Page 5

The last footage I saw of him, he was storming through New York City, an arrow notched into his bow, firing into the retreating stampede of screaming people bent on fleeing him.

I had to watch the newsreel five times before I believed it. And then I could watch no more.

Now here he is. Pestilence, in the flesh.

Clop—clop—clop.The rider and his horse move slowly. Snow has gathered on his shoulders and in his hair. And somehow, on him, even the white flakes add to his strange, alien beauty.

I hold still, afraid the mist coming from my breath will tip the horseman off. But he seems utterly unconcerned about his surroundings. He wouldn’t need to be; no one except me would willingly choose to get this close to the literal embodiment of plague.

Never taking my eyes off of Pestilence, I raise my shotgun. It only takes a few seconds to line up the sights. I fix my aim at his chest, which is really the only thing I can hope to hit. My stomach begins to churn as I watch the horseman through my weapon.

I’ve seen men die. I’ve seen fire blister bodies beyond the point of recognition and I’ve smelled the sickening scent of cooking flesh.

And yet.

And yet my finger hesitates on the trigger.

I’ve neverkilled(pheasant aside). Forget that this creature isn’t human, that he’s been carving a path of carnage through North America; helooksalive, sentient,human. That’s reason enough for me to fight with myself.

I adjust my grip on the gun and close my eyes. If I do this, Mom will live, Dad will live, Briggs and Felix and Luke will live. My friends and teammates and their families will live. The entire world Pestilence has set his sights on will live.

All I have to do is move my finger an inch.

I’ve never thought myself a coward, but for a single second, I nearly fold.

Fuck your morals, Burns, don’t make your death all for nothing.

I suck a breath in, exhale, then pull the trigger.

BOOM!

The explosive sound is almost more shocking than the shotgun’s kickback, the blast echoing throughout the silent forest.

Ahead of me, the horseman grunts, the spray of pellets hitting him in the chest, the force of it knocking him off his steed. His horse rears up, pawing the air and letting out a frightened shriek, then takes off.

My gut roils.

Going to sick myself.

The horse is still racing away.

Perhaps it’s the horse that’s spreading the plague and not the man. Or perhaps both are.

Can’t risk it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I line up my sights once more.

It’s easier to pull the trigger this time. Maybe it’s because I did it once before, maybe it’s that I’m ready to feel the jerk of the shotgun or hear the blast of fire and gunpowder, or maybe it’s that killing a beast is easier than killing a man—no matter that neither is what they appear to be.

The steed’s front legs kick up, its body briefly contorting as it lets out an agonized bray. It collapses onto its side a hundred feet from its master, and then it doesn’t move.

I spend several seconds catching my breath.

It’s done.

God save me, I actually did it.

Setting my weapon aside, I head for the road, my eyes glued to the horseman. His armor is a mess. I can’t tell if the pellets bit through his breastplate or if they simply twisted the metal, but several of them have torn through that pretty face of his.