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“What are you doing?” I ask, eyeing his horse. Right now, his steed looks less like the unearthly driving force behind the Pestilence’s plague and more like a packhorse.

“Collecting supplies.”

I glance at the outpost. This one has all sorts of survival gear, from water jugs to homemade sunscreen, a fire-starting kit to dehydrated food.

Alright. “Why?”

“In case we don’t find shelter,” he says, tightening one of the saddle’s straps.

That’s never been a problem before, but then again, up until today we were traveling along the highway. Right now, we’re essentially off the grid.

I glance at the horizon, where thick, dark clouds are chasing down the sun.

Really not a good day for camping.

Pestilence heads back into the outpost, making his way to the hunting section of the store. An entire wall is dedicated to various types of guns and ammo.

He strides right up to them. Calmly, he lifts a rifle from the wall, then stares down at it, one hand wrapped around the barrel, the other near its wooden base.

My entire body tightens at the sight of the gun in his hands. I don’t know what exactly it is that I feel. Surely it’s not fear? Pestilence doesn’t need a weapon to kill. He’s plenty lethal as is. Maybe it’s simply the alien way he’s looking at the thing in his hands, his expression unreadable.

His grip on the rifle tightens, his arm muscles flexing, and then the metal groans as hebendsthe barrel of it, folding the gun nearly in half.

I stare dumbly at him, my mind taking a ridiculously long time to come to terms with the fact that the horseman is strong enough to manipulate metal.

He drops the rifle to the ground, the thing utterly forgotten as he reaches for another. Pestilence doesn’t stop until he’s destroyed every last one of the guns the outpost was selling—hell, he even manages to find the one hidden beneath the counter before ruining that one too. There’s a nice pile of them in the back.

Owner’s going to lose their shit when they see that someone folded their guns in half.

Once Pestilence is done, he leaves the store just as serenely as he entered it. “Ready to ride out?” he asks as he passes me.

I take one last look at the ruined weapons littering the store. “Uh … sure.”

It’s not until we’re far away from the outpost, Trixie weaving us through a dense coastal forest, that either of us speak again.

“It’s my regret that though many things were destroyed by my arrival on earth, guns were not one of them.”

I raise my eyebrows at his words.

“I’m surprised,” I say.

“Why would my opinion surprise you?”

I half turn my head in his direction. “Don’t you want humans to kill each other?”

I wait a long time for him to answer.

“Hmmm,” he eventually says, “I will have to mull this over.”

And he must, because the last bit of our ride goes by in silence.

By the time the sky is an ominous gray purple and the shadows are long, Pestilence and I still haven’t come across a house. The horseman directs Trixie off the road to a relatively flat area nestled between mossy evergreens.

“We will stop here for the night,” Pestilence announces, pulling his horse to a stop.

The two of us spend the next hour setting up camp. First comes a paltry fire, which is more for looks than anything else, since the wood we burn is far too green to do much besides smoke and sizzle. Which is unfortunate, considering the first drops of rain hit me right as we finish lighting it.

Next comes the tent, and it’s pretty obvious from the start that this piece of equipment is old. The material is that synthetic waterproof stuff that no one makes anymore, and the color of it is a time-faded gray and maroon. The aluminum poles that go with it are nicked and bent.