Striding back over to the kitchen I grab the pencil and notebook and scribble a message onto the piece of paper, my agitation making my writing severe.
If you want me, you’re going to have to catch me first.
—Lazarus
P.S. I’d suggest you start looking on the I-10 East.
Grabbing a kitchen knife, I head outside and impale that note against my front door.
Death and I are going to have one final game of cat and mouse.
I ride through the streets of Orange like a ghost, the sun setting in the west. My eyes move over the few people I see, all of them going about their day as though nothing is amiss. They have no idea that all four horsemen of the apocalypse have been in their city within the last twenty-four hours. Or that the very fate of humanity has been bartered for like fruit at a market.
As soon as I reach the edge of the city, I start to pedal faster and faster and faster, until my thighs burn and the wind is whistling in my ears.
I let out a sob. It’s an ugly, wild sound, but releasing my pain like that is cathartic, so I do it again—and again and again until I’m screaming my agony into the sky. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
At some point, I get it all out. All that’s left is this silence inside me.
I ride until my eyelids droop—which, if I’m being honest, is depressingly early in the evening. But I can feel the exhaustion seeping into every inch of me; I haven’t had proper rest—or a proper meal for that matter—in far too long.
I roll to a stop on a darkened stretch of highway. There’s nothing out here but a thick line of trees running alongside the road.
I get off my bike, then let it topple to the ground. It feels meaningful, leaving that bike behind. I’ve always needed one to run after—or away from—the horseman. But I won’t be needing it anymore.
I almost sleep alongside the road just to make it easier for the horseman to find me, but until Death kills everyone, there are still highwaymen to worry about. So instead, I drag myself past the line of trees and press on through soggy grass. I trudge towards the dark outline of a tree I notice in the distance. The ground is damp here, just as it is everywhere else.
I let out a sigh. At this point, I’m too tired to care. I lean my back against the tree trunk and close my eyes. It takes a few exhausted minutes, but eventually I fall asleep.
I wake to the thunderous sound of fleeing animals and the sensation of death creeping in. I sit up only to feel the slap of bugs against my face as swarms of them pass by. I duck as best I can. As I do so, rats and other rodents scurry by, many of them scrambling over me in their mad dash.
Overhead, I hear the cries of birds, and I see hundreds—no, thousands—of them backlit against the rising sun.
He’s found me.
Faster than I expected, too.
The animals pass by, and I’m the only one left behind.
A light breeze rustles the wild grass, but other than that, the world is deafeningly quiet. That silence grows and grows until I swear it will swallow me up whole.
I stand, stepping out from under the tree. My pants are damp, the chill of the morning clinging to them.
The wet earth squishes beneath my boots as I cut across the marshy grass.
The pound of wingbeats has me stopping.
I don’t realize that I’ve reached for one of my blades until it’s in my hand. My muscles remember what my mind’s forgotten—that I’m used to the sound of those wings preceding a fight. For so long that was the sound that heralded battle, pain, and—many times—death.
Now, however, I’m not sure what to expect.
I swivel towards the noise and I see him high in the sky. Death, God’s last angel. He circles overhead, looking for me. I stare up at him, transfixed at this heavenly creature.
As though he can feel my gaze, the horseman pauses in the air, his armor shining painfully bright as the morning rays hit it. His wings beat at his back as his gaze falls to me. I feel that look like a finger down my spine.
It feels good to end the fighting and suffering between us. It feels right even though I know it’s wrong.
Death lowers himself to the earth. He lands fifty feet away, looking just as ancient and tragically mythical as he always has.
His eyes scour me. “Lazarus,” he says, “you have been busy.”
My skin goes a little clammy. I don’t know how much he already knows about Ben.
Thanatos tilts his head. “Where is your son?” he says, as though reading my mind. “Surely a grieving mother wouldn’t leave her child behind.”
I lift my chin, even as guilt and anguish press down on my chest. I still haven’t forgiven myself for letting the horsemen take Ben.