Page 54

He clicks his tongue, and Trixie takes off at a gallop.

We race down the highway at breakneck speeds. Another gunshot follows the first, then several more as a few doomed individuals try their hand at vigilante justice.

None of the bullets, however, find their target. Even as the sound of gunshots fades in the distance, Pestilence races on.

The highway branches, the 99 separating from the 1. Instinctively, the horseman heads west, staying on the 99. I don’t know if he is aware of this, but the decision is a good one.

We sprint down the highway, crossing the bridge before entering Stanley Park. Here the city is interrupted by a dense patch of wilderness. Still, my body is poised for another assault. In a city with this many inhabitants, there’s bound to be more.

The park blurs by us, the trees blending together to create a green backdrop.

On the other side of the park, blocks and blocks of high rises loom ahead of us and to our right, their steel and glass frames glittering in the midday light. Between each block of them I catch glimpses of the ocean.

That’s all I notice before the gunshots resume.

Pestilence yanks on Trixie’s reins and steers us off the highway and down a side street, making a beeline for the water. The goliath structures stand like sentinels on each side of us as we dash down the road.

I can’t hear much over the pound of hoof beats, just the steadily increasing sound of gunfire. If maneuvering us off the highway was supposed to solve our situation, it hasn’t.

Like me, other people—many of them by the sound of it—decided to sacrifice themselves in order to kill the horseman. I wonder if they, too, assumed the horseman could die.

I feel a bullet whiz by me. If things keep up like this, I’m going to get hit.

I notice the people lingering in the doorways of buildings, or leaning out the windows of them. Others still are openly running towards us, guns in hand.

Now this, this is a true ambush.

Without warning, Pestilence shoves me off his steed. I’m so surprised I forget to scream as I fall.

I slam hard into the street, my eyesight darkening at the impact. All my old wounds shriek at being so violently jostled.

Ahead of me, more gunshots ring out.

A few people rush around the street, trying to get a good aim on the horseman.

Ahead of me, Pestilence brandishes his bow and arrow. Now that his hands are free, he uses them to shoot arrow after arrow at his attackers. I see one man fall from a window three stories up and another slump forward from where he crouches behind a tree.

As he rides away from me, the horseman takes out his assailants, sometimes turning in his saddle to shoot backwards. I watch him for some time before I remember myself.

You’re a firefighter, Burns. Get up and act like one.

I force myself to stand, favoring one leg over the other. As far as I can tell, nothing’s broken, though I’m going to have one hell of a bruise where I landed on my thigh.

I begin moving, a slow limp that doesn’t get me far fast, but then, I’m not trying to flee. I scan the street, looking for the injured.

I head over to the closest victim, a wiry man whose hair (what little there is left of it) is more white than brown.

“Sir, are you—?” My voice cuts off when I see the raw, bloody flesh at his throat. It’s not even the horseman that got this guy. One of the bullets that missed Pestilence found another victim.

He tries to talk to me, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes wide with shock. All that comes out are a few red bubbles that gather on his neck.

There’s nothing to be done for him.

I take his hand, kicking his gun aside; he has no need for it now.

“You’re alright,” I say soothingly. We both know that’s a lie. “I’m right here with you. I won’t leave you.”

His hand squeezes mine tighter, and his lips keep moving. I lean in to try to hear him better, but all I hear is the wet gurgling that comes from his throat.