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“Of course not,” he says, “but you’ve had a trying morning. Why don’t you rest a little?”

I glance at him, then at the others.

They’re not going to let me go.I can see it on their faces.

I don’t know why they care. Then it dawns on me—

I survived the plague. They must be aware of that.

And who wouldn’t want to keep someone like that around? I could know the cure; hell they might think Iamthe cure.

I return to the pew like a good little girl (ugh), and sit there, letting everyone believe I’m meek.

Five minutes tick by agonizingly slowly.

In the distance, I hear a faint neigh.

Trixie.

I mean to wait longer, but hearing Pestilence’s horse is what breaks the last of my patience. I can’t keep sitting here when have no idea what’s happening to my horseman.

I push myself out of the pew again.

Handlebar Mustache tenses when he sees me back on my feet. Before I can so much as exit the pew, he heads me off.

Don’t look at his belt.

“Is there something you need?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, there is.”

Before he has a chance to respond, I make a grab for his gun. My hand cradles cold metal just as he lets out a surprised shout.

I level the firearm at him and flip off the safety. “Get out of my way.”

Around me, I hear gasps.

The man lifts his arms, “Now wait just a second there. Let’s not do anything hasty. We’re just trying to help you.”

I must not look nearly as threatening as I feel because several other people begin to creep in.

Better make your stand before this unravels.

Raising the gun to the air, I fire off a shot. The sound, already deafening, is made all the louder by the church’s acoustics.

People scream, several covering their heads. Above me, plaster rains down.

I train the gun once more on the man I stole it from.

“I’m leaving,” I say. “And you canhelpme by getting out of my fucking way.”

Handlebar Mustache must see that there’s just a little too much crazy in my eyes for his own well-being. He steps aside.

I swing the gun towards the other people who stand between me and the exit. They back up, their arms in the air.

The church is uncomfortably silent, the only sound my muted footfalls on the worn carpet.

I’m nearly to the double doors when Handlebar Mustache calls out to me, “Why have you forsaken your own people for that thing?”