The idea, however, of camping out in some wet field makes me want to weep.
… aaaah … aaahwahwahwahaaaa …
I freeze at the distant sound. What is that? It’s impossible to make out over the wind and rain—hell, maybe it is the wind and rain.
I begin to walk again, trying to decide which house to break into.
… waaaah … ahahah … waaaaah …
I pause again.
That’s not the weather.
Is it an animal? Perhaps some creature got trapped and is now crying out for help. But there’s something about that sound, something that sets my teeth on edge. A sick feeling pools in my belly.
I find myself moving towards the noise, drawn in despite my own pressing needs.
… wahwahwah … WHAAAAAA!
Oh dear God.
I forget about the horseman and about food and water and the rain battering down on me.
That’s a baby.
Someone else has survived Death.
Chapter 29
Pleasanton, Texas
January, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I run towards the noise. It’s impossible. No one besides me survives Death.
The crying gets louder the closer I get to an olive green house. I run up the driveway, onto the porch, and grab the handle—
Locked.
Shit.
WAHWAHWAAAAAA!
Dear God dear God dear God. I grab one of the wrought iron café chairs sitting on the porch and drag it to a window.
Hefting it up, I slam it into the glass. It takes two tries, but I shatter the window. Kicking the remaining glass shards away, I step into the house.
AAAAAAHWAHWAHWAH!
I sprint across the living room I entered and down the hall, barely noticing the corpse I vault over. I make it to a room—a nursery—and there, sitting in a crib, is a crying baby.
My legs nearly give out at the sight.
I rush over to the crib, lifting the baby out. There’s vomit on the child and they’re trembling badly in my arms.
“Ssh, ssh,” I say, holding the baby close.
The infant is still wailing, its voice hoarse from crying for so long. Its tiny hands fist into my clothes.
My God, this child survived a horseman.
Just like me.
I’m shell-shocked at the thought, and for a moment, all I can do is shush the baby and stare. But the child’s still shaking and how long have they been trapped in that crib? The thought is too horrifying to ponder.
I storm the house, looking for milk. I have to swallow back a sob as I pass the body I leapt over just a minute ago. The woman’s long auburn hair is fanned out around her like a halo; that must be the child’s mother.
I’ve passed countless bodies over the past six months and gotten used to the sight of them. But now my own history overlays this moment, and I have to breathe in through my nose to stop a few careless sobs from slipping out.
When I enter the kitchen, I make a beeline for the icebox. Inside are several pre-filled bottles of milk. Thank God. Grabbing one of them, I bring it to the child’s lips.
The baby drinks greedily, gulping down the milk. And now, I begin to cry. This child will never grow up in this house and will never know the woman lying in it.
But they will live. That I swear.
Thanatos will be coming for me.
If he finds me, the child will die. That’s just how Death is.
Maybe this baby is impervious to death. That thought fills me with such strange, conflicting emotions. I stare at the baby for the hundredth time, trying to untangle the mess of my mind. Unending life is a gift and a curse wrapped up in one.
Despite all signs indicating this baby can survive Death, I shouldn’t assume they’re beyond his reach.
I move through the home, one hand holding the baby while the other gathers all the necessities the two of us might need. The child refuses to let me go.
I feel vaguely sick. Too much adrenaline and exhaustion and too little sustenance and rest.
Please don’t pass out. Please don’t pass out.
I have to force myself to stop and drink the water I find in a nearby pitcher, and I shove some leftover food from the icebox into my mouth as quickly as I can.
I find a backpack and begin adding in diapers and baby clothes, empty bottles and some jars of mashed food. I even manage to tie a teddy bear I found in the crib to the outside of the bag.
Every single second that passes feels like a knife to the chest. At any moment the house could fall or the dead could rise. I am working on borrowed time.
I do one last pass through. I stop in the nursery, my gaze sweeping over the room to make sure I didn’t miss anything. I’ve been so consumed by this child’s survival that it’s only now that I notice the three wooden letters hanging on the wall.