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.”
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.