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A burly man is tying him to the base of the telephone pole, the rope wrapped a dizzying number of times around the horseman’s ruined form. At Pestilence’s feet are piles of firewood.

Pestilence’s face is nearly gone and most of his back must be burned away from the explosion. If he were mortal, the horseman would be dead five times over, and tying him up would be pointless. The fact that these people are restraining him means they know he can’t die.

Someone besides me finally learned the terrible truth.

And now these people are using it against him.

I let out a hopeless cry.

Once the man finishes securing Pestilence to the telephone pole, the nails and hammers come out.

Even as they bring the items up to his body, I can’t comprehend what they’re going to do; my mind won’t let me. It’s only when they hammer the first nail into Pestilence’s skin that I understand.

They mean to crucify him.

Pestilence’s body gives a jerk from the pain. A second nail quickly follows the first and then a third and a fourth. His body shudders again and again.

I begin to scream, and once I start, I find I can’t stop.

In my line of business, I’m used to seeing compassion, sacrifice. I’ve seen men hospitalized because they ran into a burning house to rescue a dog. I’ve seen neighbors empty their pantries and open their homes to victims because they wanted to help people in need. I’ve seen so much goodness. My job always showed me that even in the worst of circumstances, humans can be their very best. We as a people are good. We are.

So it’s all the more shocking to me to see this side of human nature. The cold, cruel side of it. So shocking that the only word that comes to mind isinhuman.

Several people assist in crucifying Pestilence while the others stand by, content to watch their comradestorturemy horseman.

I scream myself hoarse, begging for them to stop.

“This cunt actually cries for the bastard,” someone nearby me says, nodding in my direction.

One of the men comes up to me, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Crouching in front of me, he peers at my face for a second, then backhands me.

I hear Pestilence’s garbled roar as my head whips to the side.

“Fuck me, Jesus, this thing really doesn’t die.”

I roll my head back to face the man in front of me, my cheek throbbing from the hit. It’s just one more pain to add to the rest.

“Stop hurting him,” I whisper. My face is wet, and that’s the first I realize that this entire time, I’ve been crying.

The man in front of me squints, taking in my tears. “I think we got ourselves here a couple. The horseman and his human whore.”

I stare miserably at him. It’s a terrifying sight, looking into the eyes of someone who thrives off of violence and hate. For all of his carnage, Pestilence neverenjoyedhimself.

“Tell me girl, how many times did you have to fuck that thing before he decided to keep you?”

Someone else calls out. “Maybe we should have a taste—see what’s so special about her pussy.”

A woman shouts, “I’m not going to stand here while you all fuck her. Keep to the plan, Mac.”

Mac, the man in front of me, looks over his shoulder at the woman with annoyance.

Sliding his shotgun off his shoulder, Mac pulls out a wicked looking knife from his belt. He grabs the bindings at my ankles and begins to saw through them.

“Try kick me girl,” he says under his breath, “and I’ll make sure everyone here enjoys that cunt of yours.”

Kicking himistempting, but my legs are far too weak to do any real damage.

Once he’s cut away the ties, he grabs his gun and rises to his feet.