Page 47 of Famine

I stand still for a beat, waiting for something else to happen—for Famine to come back or this cage to wither up and die.

Neither thing does.

“How thefuckam I supposed to get out?” I finally mutter to myself.

The answer, I find out several hours and many cuts later, ispainfully—that’s how I’m supposed to get out.

Chapter 15

I wake to screams.

I sit up too fast, swaying a little. I put a hand to my head, blinking away sleep. The screams continue, punctuated by low, agonized moans. My heart is beginning to thunder before I can truly process what I’m hearing.

I stare at the window for several seconds, thick grey clouds obscuring the morning light. The screams are coming from outside, only now they’re beginning to die off. My pulse pounds in my ears.

I don’t know how I get the courage to throw off my covers—covers still stained by the blood from Famine’s scythe—and I slide out of bed. I haven’t seen the horseman since he left me here last night, but from the sounds of it, he’s been busy.

I pad around the thorny bush that caged me in yesterday and creep towards the window, dread pooling in my stomach. Outside, two people are dumping a body in what must be the home’s backyard. There are already other bodies lying on the ground, some of them still moving.

I stumble back, tripping on my own heel and falling hard to the floor.

I have to breathe through my nose just to keep the bile down.

My own memories replay themselves—how Elvita was stabbed, how I was stabbed. How crassly Famine’s men discarded my body.

I wrap my arms around myself. As the screams rise, I pinch my eyes shut, my body shaking.

This is where I’m supposed to go storming out like some brave heroine and stop Famine. Instead, I’m paralyzed by fear, my mind replaying my own horrific encounter with the horseman.

That’s why I’ve allowed myself to go along with being the horseman’s prisoner—so I can hurt him again. Only now, when fighting him would make a difference … I can’t do it. I don’t have a weapon, but even if I did, I don’t think I could make myself walk over to him. I don’t want to move at all.

Famine was right. I do lack courage—courage to do anything in the face of his atrocities.

My heart is in my throat and my breath is coming much too fast when the door to my room opens. A man comes in, one I don’t recognize. My breath stills.

“Famine wants to see you,” he says.

I’m still shaking, and I still can’t move. When the man sees this, he comes over to me and grabs my arm, pulling me to my feet.

I wobble, and then I’m tripping forward, following the man out of the room and towards the living room, where all the furniture has been pushed aside, save for the wingback chair Famine sits in.

He lounges on it like it’s a throne, his legs kicked up over one of the arm rests and crossed at the ankles. Despite the fact that it’s the middle of the morning, a wine glass dangles out of one of his hands.

He looks drunk. Very drunk.

“Where have you been?” he demands when he sees me, his tone surly.

“Hiding,” I reply as the man who led me here finally lets my arm go.

“Hiding is for cowards,” the horseman says, kicking his feet off the armrest and straightening in his seat.

I flinch, his words echoing my own earlier thoughts.

“Besides,” he continues, “I want you to get a good look at how your world dies.”

I stare at Famine for several seconds.

I hate you so very, very much.