I roll my shoulders and crack my neck. My muscles are stiff from sitting still for so long.
I worry my lower lip. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I first met with Lexington officials, and I’ve sat up here for almost half that amount of time, taking shifts sleeping alongside Kelly Ormond, the officer posted up here with me.
Outside, the road is fairly busy as people flee their homes. Evacuation orders have been given, and over the last day many have packed up and left.
Many have also stayed.
At the window next to mine, Officer Ormond waits, her own bow poised.
Distant animal calls break the silence. My body tenses as I notice the thick, moving darkness on the horizon and the distant, shocked cries of travelers on the highway below us. As I watch, that dark mass moves like a wave towards us.
I hear bleating and howling and cawing and a hundred other animal cries over the shouts of frightened evacuees. Creatures flood the highway, overturning bikes and carts and barreling through the people on the road.
Once the animals are gone, an eerie silence follows in their wake, raising the hair on my arms.
I strain my eyes, searching, searching …
“Think the horseman’s coming our way?” she asks.
“Yes.” I’m certain that in a matter of minutes I’m going to see Death face-to-face once more. At that, unease pools low in my belly. Even after everything he’s done to me and my family, I’m not sure I’m ready for what I’m about to do—what I have already set in motion.
I can hear the beat of my own heart. I steady my breath.
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.