funeral shroud.

  He’s quite handsome, I realize. Just like his brother. Only Pestilence’s beauty is overwhelming; Death has a tragic, cutting face.

  He still hasn’t released my hand.

  “The last time I saw him, he needed no one.” Thanatos continues to study me. “Seems he’s … succumbed.”

  No idea what that means.

  “And what about you?” Death asks. “Do you need him?”

  Like air to breathe.

  “Yes.”

  Death’s wings open wide, flapping a little, almost in agitation. “Your body doesn’t want you back, Sara Burns.”

  How does he know my name?

  Death’s grip tightens, and his wings begin to beat in earnest. Does he mean to carry me off?

  “There are other things that await you,” he says.

  “I want to go back.” I can’t leave Pestilence. I won’t.

  Thanatos’ onyx eyes search mine. “I could stop this now, and yet, I’m so very … piqued.” His wings close. “Alright. So be it—”

  He releases my hand, and I fall away from him.

  I stare up at mighty Death the whole way down, even as his form shrinks and the muted light darkens.

  I fall farther and farther down …

  Chapter 47

  My chest bows and I take in a sharp, shuddering breath.

  Jesus, the pain! Like someone’s holding a flaming torch against my chest.

  I force my eyes open, taking in the sparse hospital room around me.

  Not dead.

  The thought seems preposterous after the gunshot wound I sustained.

  My hand moves to my hospital gown. I shift it aside enough to take a look at my bandaged chest. There’s not much to see besides the linen wrappings, but hot damn does the pain make up for it.

  I’m most definitely in the land of the living. Being dead couldn’t possibly ache this much, and I doubt the Afterlife smells this God-awful. The air is thick with that chemical smell that all hospitals have—like this is humanity’s last rallying cry against disease. And judging by the scent of death that also stains the air, it’s a weak rallying cry at that.

  It’s only then that I realize I have no idea how I came to be in this room, and there’s no one else around to fill in the blanks for me.

  I listen for a minute, straining my ears to hear anything beyond my room, but all is quiet. The whole place is just one long, terrible silence.

  I begin to kick off my sheets, then let out a hiss.

  Christ, this injury hurts worse than being dragged behind Pestilence’s horse. The pain is everywhere and in everything. Now that I’ve awakened it, it seems to surround me. I take several swallows of air, closing my eyes against the violent sting of it. When it finally abates, I begin to move again, this time slowly and stiffly.

  I clench my teeth against the pain when I make it to the door. I have to lean against it for several seconds, just catching my breath. I sway on my feet.

  Not going to make it very far past this point.

  I still grab for the knob. I turn the cool handle and open the door.

  The smell hits me first. Like Death dropped his pants and took a shit.

  My throat closes up, unwilling to breathe in the fumes. My heart begins to pound madly as I step into the hallway.

  That’s when I see them. Dozens of bloated, rotting bodies slump against the walls and or lay sprawled across the floor.

  I gag at the sight. If there had been anything at all in my stomach, it would’ve come up.

  Why didn’t these people evacuate when they had the chance?

  They were unwilling or unable to, Burns.

  And so they died.

  Clomp, clomp, clomp. Hooves click against linoleum. A moment later, Pestilence rounds the corner, towing Trixie behind him.

  I freeze at the sight of him.

  Unlike me, who must look like fresh shit (because I certainly feel like it), Pestilence is back to looking angelic—unstained, unsullied, untouchable.

  The only thing about him that’s different is the harsh set of his features. I didn’t realize that hardness had been missing from his expression—even when he hated me—until now. But as soon as he sees me, his face softens. Softens completely.

  Pestilence releases his horse’s reins and swiftly strides over to me. He cups my face and kisses me, his lips lingering. “You’re awake—awake and alive.” He pulls away, his eyes shining as they search mine.

  I swallow. By all rights I should be dead.

  I was dead … wasn’t I?

  For a moment my mind conjures up a brief flash of wings, but then the image slips away.

  “I meant to be here when you woke.” Pestilence’s hands glide over me, like they need to make sure that I am, in fact, alive. “I did not leave your side, not until an hour ago when I retrieved Tricksy
.”

  One of his palms moves over my heart. He rests it there, closing his eyes. “I thought you had died,” his voice breaks, “that you had slipped beyond my reach.”

  I touch his cheek. “You saved me.”

  Pestilence leans into the touch, his eyes opening. “I will always save you,” he says fervently. “And what you went through will never happen again.”

  A chill runs through me as shadows enter his eyes. His gaze clears a moment later, and I think I might’ve imagined the whole thing.

  Pestilence frowns. “You should not be out of bed, Sara.”

  I really shouldn’t be.

  “I’m fine,” I say smoothly.

  The horseman’s frown deepens at the lie.

  My eyes move past his shoulder, where bloated bodies lie about. “What happened?” My voice is low and raspy.

  Rather than responding, Pestilence begins to usher me towards Trixie. I try to stand against him, try to hold out until he gives me answers, but he’s much too strong and much too stubborn, so I let him silently lead me back to his steed.

  “Hey there,” I weakly say to Trixie. Last time I saw the horse, he’d been all but dead. Now the beast drops his nose and nudges me.

  Hitched behind Trixie is a wagon, the bed of it lined with a plush mattress, a pillow and a blanket.

  For me.

  A hazy memory surfaces.

  I love her.

  That’s what Pestilence had said.

  I grab his forearm. “I heard you.” I swivel to look at Pestilence even as my heartrate picks up. It’s not just pain that’s now overwhelming me, it’s all these exquisite emotions that are too big to fit beneath my skin.

  The horseman looks at me quizzically. “Heard what, dear Sara?”

  “You love me.” My voice catches.

  I don’t question the sentiment like I once did, when he got confused between love and lust. Not after what the two of us just went through.

  He pauses. At first I see some hesitancy in his gaze, as though he’s not sure how I’m going to react to that news. But whatever expression I wear, it causes his eyes to shine.

  “Yes, Sara, I do,” he says, resolutely. Fiercely. Like his love is here and it’s here to stay.

  Just as I’m about to smile, another memory comes back to me.