At night, most of the houses Pestilence and I bunker down in are empty, but in one instance the recently deceased was still lying in her bed, her body a wasteland of sores.
As Pestilence and I travel through the unending urban centers and I come across more dead and dying people speckling the streets, it becomes clear that the horseman is making a habit of leaving me after I fall asleep to race ahead and spread his damnable plague. He makes no further mention of it, but he doesn’t need to, the proof is right in front of me.
It’s not until Olympia is far behind us and fields and forests replace the dilapidated buildings that I feel I can breathe again.
That night, the cabin we squat in is obviously a bachelor pad. There are posters of sports teams and half naked women and beer brands all over the place. Shit from before the Arrival.
Real tasteful.
Pestilence eyes it all with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion.
At least the owner made himself motherfucking scarce. He might like his titties to look like flotation devices, but the dude’s got enough practical sense to get the hell out of town before the reaper comes knocking. Literally.
After I light the few candles and oil lamps I can find, I move to the kitchen. Unfortunately, Bachelor Dude only has a jar of beets (Seriously man—beets? Beets?), some greasy leftovers in his icebox that will definitely give me food poisoning, tabasco sauce, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. Moonshine, fancy ales, bottled brews, and even some pop-top pre-Arrival stuff.
Whelp, guess I know what I’m having for dinner.
While I rummage around, Pestilence forgoes starting a fire and instead heads out to the back of the house, where a huge balcony showcases a view of the thick evergreens that skirt the property.
I keep an eye on the horseman as I grab things from the kitchen. He hasn’t said much all day. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Pestilence was a bit … melancholy.
It’s hard to pity the very force that’s ruined your world, yet that’s exactly what I feel. He sits down at the edge of the balcony, letting his feet dangle through the rails. I can’t read his emotions based on that broad back of his, but I have a feeling they’re stormy.
Grabbing the goods I’ve gathered, I head outside. A chill wind rustles my hair, carrying with it the scent of pine. I sit down next to Pestilence and hand him a beer, the cap already popped off. It’s been a long day. Beers are good for these kinds of things.
“You don’t like killing people, do you?” I ask.
It’s an almost unfathomable thought, but I don’t know, Pestilence just seems … upset.
He frowns at the tree line. “It’s not about what I like.”
It’s about the task he was sent to complete.
“You don’t have to do it,” I say, so very, very softly.
“And what do you know about my choices?” He turns to me, his expression tumultuous.
“I know you have them,” I say.
We all have them. Even I do. That’s why I carry this guilt around despite the fact that situation was thrust upon me. Because I have been complacent when I don’t need to be.
“Do I?” Pestilence says it challengingly, as though I don’t have the first fresh shit of an idea what choice he actually has in the matter. He glares down at the bottle in his hands, like he only just realized it was there. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks, lifting it up.
I lift a shoulder. “Drink it, pour it out, blow a freaking tune across its rim. I don’t really care,” I answer, bringing my own beer to my lips.
Done giving advice to Pestilence; it only ever backfires anyway.
The anger fades from his expression, leaving him looking bleak. He watches me with those sorrowful blue eyes before facing forward again. After a moment, he brings the beer to his lips and takes a long swallow of it. He winces at the taste, then takes an even longer pull from the bottle.
He lowers it. “I cannot let my feelings get in the way of my task.”
Of course he can’t.
“But it is kind of you to care about my feelings, no matter your motives,” he adds.
The sound of the wind whistling through the trees fills the silence that follows.
I rub my thumb over the glass shoulder of my beer.
“Who are you, really?” I ask, lifting my gaze to his.
The horseman is right, I do care about his feelings. I care about him, and I want to get to know him and understand why it is he cannot waver from his purpose. Maybe then it will make sense to me. Maybe then I’ll stop pushing him.
Pestilence’s brows furrow. “That is a strange question, Sara.”
He always says my name with such strange inflection, and I always get a small thrill from it.
“I am Pestilence,” he finally answers.
“No, that isn’t who you are, that’s just …” I struggle to find the right words, “your task.”
Those full lips of his pull down at the corners. “I do not work like you think I do,” he says, his features troubled. “My past is a series of impressions completely removed from this body and experience. And since I came to earth in this form, well, I am my task and it is me—it is the sum total of my existence.”
But it isn’t, and it hasn’t been for who knows how long. Probably ever since the horseman picked me up and started getting a taste for the very things he’s destroying.
And that makes me wonder: is Pestilence impervious to God’s wrath? Ever since Ruth brought the topic up, I keep coming back to this question. I mean, Pestilence is carrying out the Big Dude’s task, so he should be, and yet … his deeds are weighing on him. I can see it now more than ever. There’s uncertainty there, like he’s no longer sure whether what he’s doing is right. Even though God must’ve decreed it, and even though it’s been branded onto his skin, Pestilence is wavering.
On a whim, I take his hand and squeeze it, threading my fingers through his.
He glances down at our joined hands, then lets out a breath.
His eyes meet mine. “My favorite possession is my steed.”
At first I don’t really understand what he’s saying. But then, it clicks.
I soften. He’s trying. Trying to tell me about himself.
“The steed you won’t name?” I ask.
“The steed you already have,” he corrects. “And you’ve given him a terribly ignoble name at that.” He takes a drink of his beer, clearly unsettled about having an opinion and voicing it.
“And why is Trixie Skillz your favorite thing?” I prod.
He sets his beer down. “Because he is a faithful, steady, and constant companion.”
“Those are good reasons,” I say.
“You’re talking down to me,” he says, his gaze thinning.
“I’m not.” I’m really not.
He must see the truth because his attention turns to the view and he continues. “I love the dawn—the birth of day. Snow makes everything easier on the eyes. Human food is either surprisingly terrible or surprisingly good—” he lifts his beer, “though sometimes, I will admit, it can be both at the same time.
“I find human clothes to be coarse, I like making fires, falling asleep is a troubling experience—but it is oddly enjoyable when you have someone to hold onto—”