I head down the hallway and open the door to their garage. Boxes are piled along one wall, but leaning against the other is a bike with a basket in front and a baby seat mounted behind it.
I exhale, my relief relaxing my shoulders. I drop the backpack into the front basket. As soon as I buckle Ben in, he begins to cry again.
Shit. Babies are the least subtle creatures in the world. Reaching into the backpack, I grab one of the bottles and unscrew one of the rubber nipples and put it in Ben’s mouth.
Probably should’ve hunted down a few pacifiers.
“I know you’ve had a rough few hours, little guy,” I say, “but I need you to be brave for a few more.”
We aren’t out of the woods yet.
We escape.
I never even see Death, though the thought of him looms so large in my mind that at times I can hardly breathe around my fear. Maybe if I weren’t so hell-bent on fleeing him, I’d worry about his own well-being. But let’s face it: he was trouncing Famine last I saw the two of them.
The only thing that eclipses my fear of Death is this new worry: keeping a baby alive. Most humans are fragile enough as it is—babies even more so. And no amount of prior auntie experience has prepared me for the reality of this. Feeding and sleeping and changing diapers and just—all of it.
I take back roads, slip into the few empty structures that are still standing, and collect what money and supplies I can, all while trying to slow my pace for the tiny human who is now … shit, I think he’s mine. Of all the twists I imagined my life taking, this was never one of them.
On day three, I swear the air changes. I try to tell myself that it’s just the weather—the sun decided to come out in its full glory, and the winter air feels a touch warm. It would be an idyllic day for traveling, if not for the figure I see in the distance.
I stop my bike, squinting at the person. I’ve moved through such lonely swaths of countryside that I haven’t seen another soul—alive or dead—in over a day.
The figure draws closer and closer, and it’s only when they’re about a hundred yards away that I notice that the person’s skin is mottled and their hair is matted against one side of their face.
And they’re moving towards me very, very quickly.
That is no living person.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I spin my bike around, the movement jostling Ben awake, and I begin to race away, hurriedly shifting gears to maximize my speed.
Behind me I can hear the pounding footfalls following in my wake.
Dear God, Death raised his dead.
And they’re looking for me.
I know they are.
I pedal as fast as I can, my legs burning. The footfalls behind me grow more and more distant, but I don’t dare look back.
Did the creature get a good look at me? Will more come along? Will Death himself be here soon? Each possibility is more terrifying than the last, and raw terror has me pedaling as hard as I can for hours, until my clothes are soaked through with sweat and my breathing is ragged and Ben has been crying for longer than I should’ve let him.
From that point on, I exist in a state of panic. Every figure in the distance is a potential revenant scouting for Death. Every standing structure is potentially housing more of them. I take to traveling at night, which is more terrifying than I have words for. No ghost stories adequately prepared me for the reality of encountering the living dead on dark, lonely roads.
And I do encounter a few of them. They are eerily silent as they prowl the roads. Only once does one come tearing out of a nearby field, the sound of the wild grass my only warning. Luckily, my bike is faster than even the quickest corpse, and the night cloaks my identity.
Each time I get away, I’m plagued by uncertainties: Does Death know where I am? Have I truly escaped him?
It doesn’t feel likely.
The only bright side of the dead now walking is that they’ve left the homes they died in. I never stay long, nor do I ever sleep long. And my riding buddy is a surprisingly good sport about the whole ordeal.
More than once, I find myself staring at him curiously.
How did you survive? Are you really like me?
It would be really, really helpful if he was. Then I wouldn’t have to run from the horseman. But there’s no way of truly knowing. Not unless something catastrophic happens. And personally, the world has endured enough catastrophes as it is. I’m not interested in manifesting another just to test some theory.
So I fear and panic and travel, travel, travel.
At some point, the cities full of dead give way to cities full of living. Even then I ride on, looking for a place that’s far enough away from Death that I don’t hear whispers of the horseman. I still can’t shake the tendril of unease that I feel, like somehow, the nightmare isn’t over. But I push that thought from my mind; the days are hard enough as it is without worrying about the future.
It takes a small eternity full of crying babies and minor meltdowns (mine, not Ben’s) but eventually, we get to Alexandria, Louisiana, a city that just feels safe.
So there we linger. I’ve lifted enough money along the way to rent out a small house and get ourselves settled. Only then am I able to breathe a sigh of relief.
I glance down at the boy on my hip.
“We did it, Ben,” I say softly. “We escaped Death.”
Chapter 30
Alexandria, Louisiana
April, Year 27 of the Horsemen
Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months and I fall into a routine. Somewhere in there, Ben goes from being someone else’s son to my own.
A part of me hates how easily I set aside my purpose, how willing I was to abandon my cause the moment I stumbled across a tiny human who needed help. But then, I look at Ben and I can’t find it within me to regret my actions. The world will just have to take care of itself for now.
I find a doula to apprentice for, one who doesn’t mind having a baby join us for our house calls, and life begins to feel normal.
Until, of course, it doesn’t.
I wake in the dead of night, my eyes snapping open. At first I think it’s Ben that’s woken me, but then I notice that dreaded stillness. The one I’ve become all too familiar with over the last year.
He found us.
I suck in a breath.
Ben.
I trip over to his crib. I can barely see in the darkness, but he’s too still and I’m so afraid—
I reach in and grab him and I have to swallow my sob when I hear his deep inhalation and feel his body move.
He’s alive. The relief that floods my system nearly brings me to my knees. But even it is short-lived.
Run, Lazarus!
If Death isn’t here yet, then he will be soon. Maybe Ben is impervious to him, but maybe I just got lucky and sensed the horseman before he’s struck this town.
I grab the baby harness I bought last month and force my shaking hands to strap it onto me before securing a fussy Ben into it. All of it happens in a panic-fueled daze.
Grab the bug out bag. I’ve kept one for this very occasion. I snag it from the hook it hangs on and, slinging it over my back, I rush out into the chilly evening air.
I grab my bicycle, then hop on.
Please have time. Please all be in my head. I alternate chants, hoping for the best but fearing the worst.
I don’t know which way to go; however, down the road I hear a dog yipping. I head towards the noise, panic seizing up my lungs. Five houses down, I hear the dog banging against a rotted wood gate, still baying. Riding all the way up to the gate, I grab the latch, then pause, readying myself.
I glance down at Ben, who has grown quiet as he peers around us.
“We got this, Ben,” I say to him, more for my own sake than his. “Neither of us is meeting Death tonight.”
I unlatch the gate and set the dog free. The creature immediately bolts down the street, and I ride after it. It tears through yards, cuts corn
ers and plows through bushes and several times I’m sure I’m going to lose sight of the thing. But somehow, I manage to stay on the dog’s trail. The whole thing is a blur of adrenaline and instinct. But by the time the sun rises, Alexandria is far behind us and Ben is still alive.
Only then do I allow myself to process what just happened.
He’s hunting you. Perhaps Death never stopped.
And now he’s closing in.
Ben and I find a new city, a new place to stay, and I secure a new job. None of it is quite as comfortable as Alexandria, but I don’t blame that on the new place. My sense of security has been shattered.
With good reason, too. Not a month later, the devil nearly finds me again.
And again.
And again.
I move through Louisiana, then circle back into Texas. I’m afraid to live near the cities of the dead—I still have nightmares about Death’s revenants chasing Ben and me—but traveling east is a dead end, so to speak. Thanatos has wiped out too many swaths of the country over there. So instead, I force myself to head southwest.
If I can make it to the coast, perhaps Ben and I can get passage on a boat heading out to distant shores. And if we can’t, we’ll cut through Texas and head out West, where the land hasn’t yet been touched by Death.
A year ago, a plan like this—one full of uncertainty and struggle—would’ve been petrifying to a country girl like me who spent the first two decades of her life living a comfortable, predictable life. But the bitter truth is that I’m no longer that girl, the one who used to sew daisies onto her jeans and haggle over the cost of produce. Death has altered me in so many fundamental ways.
Perhaps the most shocking aspect of it all is that I wouldn’t want to go back to being that girl I was. Not for the whole world. I’m more resilient, more adventurous and battle-hardened. Death, ironically, has made me come alive.
Chapter 31
Orange, Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
Ben and I settle into the town of Orange, Texas. The nearest port is tantalizingly close, and I’m already looking into various cruise liners that offer trips to Mexico, the Caribbean and other far off destinations.
A thrill goes through me every time I think of finding a place where Ben will be safe from Death, though I force myself to ignore the odd ache in my chest at the thought of not seeing the horseman again—maybe ever.
All of my imaginings—both good and bad—come to an abrupt halt two weeks later.
It starts out as a simple enough fever, one that makes Ben cry and cry. It lasts for two days, and when it goes, I’m relieved.
But then, it returns—and it comes back with a vengeance.
I pace the small one-bedroom apartment like a caged animal, sometimes with Ben in my arms, and other times empty-handed while my son sleeps feverishly in my bed. I get him medicine to help break the fever, but if it works, it does so only briefly.
The morning after the fever returns, I can tell that something’s truly wrong.
Ben’s inconsolable.
“Sshh, sshh, Ben, sshh, it’s going to be alright,” I say, rocking him in my arms.
He screams, his cries growing louder and louder. He won’t eat, he won’t drink, and even my touch seems to upset him.
The only thing that appears to help are the songs I sing to him. Then his cries die down—just a little—and he watches me, unsmiling and whimpering a little but at least distracted. Once the song ends, his cries begin again.
I can feel my own hot tears slipping from my eyes. I’m so scared my arms are shaking.
I need to find a doctor. Maybe they will have something to give my son.
But that’s assuming they know what’s causing Ben’s fever. And that they have medication for it. And that Ben manages to keep it down.
I’m nearly hyperventilating at the odds.
Still need to try.
I bustle about the house, grabbing what I can while Ben thrashes in my arms. I don’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to be in my arms, but when I put him down, he’s plainly unhappy.
Just as I’m getting ready to buckle Ben into my bike, a heavy fist pounds on my door.
Grabbing the last of my things, I toss them into the bike’s basket and head over to the door, Ben wailing the entire time.
I open it, then blanch at the visitor standing on my doorstep. Pestilence.
For a moment, I can’t find any words.
“How—what are you doing here?” I finally manage. I have to raise my voice to be heard over Ben’s screaming.
Pestilence’s gaze drops to the baby in my arms. “Ah. So this is why you’ve been running.”
He places a hand on my shoulder and steers me back inside, following in after me. And I just let him manhandle me. The truth of the matter is that seeing a familiar face has my knees weakening. Right when I felt so hopelessly lost, Pestilence found me.
I pinch my lips together to hold everything in, though I can still feel my lower lip trembling.
The horseman steers me towards my banged up table and chairs, but I’m too antsy to take a seat.
Need to get going …
“How did you know I’ve been running?” I ask, as my gaze sweeps over him again. I feel like my eyes must be deceiving me.
Pestilence releases my shoulder, peering down at me. I feel as though he can see all the stress I carry on my face. How it has worn me down over these last several months.
“War, Famine, and I have continued hunting Death—who, we’ve noticed, is traveling alone, despite the fact that we’re all aware of your existence. Combine that knowledge with Thanatos’s circuitous movements and the awakened revenants and well, he’s obviously looking for you.”
My pulse is in my ears. I’ve known Thanatos has been searching for me, but having Pestilence confirm it makes it all uncomfortably real.
“How did you find me?” I ask as Ben keeps wailing in my arms.
Pestilence grips the back of one of my kitchen chairs. “There are not many people named Lazarus, and unlike Death, my brothers and I are willing to interact with the living. It’s amazing how far a few questions will go.”
It’s still more than a little astounding, considering how new I am to Orange.
“How far away is Death?” I ask. I need to know how much time I have.
“Twenty miles, give or take a few,” Pestilence says.
I close my eyes for a moment. That’s far too close, which means I need to head to Port Arthur today and buy us tickets out of here. But Ben can’t travel. Not like this. He needs a doctor. And medicine. And rest. But if we don’t move, it might all be over anyway.
Pestilence continues, “Last time we checked, Death was heading off in a different direction, so you probably have a day—maybe two—before he comes here.”
It’s not long enough. I hold Ben close, even though his cries ratchet up at the action.
“Why are you here, warning me about this?” I say.
Pestilence’s gaze is heavy, and I swear I see some fatherly concern in them as he takes me in.
“Famine, War, and I never finished our discussion with you,” he says. “We would like to.”
The horseman’s gaze drops to Ben, who is still wailing. “But perhaps now is not a good time.” The horseman’s eyes linger a moment longer on my son. “Infection is ravaging his body—and it’s spreading by the hour. He needs antibiotics, Lazarus.”
It’s all too much. My shoulders curl in and I begin to weep, bowing my head over Ben’s.
“Hey, hey,” Pestilence says.
This bear of a man pulls me and Ben in for a tight hug. It’s a firm, quick squeeze that’s over before it’s even begun. But his hand stays on my shoulder and he rubs it reassuringly. “It’s alright. It’s going to be alright,” he says with such certainty. “Dry those eyes.”
It’s willpower alone that has me pulling myself back together.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, my voice broken.
“Take care of your boy—find a doctor, get him some antibiotics. He’ll be alright. When you’re ready, come find me and my brothers. We’re staying in an abandoned farmhouse just off of Road 3247. It’s slate blue and it has a red door with a big iron star on it.”
I nod distractedly.
Pestilence hesitates, then glances around my apartment. Noticing the pencil and notebook I keep on my kitchen counter, the horseman grabs the two items and begins to jot down the address. He rips the sheet of paper off and hands it to me.
“You have about a day—give or take. Lazarus, I know you’ve been running. And I understand why. But we want you to stop.”
Chapter 32
Orange, Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I go directly to the hospital, pushing Pestilence’s absurd final words out of my head. I won’t stop running. I can’t. Not if it might mean Ben dying at Thanatos’s hands.
The wait to be admitted is blessedly short. The nurse calls me in, clipboard in hand, and checks Ben’s vitals. Her lips press together in a grim line, and my heart plummets.
“When did the symptoms start? Has he had anything to eat or drink today? When was the last time he did feed? When was his last wet diaper?”
I answer her questions, all while she keeps her face carefully blank, pausing only to scribble notes on her clipboard.
Once I’m finished talking, she says, “Well, your son is definitely sick.” She tucks the clipboard under her arm and stands. “I’m going to get him started on an IV so that we can get some fluids in him. The doctor will be in here shortly.”
The doctor does arrive alarmingly fast, and while I’m grateful they’re taking my son’s condition seriously, I’m terrified of what that might mean.
“I’m Dr. Conway,” he says, nodding to me. His attention turns to Ben, who’s resting in my arms. “And this must be Ben.” The doctor briefly glances over Ben’s chart, then draws a chair to us and examines my son.
Once he’s done, he leans back in his seat. “It looks like it’s meningitis,” he says. “It’s serious, but we can treat it. We’ll start your son on some penicillin and administer fluids. From there, we’ll wait and see, but he should be alright.”
Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4) Page 15