Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(32)
Opening my eyes, I peel away the sandwich’s packaging, and sure enough, between the two coarse loaves of homemade bread is a generous helping of jam. And only jam.
It’s not lost on me how very similar this is to a pie—two bready surfaces holding a sugary fruit filling. I bring it to my mouth and bite into it.
It’s not bad. I don’t know why I thought it would be. Maybe I assumed jam sandwiches ought to taste wrong. Maybe I thought that after the day I’ve had, anything would taste like dirt in my mouth.
Instead it tastes like an indulgence. As I eat it, I imagine Pestilence in that cluttered little kitchen we just left, making this for me right next to the refrigerator-turned-icebox that was scattered with stick-figure artwork and alphabet magnets. All while, down the hall, I watched a little girl draw her last.
The sugary-sweet taste of the sandwich sours in my mouth. I take a few deep breaths before I try another bite.
“I don’t like watching them die,” Pestilence admits behind me.
I lower the sandwich.
He’d been all but absent during those four days I stayed with the family. I thought perhaps there was some other reason for it.
“Why didn’t you force us to keep moving?” This could’ve been avoided if he didn’t linger in one place for any length of time.
“You needed the rest,” he replies.
Absently, I touch one of the bandages covering my wrists.
He’s only keeping me alive to punish me, I’d told Helen.
I don’t think so, she’d said. He might have his reasons, but I don’t think punishment is one of them.
I keep my thoughts to myself.
“But you still infect them,” I say.
“I still infect them,” he agrees. “And I will continue to infect them until my time has passed. But I do not like watching them die.”
The two of us ride for the rest of the day, passing through a series of small, deserted settlements. My thighs have finally stopped being so saddle sore, and my back itches where my skin is healing.
The weather has also decided to give me a break, the weak winter sun shining brilliantly above us. It’s still colder than a witch’s tit, but hey, it’s not raining. I’ll take it.
The trees hedge the highway to our left, and to our right, the beautiful waters of the Howe Sound glitter. Speckled amongst them are a series of islands, and beyond those is the other edge of the mainland. The sight would take your breath away if not for the rows and rows of rusted cars sitting between me and the view.
The dead automobiles lay abandoned on either side of the road. This must be one of the sites still waiting on the government-funded clean up. The Arrival that knocked out the majority of our power also stranded thousands upon thousands of people in their cars in the middle of open road.
If I close my eyes, I can still see some of the gruesome images of the pileups, cars smashed to smithereens with their occupants still inside. We no longer talk about that first wave of fatalities, not since Pestilence reappeared, but so many, many people died that first day—from car crashes, from planes falling out of the sky, from life-supporting machines giving out, and so many strange scenarios no one ever saw coming.
Around me, the rusted cars sit as sad reminders of the day the world changed. Pestilence doesn’t spare them a glance. He and Trixie only have eyes for the horizon.
We ride throughout the day, not even stopping to eat. I come to find that’s because Pestilence made me not one but three jam sandwiches and packed me a jar of artichoke hearts and a can of anchovies. I don’t have it in me to tell him that he’s not going to want to sit anywhere near me if I actually crack that can of fish open.
Then again, I could get him to try the fish … we’d see just how well he enjoyed human food then.
It’s not until the sky is a deep blue that we turn off the highway. Pestilence passes several houses, some darkened and others with oil lamps burning bright inside, before we finally head up the driveway of some unlucky soul’s home.
The screen door bangs open and closed with the wind, making an eerie, squealing noise. And now that I’m looking for it, I notice that the windows are boarded up. It’s clear that whoever lived here, they haven’t for a long time.
Sights like this aren’t uncommon. Maybe the well on the property dried up or the pump stopped working, maybe the house was too far from civilization now that cars were obsolete. Maybe a relative took the previous owners in, or maybe they died and no one wanted to buy this house in the middle of nowhere. The stories behind homes like this one are all different, but they all lead to the same fate—abandonment.
I hear there are entire ghost towns where people once lived but do no longer. Las Vegas, Dubai, …
The thought of all those once opulent cities sitting like bones in the desert, their glittery attractions dulled with dust and falling into disrepair, sends a shiver down my spine.
Death hath reared himself a throne, in a strange city, lying alone … Poe’s words ring out in my mind.
My attention returns to the home in front of us. I don’t like watching them die, Pestilence had said. A part of me thinks that maybe that’s why he chose this place.
The horseman tends to Trixie while I enter the home. As soon as I step inside, I pat the darkened wall until I find a light switch. Once I find it, I flick it on, ever hopeful that this house will have electricity.