B-E-N.
I bite back another sob.
I look down at the baby, who’s staring at me, his eyes still puffy.
“Hello, Ben,” I say, my voice wavering only a little. “I’m Lazarus.”
I can’t pass along much to this child that his parents once gave him, but at least he will get to keep his name and know it was the one his parents chose for him.
Ben continues to gaze at me, his lower lip jutting out.
“We should get going,” I tell him. “There’s a bad man after me, and I don’t want him to find either of us.”
I leave the nursery and head back through the living room. My eyes catch sight of a framed sketch hanging on the living room wall. In it, a man and a woman sit next to each other, an infant on the woman’s lap.
On a whim, I break the frame and remove the sketch of Ben and his parents, folding it up and sliding it into the backpack.
Move it, Lazarus. Time was up five minutes ago.
The one final thing I need is a horse or a bike. If this family ever owned a horse—and it’s seriously unlikely, considering how small the lot is—it’s long gone. But a bike … they might still have a bike.
I head down the hallway and open the door to their garage. Boxes are piled along one wall, but leaning against the other is a bike with a basket in front and a baby seat mounted behind it.
I exhale, my relief relaxing my shoulders. I drop the backpack into the front basket. As soon as I buckle Ben in, he begins to cry again.
Shit. Babies are the least subtle creatures in the world. Reaching into the backpack, I grab one of the bottles and unscrew one of the rubber nipples and put it in Ben’s mouth.
Probably should’ve hunted down a few pacifiers.
“I know you’ve had a rough few hours, little guy,” I say, “but I need you to be brave for a few more.”
We aren’t out of the woods yet.
We escape.
I never even see Death, though the thought of him looms so large in my mind that at times I can hardly breathe around my fear. Maybe if I weren’t so hell-bent on fleeing him, I’d worry about his own well-being. But let’s face it: he was trouncing Famine last I saw the two of them.
The only thing that eclipses my fear of Death is this new worry: keeping a baby alive. Most humans are fragile enough as it is—babies even more so. And no amount of prior auntie experience has prepared me for the reality of this. Feeding and sleeping and changing diapers and just—all of it.
I take back roads, slip into the few empty structures that are still standing, and collect what money and supplies I can, all while trying to slow my pace for the tiny human who is now … shit, I think he’s mine. Of all the twists I imagined my life taking, this was never one of them.
On day three, I swear the air changes. I try to tell myself that it’s just the weather—the sun decided to come out in its full glory, and the winter air feels a touch warm. It would be an idyllic day for traveling, if not for the figure I see in the distance.
I stop my bike, squinting at the person. I’ve moved through such lonely swaths of countryside that I haven’t seen another soul—alive or dead—in over a day.
The figure draws closer and closer, and it’s only when they’re about a hundred yards away that I notice that the person’s skin is mottled and their hair is matted against one side of their face.
And they’re moving towards me very, very quickly.
That is no living person.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I spin my bike around, the movement jostling Ben awake, and I begin to race away, hurriedly shifting gears to maximize my speed.
Behind me I can hear the pounding footfalls following in my wake.
Dear God, Death raised his dead.
And they’re looking for me.
I know they are.
I pedal as fast as I can, my legs burning. The footfalls behind me grow more and more distant, but I don’t dare look back.
Did the creature get a good look at me? Will more come along? Will Death himself be here soon? Each possibility is more terrifying than the last, and raw terror has me pedaling as hard as I can for hours, until my clothes are soaked through with sweat and my breathing is ragged and Ben has been crying for longer than I should’ve let him.
From that point on, I exist in a state of panic. Every figure in the distance is a potential revenant scouting for Death. Every standing structure is potentially housing more of them. I take to traveling at night, which is more terrifying than I have words for. No ghost stories adequately prepared me for the reality of encountering the living dead on dark, lonely roads.