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Steeling myself, I face the street once more and walk away.

Chapter 52

I don’t hearthe news. Not for weeks and weeks.

Still, I should’ve known. The truth was so obviously in front of me.

Instead it takes an outpost owner near the Canadian border to convince me beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“That blighted horseman’s gone. I swear it on the newly dead, he is,” the man says, leaning on the pine countertop as he adds up my things.

The sight of the man himself,aliveand bustling about his store, is surprising enough, but then again, I’ve ran into others on my way back up the coast. I assumed their presence had to do with Pestilence spreading his plaguesolelysouthward.

Now I stare at the store owner, his news not computing.

The world thought Pestilence was gone when we were holed up inside that mansion, but once I left, I assumed that he’d resume his travels.

“You mean there haven’t been any new sightings of him?” I ask dumbly.

He shakes his head.

No new sightings of him. An unpleasant sensation twists my gut, but I can’t say what causes it.

Maybe there’s no longer anyone left alivetospot him.The territory from Washington to California is vast … vast and full of the dead.

“Have you not heard?” the owner asks when he notices my surprise.

“Last news I received was that Oregon, California, and parts of Mexico were infected,” I say. Even now a chill slides through me at the thought. I played a role in that.

The man lets out a wheezy laugh, pulling a slim case from beneath his counter. Opening it, he takes the raw ingredients from inside and begins to hand roll a cigarette. “Oh, you’ve missed so much.”

Intentionally.

I made a habit of avoiding small talk like this, the guilt its own sort of illness. But now that we’re on the subject of Pestilence, a sick sort of curiosity comes over me. I find I need to know how much of the world still lives—and how my horseman fared.

Hearing that Pestilence hasn’t resurfaced since I left him …

The loss feels physical, like a limb’s been lopped off.

The outpost owner finishes rolling his cigarette, licking the edge of the white paper to seal the seam closed. “Pleased to tell you that all the sick recovered.” He shakes his head. “Damn miracle it is.” The man strikes a match and holds the flame to the end of his smoke, inhaling a grateful drag. “I’m not a praying man myself, but even I sent one up when I heard the news. Thought He’d left us to die.”

Wait—what?

I stare at him in shock.

All the sick recovered.

Can’t seem to catch my breath.

“You mean … all of those sick—they …lived?” I say incredulously.

It cannot be. I waswiththe horseman. I saw his anger, witnessed his unbending will.

No way had he changed his mind.

“Yep,” the man says cheerily enough, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. “Even us up north here recovered—news didn’t bother mentioning that.” He frowns, like that’s some great travesty when oh my God, all those millionslived.

“Fucking plague came back right as I was re-opening my store,” he continues. “Thought I’d caught my death.”