Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(35)

But I am. I nearly fall out of my seat at the noise.

The horseman’s grip tightens. “Hold on.”

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.

I nod anyway, acting as though I’m keenly aware of exactly what he’s saying. His lips slow until he has nothing left to say. He still clutches my hand, but then his eyes move above me, beyond me, and his hand relaxes.

Fuck death. Seriously, fuck this horrible, horrible thing that we all must endure.

I let go of him and stand, my eyes already looking for the next person.

Farther down, a woman is trying to get to her feet, one of the horseman’s golden arrows jutting from her chest. I jog over to her, ignoring the pain in my thigh.

Time blurs as I move from person to person, giving what aid I can, which isn’t much, but it does catch the eye of a paramedic-turned-infantryman. He joins the effort, and that, in turn catches the eye of a doctor.

The longer we linger out in the street, the more people trickle out of whatever buildings they took shelter in to now lend a hand. My throat thickens at the sight.

This is what Pestilence misses in his quest to kill us off. That right alongside the worst of human nature is the best of it.

We all work somberly together. No one outright says it, but I can practically hear the thoughts around me.

Am I infected?

Is it already too late?

How long do I have?

When will I start to feel ill?

A series of screams punctuate the air.