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My last words to the horseman were oaths shouted in anger.

I’m fighting to get back to his ruined body, but these people hold me back.

You’d think I’d be used to the sight of him like this, but no matter how much I reassure myself that he’ll be alright, my eyes tell me otherwise.

From the ground he groans.

Jesus. Even though half of his face is gone, he’s stillaware. I let out a shriek. He’saware.

Pain must be unbearable.

Someone shoots him again—and again, and again—trying to kill an unkillable thing.

I scream at the sound of each bullet, horrified at the way his body dances beneath the gunfire.

I’m still shouting as I’m forced away from the road and into a nearby building. It’s only after someone’s pushed me into a pew, that I realize they dragged me to achurch.

The idiot wanted to marry me!

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe the morning would’ve gone differently had I said yes to Pestilence’s proposal. He’d been so eager, and I’d thrown it in his face like what we did last night didn’t matter when it did. God, it did.

I take in a shuddering breath and glance around. One by one, the people who led me hear disappear into another room to remove their masks. When they return, they no longer appear so menacing.

The men and women that fill the church are civilians, civilians who decided to sacrifice their lives to take down the horseman. Civilians who are bringing me blankets and coffee—civilians who arehelpingme, an ex-firefighter, the best they can.

Doesn’t change the fact that they hurt him. That they might be hurting him still.

I stand, the woolen blanket sliding off my shoulders, feeling like my emotions have been pushed through a meat grinder.

Where is he?

“The others are dealing with him,” someone says, and that’s the first I realize that I’ve spoken out loud.

“We heard about you, you know,” says one of the women milling about. “The reports kept mentioning that he had a prisoner.”

“She didn’t look like his prisoner,” someone else mutters.

“Shhh!” another hisses.

I wipe my eyes and glance around me. There are eight women and three men, all between the ages of twenty and sixty. All of them now slated to die. (The gasmasks were a cute accessory, but not even they can stop Pestilence’s plague.)

When will the media figure out that the horseman cannot be killed? When will people stop sacrificing their lives to end an immortal thing?

An immortal thing I happen to care for.

Got to get to him.

Got tosavehim.

I begin to make my way down the center aisle, heading for the exit.

I’ve only gone several feet when I’m intercepted by one of the men. He’s a big, burly guy with a white handlebar mustache and a firearm holstered at his hip.

“Let’s sit you back down,” he says, his tone so damn condescending.

Taking my upper arm, he leads me back to a pew.

“Am I under arrest?” I ask.