Pestilence tosses the clothes onto the couch, keeping an eye on me as he does so. He removes his armor piece by piece. Beneath it, the last remnants of the shirt he once wore now disintegrate, revealing his naked torso.
Even injured, he’s a pinnacle of the male specimen. He has muscles for days, his arms both thick and cut, his pecs nicely rounded out, and his abs ridiculously defined.
The skin of his chest still looks raw and red in places. It must have been terribly painful riding through the freezing day in nothing but a blanket while his armor scraped against his burned flesh.
It takes a second for my eyes to register that his wounds aren’t the only thing marring Pestilence’s skin. Ringing his chest like a collar are a series of strange letters that glow. A second set of them start at his hipbones, curving beneath the edge of the blanket; they glitter like amber in the dim light.
I stare, transfixed. I’ve seen tattoos before, but none that glow. If his undying nature weren’t proof enough of his otherworldly origins, this would be.
His biceps bulge as he reaches for the edge of his toga-loincloth blanket, and I look away before I can see anything else.
A minute later, Pestilence returns to my side, duct tape in hand. The outfit he wears now—jeans and a flannel top—is a far cry from the outfit he wore when I first saw him, but it does fit him surprisingly well, considering that most men aren’t nearly as tall or as broad shouldered as the horseman.
He levels those piercing blue eyes on me as he begins to unroll the tape. “Because you were so kind as to lay out your intentions—” He wraps the duct tape around the rope he’s tied to the railing, then around my wrist bindings, sabotaging any hope of me escaping. “I think this should keep you immobile for now.”
Pestilence rips the last of the tape off, then tosses the roll aside.
I glare at him, but the look is wasted. He’s no longer even paying attention to me.
The horseman heads to the wood burning stove and begins to build a fire.
“So what now?” I ask. “You’re just going to keep me captive until I die of plague?”
Plague that I most definitely haven’t been feeling—or maybe I have. It’s hard to say when you feel like three-day-old roadkill anyway.
Pestilence turns his head just slightly in my direction, then continues to tend to his fire. It takes mere minutes to get the flames roaring, and another few minutes to really feel the heat.
Pestilence sits down in front of the fire, his back to me, and he rubs a hand over his face.
“I begged,” he finally says. “Broken and bleeding, I beseeched you for mercy, and you gave me none.”
My gut twists.
“You can’t make me feel sorry,” I lie, because he can. He already has. I was sorry before I even pulled the trigger, and sorry again when I dropped the match. It doesn’t change anything, but still—I was sorry. I am sorry. And it leaves a bitter, brackish taste in my mouth.
“I dare not hope for so much from the likes of your kind,” he says, still not bothering to turn around.
“It was you who came to destroy us,” I remind him.
Like I even need to defend myself. I don’t know why I’m bothering.
“Humans have done a perfectly fine job of destroying themselves without my help. I am just here to finish the job.”
“And you wonder why I showed you no mercy.”
“Mercy.” He spits the word out like an oath. “If only you knew the irony of your predicament, human …”
He turns his attention to the fire and rests his chin on his fist and I guess the conversation’s over. He stares and stares into those flames, and at some point, I think he forgets I exist altogether.
My mind drifts to my family. More than anything, I hope they’re far enough away from the horseman to avoid his plague.
Unlike normal viruses, Messianic Fever doesn’t follow the laws of science. You can be kilometers away from Pestilence, quarantined in your own home and somehow still catch it. It’s not clear how far away one needs to be to avoid the plague altogether, only that if you linger in a city Pestilence passes through, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that.
You haven’t died yet, my mind whispers.
It’s been over a day since I first came face to face with the horseman. Surely I should be feeling something by now.
Speaking of feeling something …
I shift my weight. It’s not just my wrists and legs that are hurting. My stomach has been growling for who knows how long and my bladder is about ready to explode.
I clear my throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Then go where you stand.” Pestilence continues to stare into those flames like he can read the future from them.
He’s making it easier and easier for me to not feel guilty about shooting and burning him.
“If you’re hoping to keep me alive,” I say, “I’ll need to eat and drink and sleep and shit and piss.”
Any regrets yet, buddy?
He sighs, then gets up. Pestilence strides over to me, his stature commanding; he’s hardly the monster who woke me this morning, and that bothers me like no other.
Wearing the flannel shirt, jeans and boots, he looks painfully human. Even his eyes, which had seemed so alien when I first caught sight of him, now look full of life. Life and agony.
He hooks his fingers under the duct tape binding my wrists, and with a swift jerk, he rips it in two.
Note to self: this fucker is strong.
He tears the rest of the tape away and unties the rope from the railing. Once he has it in hand, he leads me down the hallway, only stopping once we get to the bathroom.
Problem number one occurs as soon as he closes the door behind us.
I glance at the massive chest that blocks the exit.
“It’s called privacy,” I say.
“I’m aware of the term, conniving human,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why you think you deserve it is a question for a higher power.”
I huff and turn from him.
Problem number two occurs after I try to undo my pants. I barely have feeling in my hands, let alone the dexterity needed for the task.
Damnit.
“I need help.”
Pestilence leans against the door. “I’m disinclined to give you any.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“God?” he finishes for me, raising his eyebrows. “Do you really think He is going to help you?”
The scholar in me is instantly piqued by his words, but now is not exactly the time to learn all the mysteries of the universe.
I blow out a breath. “Look, if you’re regretting keeping me alive, then kill me, but if you are married to this idea of yours, I’d really appreciate it if you’d pull my goddamned pants down.”
“Would it make you suffer to mess yourself?” he asks.
I hesitate. He has to know this is a loaded question.
Which answer is likelier to not screw me over?
“Yeah,” I finally say, settling on the truth, “it would.”
He leans against the door. “As I said, I’m disinclined to help.”
He doesn’t move to leave, however, and now I’m simply grateful I have a toilet to pee in.
I grit my teeth as I try again to unzip my pants. The rope digs into my chafed wrists, and they scream in protest. It takes an agonizing amount of time, but I finally manage to unbutton my jeans, then drag them, the long johns beneath them, and my underwear all down.
Pestilence’s impersonal gaze is on me, looking at my lady goods, which are on full display.
Kill me now.
He curls his lip.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but if this fucking bothers you, then you can step outside.” And let me pee then escape in peace.
“Empty yourself, human. I’m tired of standing here.”
Muttering several curses beneath my breath, I do just that.
A horseman of the apocalypse is watching me pee.
Of all the sentences in the English language I could’ve come up with, that is not one I ever imagined thinking. I bite back a crazy laugh. I’m going to die, but not before my dignity is murdered first.
Wiping myself, flushing, then pulling my pants back up takes even longer—as does washing my hands.