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Maybe it’s macabre of me, but now knowing that Pestilence has already made his way through Seattle, I keep expecting to see the dead everywhere. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people had to have stayed behind in the city this big. Where are their bodies?

“Humans prefer quiet corners to die,” Pestilence says.

At his words, my skin pricks and my gaze moves up the buildings towering around us. Logically, I know no one lives that high up any longer—the elevators are all busted—but I can’t help but wonder just how many bodies are sequestered away in these goliath structures, bodies that will rot and stink and infect the living for who knows how long.

Pestilence tightens his hold and clicks his tongue. Trixie’s steady trot morphs into a gallop, and the towering structures begin to blur by.

Up the street is another prone body, but this time, the horseman shows no signs of stopping.

“Pesti—”

“Enough, Sara. You cannot help everyone.”

Obviously, I can’t. I already tried that route and it landed me here, in the company of a trick-turning horse and his tragic, monstrous master.

My stomach twists as we pass the person by—an elderly woman.

She looks dead, I reassure myself.

But not all of them do. Some cry out as we pass, begging for help or death—whichever they prefer. It hurts a deep and fundamental part of me to do nothing.

In the end, though, that’s exactly what happens. We leave the city of Seattle and the horrible, icy rainstorm behind, until they are nothing more than a grim shadow at our backs.

Chapter 37

The next weekis a miserable series of days as we move south from Seattle to Tacoma to Olympia, the endless stretch of cityscape keeping me on edge.

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.”