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Even several feet away he smells like rot and bodily fluids, and his eyes don’t move from the street.

Dead. That’s my professional assessment.

Only, when I place two fingers against his neck, his pulse beats weakly.

I rock back on my feet.

Shit, he’s alive.

Not for long.

His fevered eyes slowly move to mine, and his cracked lips move. “Help.”

My gut clenches at his plea. I don’t have the heart to tell him that there isn’t much I can do at this point.

Instead, I head back to Trixie and grab a few painkillers I swiped from Ruth and Rob’s place, along with a canteen of water.

When I return to the man, I show him the pills. “They won’t heal you,” I explain, “but they may take the edge off the pain.”

He opens his mouth weakly, too tired to even reach for the medicine. I place them on his tongue, then hold my canteen to his mouth. Behind me, I hear Trixie’s impatient whinny, and I sense Pestilence’s burning gaze.

The man takes a few weak swallows, nearly choking in the process. I’m just about to stand when he grips my hand with surprising force. His feverish eyes are pinned to mine.

“I see him,” he says.

My brows come together. “Who?”

Shouldn’t indulge the man.Fever is likely making him hallucinate, and his disheveled state suggests that he might not have been all that healthybeforethe plague struck.

“Winged Death,” he hisses.

I try not to be spoked, but my skin pebbles anyway. This is Year 5 of the Horseman. The supernatural exists, and it iswrathful.

Death still sleeps.

Giving his hand a final squeeze, I pull away from the man and make my way back to Pestilence. He still sits on his mount, waiting solicitously for me.

“He’s coming for me!” the man shouts at my back. “He’s coming for us all—” His words cut off as a hacking fit starts up.

My eyes meet Pestilence’s. “You’ve already been here,” I say.

The truth is written all over the dying man.

The horseman inclines his head. “I rode here a few nights ago,” he admits. “I did not want a repeat of Vancouver.”

I don’t know how I feel about that. Grateful, I suppose. I know he did it more for my benefit than for his. But then, what kind of person does that make me to feel grateful for death coming early to these people?

Dazed, I get back onto his steed.

The two of us ride deeper into Seattle, the city’s ominous silence settling into my bones. A few sheets of paper scatter in the wind. I catch a glimpse of one.Evacuate Now, it reads in thick red font before blowing away.

The place gives me the heebie jeebies. You can feel Death here, his hand pressed to the walls of this place, his shadow eclipsing the sun. I see several more individuals—some leaning against the wall like the last man, others collapsed in the middle of the road, like their bodies gave out before they could get where they needed to go. Already I can smell rot on the wind.

For every person I come across, I have Pestilence stop his horse so I can give them aid—if they’re alive to receive it. Most aren’t.

Trixie’s hoof beats echo off the sides of buildings as we move through the abandoned streets.

“I would’ve thought there’d be more … bodies,” I eventually say.