Once every last one of them dies, and that silence sweeps in, that prickling, jarring silence. All I can hear is my own ragged breathing.
“You could’ve just killed them all at once,” I say. Even though they extorted us and threatened us and likely would’ve hurt us, I’m still unnerved by Death’s cruel power.
“I could’ve,” the horseman agrees.
He clicks his tongue, and that’s apparently all he has to say about that.
Chapter 58
Interstate 10, Western Arizona
September, Year 27 of the Horsemen
When will we leave this cursed desert? We have spent weeks crossing it, and as far as I can tell, we’re still smack dab in the middle of it.
The day starts out hot and the temperature only seems to climb. I sweat, and sweat, and sweat. Just as quickly as it comes, the sweat evaporates away.
I think this corner of the world burned the memo that summer ends.
Death passes me a jug of water from one of the saddle bags. Wordlessly, I take it, swallowing the liquid down.
We’re running out of water. The last two pumps we passed were dry, and I have no clue when we’ll come upon another. It doesn’t help that we just passed the skeletal remains of a horse, its bleach-white bones picked clean by scavengers. In the last few weeks we’ve passed many areas that were largely uninhabitable, but for some reason, I hadn’t felt as close to death then as I do now.
Perhaps it’s simply because it’s been so long since I have seen fields of green grass and moist earth. It feels like we’ve traveled to a place where things go to die.
My panic rises, and I have to tell myself that neither the heat nor the lack of water really matters—I’ll grimly survive it all. But it’s fucking uncomfortable all the same.
As though reading my mind, Death says, “We’ll need to find you water soon. This is no place for you, my Laz.”
My Laz. My heart leaps at the endearment. It shouldn’t, not after all I’ve seen the horseman do, but try telling that to my stupid organ.
I know Death is waiting for me to give in to that rush of emotion I feel for him. I know he wants me to call him sweet things as well—for me to show any sign that this is more than just flesh and lust coming together. And I know he’s willing to wait.
Even if it takes centuries, even if you and I are the last creatures in existence, I vow to you this: I will get you to love me—mind, body, and heart.
His words still echo through my mind.
And I feel it happening. It has been happening.
I shove those feelings down. Instead, I study the ring Thanatos wears as he holds me in the saddle. The one fashioned from a coin of the dead.
“How does it work?” I ask, running my finger over the face on the coin. “How do you lead people on to the afterlife if you’re also here with me in the saddle?”
I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to voice this question. It’s one of the first ones I ever had concerning the horseman of death.
“I keep telling you, kismet. I am not truly human. I can do things that defy human nature and logic. Just as I can release thousands of souls from their flesh with a single thought, so too can I lead them onwards while sitting here in the saddle with you—just as Famine can make crops thousands of miles apart spoil at the same time. Just as Pestilence can spread disease in several places—and several species—all at once. It is an intrinsic part of who we are.”
I sit with that for several moments.
“Tell me about all the people you have met across time,” I start again.
His lips brush my temple, and I can feel his smile against my skin. He likes my questions and I think he also delights in answering them. Up until he captured me, his thoughts were his alone.
“That would take lifetimes, Lazarus,” he says softly. “I think you want a shorter answer than that.”
He is so literal.
“Give me the highlights—you have met everyone, haven’t you?” I say. “George Washington, Cleopatra and Marc Antony, Genghis Khan …” I could go on.
“For a moment, and nothing more,” he says.
“What is it like? What are they like?”
“Souls are different when removed from their flesh. You want their humanisms—I can’t give that to you any better than your own written histories can, though I will tell you this: George Washington was at peace when I came for him, Marc Antony and Cleopatra mourned for the lives they left behind, and Genghis Khan was grimly satisfied with his end.
“And those people we encountered back there—” he gestures behind us, “what most of them felt was shock. They had trouble processing the fact that they were dead.”