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Felix nods. “I got you, Burns.”

I stand. No one else is moving.

“Go,” I finally order, “he’s going to be here in days.” If not hours.

They must see I’m not dicking around because they don’t bother arguing or lingering for long. One by one they give me tight hugs, pulling me in close.

“Should’ve been different,” Briggs whispers in my ear, the last to let me go.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. There’s no use dwelling on this now. The whole world ought to be different. But it isn’t, and that’s what matters.

I watch through one of the large windows as the men leave, Luke unhitching his horse from the garage, Briggs and Felix grabbing their bikes, their things strapped to the back.

I wait until they’re long gone before I begin to gather my things. My eyes move over my pack, stuffed with all manner of survival gear—and a book of Edgar Allan Poe’s best works—before landing on my grandfather’s shotgun, the oiled metal looking particularly lethal.

No time for fear, not until the deed is done.

I might be doomed to die, but I’m taking that infernal fucker down with me.

Chapter 2

No one knowswhere the Four Horsemen came from, only that one day they appeared on their steeds, riding through cities and wildlands alike. And as they passed through town after town, human technology broke like waves upon the rocks.

No one knew what it meant. Especially when, all at once, the Four Horsemen disappeared just as suddenly as they had appeared.

Our electronics never recovered, but we began to rationalize the inexplicable events away: It was a solar flare. Terrorists. Synchronized EMP pulses. Forget that none of these explanations made any sense—they were more reasonable than some Biblical apocalypse, so we cringed and swallowed down those half-baked theories.

And then Pestilence reappeared.

I sit atour table for a long time after my teammates—formerteammates—have left, running my fingers over the polished wood of my grandfather’s shotgun, getting used to the feel of it in my hands.

Other than re-acquainting myself with the weapon over the last two weeks when I shot the crap out of some tin cans, it’s been years since I handled a gun.

I’ve killed a sum total of one creature using this weapon (a pheasant whose death haunted my twelve-year-old dreams).

Going to have to use it again.

I get up, sparing another glance out the window. My bike and the trailer I jerry-rigged to the back of it sit across the way, my food, first aid kit and other supplies strapped to the back. Beyond my bike, the Canadian wilderness perches on the hills that border our city of Whistler. Who would’ve thought a horseman would come here, to this lonely corner of the world?

On a whim, I head over to the fridge and grab a beer—the world might be ending but fuck it if there’s no beer.

Popping the cap off, I cross over to the living room and click on the T.V.

Nothing.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I’m going to die a horrible, shit-sucking death, and the T.V. decides that today is the day it stops working.

I slam a palm down on the top of it.

Still nothing.

Muttering oaths my grandfather would be proud of, I kick the good-for-nothing T.V., more out of spite than anything else.

The screen sputters to life, and a grainy image of a newscaster appears, her face warped by the bands of color and contortions the T.V. makes.

“… appears to be moving through British Columbia … heading towards the Pacific Ocean …” It’s hard to make out the reporter’s words under the static-y white noise. “… Reports of the Messianic Fever following in his wake … ” Pestilence has only to ride through a city for it to be infected.

Researchers—those that remain dedicated to their work even after technology has fallen—still don’t know much about this plague, only that it’s shockingly contagious and the primary vector of transmission ishorseman. But a name has been given for it all the same—the Messianic Fever, or simply the Fever. The name was cooked up by spooks, but that’s what the world has come to—spooks and saints and sinners.