Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4)

by Laura Thalassa

  I exhale, my head bowed over Ben.

  He should be alright. I hold onto that.

  After Dr. Conway leaves, a nurse leads me and Ben to a room with a crib. She sets up the IV and administers the antibiotic. The whole time I cry alongside my son. I’ve never felt smaller than I do now, helpless to do anything to save my son. Ben’s hoarse wails lance at me. They’re haunting reminders of the day I first found him, when he’d cried for so long he’d worn out his voice.

  He’s going to be alright, I tell myself. He’s going to be alright.

  I try not to think about the fact that Death is closing in on this city, or that the other horsemen want me to stop running. Every time I do, I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  Instead I brush the short wisps of Ben’s hair back, and I sing him lullabies that waver on my lips, my sadness throwing my voice off-key.

  An hour goes by, and nothing appears to change. My son is still crying off and on, and while his eyes don’t look so sunken and his lips appear less chapped, he still seems like he’s in pain.

  Another hour passes and a nurse comes by. She checks my son’s IV, then his vitals, then leaves.

  Another two hours pass, and still nothing much has changed, except that Ben’s breathing has gotten more rapid and his cries have tapered off with his exhaustion.

  I stare out the window at the setting sun, dreading the coming night. Time feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about any of this.

  The nurse returns, checking on my son once more. I want to ask her how long it will take for the antibiotics to start making a noticeable change. Or if there’s any way I can administer the rest of the medicine at home—or rather, on the road.

  Before I can, however, she rushes off.

  Only minutes later the woman returns, an unfamiliar doctor on her heels.

  “Hi there, Ms. Gaumond,” the doctor says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Dr. Patel.” Her eyes move to the crib. “And this is—” She glances down at his chart, “Ben.”

  Dr. Patel crosses over to the crib Ben lays in. She pulls out a stethoscope and listens to my son’s heart, then checks his head and neck. The action causes Ben to start crying anew.

  Exhaling a heavy breath, she turns from the crib to face me.

  “What is it?” I say before she can get a word in. I swear she must be able to hear my heart pounding.

  “We should be seeing some improvement by now. Unfortunately, that’s not the case.”

  My heart seems to stop at those words.

  “We’re going to continue to administer the penicillin to Ben,” Dr. Patel continues, “but so far I’m not seeing any evidence that it’s working.”

  It’s not working.

  “Is there anything else you can do?” I ask.

  “Some cases of meningitis are bacterial, and others are viral,” she says. “Antibiotics won’t have any effect on viral meningitis. That could be what your son has. There is a chance, however, that this is bacterial meningitis, and if it is, then at this point we would give Ben more specialized antibiotics—if we had them.” The doctor sighs, rubbing her eyebrows wearily. “However, those are no longer readily available. We will send out a request to see if any of the neighboring hospitals and pharmacies have any on hand, but by then …” She trails off, her meaning clear.

  By then Ben will have either beaten this thing, or he won’t have.

  I feel like someone has stolen the breath from my lungs.

  “The other doctor said he’d be okay,” I whisper.

  Dr. Patel nods. “He very well could be. Children fight off infections as serious as this one all the time. He’s receiving the best care we can give him. All we need to do now is let his body do the rest.”

  The doctor turns to the door, and I want to grab her hand, I want to beg her not to go, I want to force her to stay here until she heals my son.

  “Is there nothing else we can do?” I ask, lost.

  “Pray,” she says. “There’s always hope in prayer.”

  “Pray?” I echo.

  To whom? God? I nearly let out a bitter laugh. God is not going to help us. God is rooting for the other side. The one that’s hunting me and everyone in this town.

  Dr. Patel moves to the door, unaware of my tumultuous thoughts. “We will continue checking on Ben and making sure that his body is as healthy as it can be to fight this.”

  With that, she leaves, and I’m left alone with Ben and my despair.

  The night churns by, and Ben seems to only be getting worse and worse. Deep in the witching hour, he wakes up, his eyes glassy. The sight of those unfocused eyes has me picking him up and cradling him in my arms, careful not to disturb his IV line.

  I stare down at him. “You’ll be alright,” I whisper to him. “You’re just like me. You can’t die.”

  That’s never been proven, a small voice in my head whispers.

  But I’ve gotten sick before. Hell, I’ve died before. Perhaps Ben is like me … perhaps—perhaps things will be okay.

  I cling to that possibility as I gaze down at my son. He’s gone eerily quiet. All I wanted throughout the day was for him to stop crying, but not like this, when sickness and exhaustion are what have stolen his cries away.

  I didn’t realize you could love something so thoroughly so quickly. I didn’t give birth to this boy and I’ve known him for less than a year, and yet if—if something happens to him, it will crush me worse than all of the deaths I’ve already endured.

  I do pray—damn that doctor—I pray to the god the people in my hometown both loved and feared, even though that god killed my parents and then all the rest of my family and friends. Even though that god has let me die so many times only to force me to live. Even though that god is primed to take my son.

  I’m so consumed by my own fear and grief that I don’t hear the animals off in the distance, nor do I notice the unnatural silence that falls over the hospital like a shroud. I don’t hear the ominous footfalls drawing closer and closer nor the slick sound of wingtips brushing against the floor.

  I only glance up when the door opens, assuming it’s a nurse.

  Instead, my eyes land on Death.

  Chapter 33

  Orange, Texas

  July, Year 27 of the Horsemen

  I suck in a gasp at the sight of him.

  “No,” I whisper low, the word like a prayer, clutching Ben tighter to me. I had prayed for God to spare my son, not to hand-deliver Death to me.

  Thanatos stares at me in equal astonishment. “I didn’t believe it,” he says, his voice hushed. “Not until now.”

  I force my gaze away from Death. The trick with him is to not look too long or too hard. Otherwise, I might see something beyond my opponent, something real and human.

  He steps into the dim, lamp-lit hospital room. “Months I have searched for you,” he says.

  Despite myself, my gaze is drawn back to him.

  Death’s dark eyes are fevered. “You stopped coming for me,” he accuses.

  I don’t have an answer for him. He wants to talk about something that feels like a lifetime ago. But all I can focus on is the terrible situation that’s consumed me for the past day.

  As though he can read my thoughts, Death’s eyes dip to the baby in my arms.

  “You’re a mother?” Thanatos says, and the surprise is back in his expression.

  My heart pounds in my chest. It’s about now that it’s actually sinking in: Death is inside Ben’s hospital room—Death who kills everyone.

  I glance down at Ben, so afraid of what I’ll see. He’s frighteningly still, but I hear his faint inhalations.

  Thanatos hasn’t killed my son. Has the horseman ever gotten this close to another living soul besides me without taking its life?

  “Why are you here?” I demand.

  His gaze is fixed to Ben. “I sense every living creature,” he says. “They open their souls to me when it’s their time t
o go.”

  Death’s gaze rises to mine. His ancient eyes are sad—so, so sad.

  “No,” I say again, my voice broken, my hold on Ben tightening. My son doesn’t let out so much as a whimper.

  “The boy in your arms is very, very sick, Lazarus,” Thanatos says gently, taking a step forward.

  I shake my head, trying to banish his words. “He’ll be fine,” I say, trying to reassure both of us.

  “No,” Death says softly, taking another step towards me, “he won’t be.”

  My face crumples. I hear the truth in his words, even if I don’t want to believe it.

  “Please,” I say, tears slipping from my eyes. “He’s just a baby.”

  Don’t take him.

  Thanatos is quiet, his expression agonized. For me, I realize. He’s agonized for me. I’m not sure any of his pity is for the child.

  I begin to shake.

  “His soul beckoned,” Thanatos reminds me softly. “It’s his time. I know it, and so does he.”

  No. No, no, no, no.

  But I cannot escape the truth of Death’s words. If Thanatos can sense Ben, then my son must be mortal after all. If I wasn’t already sitting, the thought would’ve sent me to my knees.

  “Spare him,” I beg. “I know you can.” If Thanatos can take lives at will, then I’m sure he can overlook one.

  Death shakes his head.

  “I will do anything—anything,” I vow. I hate how hollow my voice sounds, how hopeless I already am. But no one else has given me anything to believe in, and there’s no reason why this horseman should be any different.

  Death gives me a long, curious look. Something flickers in his eyes, and I remember that the last time I saw him, he was determined to keep me captive.

  Now, there’s a spark of hope. I take it as an opening.

  “I will live with you—I’ll do it—” I say, “just spare Ben. Please, heal him like you’ve healed me.”

  Thanatos has never seen me like this, boiled down to my weakest, most vulnerable essence.

  His gaze is heavy on mine. “I only healed you, Lazarus, because you cannot die and I cannot bear your suffering.”

  “But I’m suffering now,” I say, tears slipping from my eyes.

  Thanatos actually looks torn.

  “Please,” I beg, “I know we’re enemies, but … please,” I rasp out, “spare me this.”

  Death is quiet for a long moment. I feel those heavy, ancient eyes on me, and I wonder absently if, despite all the death he’s witnessed, he doesn’t know what to make of grief.

  Finally, he says, “I will give you what I have given many mothers before you,” he says. “Time. You have a day.”

  Chapter 34

  Orange, Texas

  July, Year 27 of the Horsemen

  A day?

  My body seems to give out then, and I do crumple out of that hospital chair and onto my knees, holding Ben’s sickly body close to me. Sobs shudder out of me, and nearby, I’m aware of Death’s foreboding presence. He hasn’t left, though I don’t know why he still lingers.

  “I hate you,” I whisper. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

  Death sinks down next to me, and he does something I’m not prepared for: he wraps his arms around me and Ben and holds us against him.

  For a moment, his embrace feels unsure, but then I’m leaning into him, like he’s the sun and I’m a flower drinking in his light. And I’m breaking apart. I start to cry in earnest, everything within me coming undone all at once. I’ve been strong for too long, on my own for too long, and I’m now in an impossible situation.

  “I thought he was like me,” I admit. “I found him alive in one of the towns you destroyed. I thought he could survive death.”

  Thanatos’s solemn eyes meet mine, his face close enough to kiss. “No one is like you, Lazarus,” he says softly.

  And I begin to cry all over again because I’m alone, I’m always alone, and everyone I love leaves me, and I shouldn't be jealous of that.

  “Tell me he’s going to be alright,” I say, my spirit broken.

  “Lazarus, he will be alright. More than alright. No more pain, no more suffering. He will be surrounded by love.”

  I’m shaking my head against Thanatos because I don’t believe in that sort of goodness. Not when all I’ve seen of the supernatural is pain and death.

  “And when it is your time,” the horseman continues, “he will be there, waiting for you.”

  I sob harder because that shouldn’t be the way of things—children shouldn’t die before parents. And I don’t care that I’m technically not his birth mother, or that the people who gave him life have already passed. He’s not even two years old. He has an entire future ahead of him.

  “How do I know you’re not lying to me?” I whisper, my voice choked with emotion. Tears are falling from my eyes like rain.

  “Why would I?” Death says. “I have never shielded you from pain.” But he says it so gently, I almost think he regrets that fact.

  His hold on me tightens, and the three of us stay like that.

  Tomorrow, we will be enemies, but tonight, he’s my solace.

  Chapter 35

  Orange, Texas

  July, Year 27 of the Horsemen

  It is the worst day of my life.

  I’ve had so many bad ones, I didn’t realize they could be eclipsed by this one.

  Ben doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, and any time he cries, it’s a weak, thready sound; I can hear the grave in his voice. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear he’s calling out to that bastard horseman, begging him to take his life away from me.

  When I woke this morning to a nurse doing the rounds, the horseman was gone and Ben was back in his crib.

  Now I glance down at Ben, who’s once again in my arms.

  I stroke his small cheek. “I love you,” I whisper. I’ve shed all my tears. My heart is still breaking, but it’s left me hollow. “Always, always, always,” I promise. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. You deserved so much more.”

  I keep stroking his cheek, feeling lost, my lonely future unspooling before me. I’ve always wondered how long I’d get to live if nothing could kill me. Now the thought of it is punishing. There’s no one else out there like me, no one besides the horsemen.

  My fingers pause as a thought comes to me, a desperate, hopeful thought.

  The horsemen.

  Death isn’t the only one with power. The others once had it—maybe they still do.

  Famine must. Maybe they can help my son.

  I choke on that toxic, hopeful feeling in my chest, and a part of me wants to push it away. But the idea I have … it has claws, and it sinks them into me.

  Before I can think better of it, I place my son in the crib and call for a nurse.

  Need to get this IV out.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen right away. The nurses don’t want to remove it yet even though it’s painfully clear my son is beyond the help of antibiotics and fluids.

  It’s while I’m arguing with the nurse that I realize an astounding detail I missed until now: everyone is alive. The hospital staff, the patients, the people meandering about outside the hospital’s windows. Death gave more than just my son an extra day.

  The thought steals my breath. Along with it comes the memory of Death’s arms around me, holding me as I cried. A lump forms in my throat at his strange bits of kindness.

  I refocus on the nurse. “My son is dying,” I say, and I resent the hell out of her for making me say those words. “I want to take him home and let him leave this world surrounded by the things he loves.”

  I have no intention of letting him leave this world.

  The nurse presses her lips together, but reluctantly, she nods. “I’ll have to okay it with the doctor first,” she warns.

  She brings a doctor back. They sign off on some forms. Remove Ben’s IV line. Murmur a few stilted platitudes.

  I clench my jaw against it all.
<
br />   After what feels like an eternity, I exit the front doors of the hospital, blinking against the glare of the morning sun. My bike is where I left it yesterday, and it’s a shock to see it there. It feels like I left it eons ago.

  I buckle Ben into his seat, cringing at how limp his body is and how little light is left in his eyes.

  I stroke his cheek. “I’m going to save you, Ben,” I swear to him with a conviction I shouldn’t feel.

  Hopping onto the bike, I peddle for home, stopping only long enough to grab a map I bought a week ago and the note Pestilence left for me. I spend a moment locating the road the horseman spoke of, then I trace the route needed to get there.

  I fold the papers up, tuck them in my pocket, and Ben and I are out the door once more. I peddle like a mad woman, desperate to get to the address. The jostling causes Ben to stir a little, and I even hear him let out a weak cry.

  Something dangerous like optimism surges through my veins. I’m going to save him. I am.

  As soon as I turn onto Road 3247, I begin looking for the house Pestilence had mentioned—I can’t remember if he said it was blue or gray, only that it had a red door with a star on it.

  I panic several times, sure I missed it, but eventually, I find the home. It’s blue, not gray, the paint peeling from the wood siding, the windows boarded up. The red front door is faded and the lone star fitted to it has rusted over.

  I ride right up to it, then fumble getting Ben out of his seat, my nerves nearly getting the better of me. Facing the door, I pound my fist against the weathered wood.

  I can hear murmuring inside, but when no one immediately answers, I pound against the wood again.

  Just as I’m about to grab the handle, the door opens. Pestilence’s eyes meet mine for a split second, then they drop to Ben.

  “I need your help,” I rush out.

  Before he can respond, I push my way into the dilapidated house. War is in the kitchen, fists on the laminate countertop, leaning over what looks like a map.