I can do this. I will do this.
Below, the spooked travelers help up their comrades who were knocked down and right their overturned belongings. It’s that day at the farmer’s market all over again, only now, an officer poised behind the building across from us is calling out to the people on the road and directing them back the way they came.
Those farther down the highway aren’t so lucky. I see one man standing in the middle of the road, dusting himself off like his life is not being threatened at this very moment.
“Move,” Officer Ormond murmurs under her breath, noticing the same man.
I press my lips together, grimacing. I don’t know how much time the rest of these people have.
I hear horse hooves echo against the asphalt.
My skin pricks, and then—
There he is.
Great, winged Death.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
Hate is such a gentle word for what I feel for the horseman. And yet the sight of him makes me ache inside. He’s beautiful and terrible and more than just a little mythical as he rides down the highway. Around him, people fall down dead. A few scream—some are even able to turn around and run back towards us and those ones don’t fall down dead. Not yet at least.
For a moment, I’m gobsmacked at the sight. Back in Georgia Death killed everyone far before he came upon them. And though I’m thankful that these fleeing travelers and the posted officers haven’t died, I’m still shocked that the reach of the horseman’s power has changed.
Next to me, Kelly’s oiled bow creaks as she pulls the string taut, and it’s that subtle sound that snaps me out of my own musings.
I aim my arrow and force myself to clear my mind as I wait for the signal.
The seconds pass like minutes. Then, in the distance someone whistles, and that’s all the cue I need.
Please don’t miss.
I release my arrow alongside Officer Ormond’s and half a dozen others. The projectiles slice through the wind.
The horseman only has time to shield himself with an arm, his wings flaring wide, before the arrows slice into him. Many glance off his armor, but several more puncture his wings and at least one slices through his throat. I can hear the choked sound he makes as his horse rears back.
Under the onslaught, Death’s wings seem to crumple and the horseman’s body slides off his horse, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Even as he falls, I nock another arrow into my bow and release it—as do the other officers. Again and again we release them.
Shoot until he falls, I’d told the room of uniformed men and women last night. And then continue to shoot him. Shoot until you’re out of arrows.
That’s what we do. We empty our quivers and pelt the horseman with arrows until his horse is driven away and Death himself looks more like a porcupine than anything else.
Meanwhile, the final few living travelers flee for their lives, their screams growing distant as they move farther and farther from us.
Eventually, our volley of arrows tapers off, the quiet hiss of them sliding into silence.
“Shit,” Kelly breathes next to me. She then slumps back against the wall, dropping her bow. “We did it.”
“We did,” I say softly, still staring at Death’s still form. All sorts of conflicted emotions churn within me.
We took down an angel.
I’m the first to get to the body. Partially because everyone seems reasonably spooked, and partially because once I snapped out of my stupor, I ran for him.
I kneel at the horseman’s side, and I swallow my own choked cry when I see the damage we’ve inflicted on him, damage I insisted on. I have to fight back the urge to retch.
I’ve never done anything like this before, and the sight fills me with deep remorse.
He killed you twice, and he likely wouldn’t hesitate to do so a third time if you got in his way.
The thought lessens the sickness I feel, but only slightly.
I place a hand on the horseman’s silver armor, my eyes lingering for a moment on a procession of mourners hammered into the metal plating.
Leaning towards his ravaged head, I whisper, “Death?”
Nothing. He doesn’t stir at all.
I have this crazy urge to remove the arrows one by one and clean his body, but I don’t get the chance.
Behind me I hear the footfalls of others coming to inspect the horseman. A strange surge of protectiveness wells within me. My hand falls away from his silver armor.
“No one touches him,” I say hoarsely, standing, then swiveling around to face the incoming crowd. I feel like a lioness defending her kill.
“Who says?” calls out a familiar voice.
My eyes hone in on the man who speaks.
I’ll be damned. It’s the same official who walked out of the meeting yesterday, the one who thought I was crazy. What was his name … ?
George.
I hadn’t realized that same man had been posted here. My eyes dip to the sheriff’s badge pinned above his chest. I also didn’t realize he was involved in law enforcement.
“I say.” I meet his frigid gaze with my own. “So far, I am the only person Death hasn’t been able to kill.” Something most of the people here are aware of; they were all debriefed on me last night.
“This is ridiculous,” George says, approaching me anyway. And then he’s pushing past me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. “We don’t even know that he’s dead.”
The rest of the officers and a growing crowd of onlookers form a semicircle around us, peering curiously at the winged being, his body strewn with arrows.
“Do you really have any doubts?” I say, fighting the urge to drag insufferable George away. It would be useless; the man is much larger than me.
Ignoring my words, George reaches for the horseman, presumably to check his pulse.
The moment his fingers brush the horseman’s flesh, his body stiffens, then collapses in a heap, half on, half off of Death.
My breath catches.
“George?” another officer calls—and I realize after a moment that it isn’t just some officer—it’s Jeb, the chief of police. “George,” Chief Holton says again, sterner now.
He shrugs off his bow and quiver and steps forward.
“Wait,” I say, giving him a meaningful look. “Let me do it.”
Jeb pauses. His jaw works, but after a moment, he gives me a nod.
I kneel at George’s side and place my fingers against his inner wrist. There’s no pulse.
Slowly my eyes lift, meeting Jeb’s. I shake my head, then set George’s arm gently on the ground, even as I hear a choked cry from the crowd. Apparently, the horseman can kill even when he’s dead himself.
I glance back at Death.
“This is the part we agreed on, Jeb,” I say quietly to the chief of police.
I’d only requested a few things yesterday, when I began coordinating this strike with Lexington’s officials, but the one I’d been most adamant about was taking Death’s body.
Chief Holton runs a hand down his mouth, then turns to the rest of the crowd. After a moment, he clears his throat.
“Congratulations,” he says to them. “Together we have stopped Death himself. We’re all alive today because we brought him down. But there’s much we still don’t know about this rider. So, in terms of survival, I need you all to return to your stations. If you’re part of the evacuation teams, please check in with your supervisor for further instructions. If not, I suggest you go home, grab what few items you can, and evacuate town.”
“What?” an officer says, surprised by the news.
Several others protest as well.
“What about Deputy Ferguson?” Someone else complains, and I think he’s referring to George, who’s still slumped over Death.
“I’ll take care of George. Now get going.”
The officers don’t leave immediately. Whatever they were expecting to happen, this isn’t it.
Jeb glares at them. “Do you want me to put you all in cuffs?” he threatens. “Move it.”
That seems to get the crowd going. The officers and onlookers disperse.