Chapter 5

I don’t die. Not that day or the next or the one after that.

I don’t know why, out of all the many people in Laguna—people who had good, enviable lives—it’s my miserable one that gets spared.

Those first several days are a fever-filled blur. I am certain I dragged myself outside to the well to refill the pitcher at some point, and I managed to hoist myself out of bed to go to the bathroom, but the memories are fuzzy. I only remember eating once or twice.

It has to be roughly a week before my fever subsides. My head finally clears and my stomach is cramping with hunger, despite the awful, rotting smell that fills the room.

Ugh. I want to die.

Pretty sure death would be easier than bearing this horrible pain, but for whatever cursed reason, I’m forced to live through it.

A memory tugs at the back of my mind, of a hand on my shoulder and something whispered into my ear—

But then the memory is gone, and it’s not coming back.

I push myself up to a sitting position.

For the first time in nearly a week, I see my surroundings clearly. There’s the trunk at the foot of my bed with some of my more interesting toys and costumes, there’s the closet that’s crammed with soft, skimpy outfits that tease and reveal all the most tantalizing parts of flesh. On the windowsill are my collection of plants, most now wilted. And then there’s the vanity, lined with glass bottles of perfume and makeup. It’s as though my room didn’t get the memo.

The world has ended. Get with the program.

Pushing off the bed, I force my achy muscles to move, wincing at the agonizing pull of my wounds. Even now, the pain is terrible, but I can bear it enough to focus on other things.

Like the fact that at least two other rooms I walk by are filled with Famine’s frightening plants, more of my fellow housemates lying limp in their clutches, their bodies badly decayed.

Fear and the overpowering smell drive me outside. I take in several lungfuls of air then, gathering together my courage, I wander into the tavern next door, looking for food.

There are more plants, more dead people, more horror. I keep my eyes down and mostly hold my breath as I make my way to the kitchen.

I have to work around another twisting tree as I search for food, ignoring the dead cook. Decomposing bodies, I’m quickly discovering, are nightmarish things.

I’ll never be able to wash away the sight of them.

Most of the tavern food has gone bad, but I quickly grab what little remains, and then I leave.

That night, I sob as I wash my wounds.

Partly the tears come from the pain. Several of the cuts are deep and they’re still infected. But another part of it comes from the fact that I cannot escape the rotting city that surrounds me. There’s death in the streets and inside every building, and I feel like the horror of it is going to break my mind—if it’s not already somehow broken.

And then I cry for the women I worked alongside—for Elvita who sheltered me, and Bianca and Cláudia and Luciana who, if they were here, would’ve helped me tend to my injuries, just as the women did every time a client crossed the line.

And then I cry for the other girls, dead in their rooms or strung up in the trees somewhere else in this city.

I cry until my head pounds from the effort. When it feels like I have no more tears left in me, I draw in a long, ragged breath, then another.

Each breath feels like a small victory. I shouldn’t be alive, I really shouldn’t. And with every breath I take, my resolve hardens.

I’m going after him.

Even if it means certain death, I’m doing it.

That evil fucker made one huge mistake coming here: he didn’t make sure I was dead.

And now he’s going to pay for it.

Chapter 6

I spend the next couple days breaking into homes and businesses and grabbing what supplies I can.

To properly go after the horseman I need some form of transportation. My shaky legs carry me down the streets of Laguna. I grimace at the sight of birds screeching at one another as they fight over the remains of some poor soul.

For the love of God, Ana, look away.

I take a steadying breath, trying to force down my nausea.

The first time I saw what Famine could do to an entire town, I hadn’t stuck around long enough to see the bodies decompose. Now, my injuries have given me no choice.

As it is, my breath is ragged, and I sway unsteadily.

I make it to the post office, where they have horses and carriages and—

They’re all gone. All the horses.

Inside the post office’s stables, the horse stalls hang open, each one empty. The only explanation for how they came to be that way are the spindly plants that snake up the front posts of each stall, their vines still curled around the latches.

Famine released the horses?

I stare for a little longer before I leave the stables. It’s probably for the best that the animals are gone. I’m in no position to feed and water and shelter a creature—especially one that spooks easily.

The post office also has rows and rows of bikes on their property, several which are already hitched to carts. I snag one of these, and roll it back to the bordello. From there it’s simply a matter of dumping all my supplies into the cart. Food, water, blankets, a first aid kit, a tent. Shit, Ana, who knew a hussy like you had a campy side?

I stack a hefty amount of weaponry into that cart too. I don’t know who I’ll come across, but considering how my last encounter with an outsider went, I’m feeling pretty fucking stabby at the moment.

By the time I’m done, the cart is nearly overflowing with supplies. I feel a small spark of excitement.

I’m leaving Laguna. Permanently. I never thought I’d actually escape this city.

But before I do so, I make a final stop back inside my room. I stand just inside the threshold for several seconds, taking the place in. These four walls have been mine for years, and I have all sorts of memories in here—most of them unnerving, some degrading, but then I have plenty of happy memories here too. It’s a funny, uncomfortable thing, remembering it all. I’d practically sold my soul to The Painted Angel. I thought this was all I’d ever be.

Slowly, I begin to meander around the room. My eyes pass over a series of paintings hanging on my walls of nude women lying in various, suggestive positions. Elvita called them tastefully sensual when she had them put up. Leaning against one wall is a gilded mirror. Across the room is the window with my mostly dead plants and near that is a single shelf that holds a blown glass vase, a book of erotic poetry and a basket full of seashells.

My gaze drops to the chest at the foot of my bed before moving to my closet and the filmy clothing hanging inside. Lastly my gaze stops at my vanity, with the glass vials of perfume and my bag of makeup. I move over to the low table, my fingers skimming over the wood. There’s a small wooden jewelry box next to a jar of lotion and my oil lamp.

All of it is so impersonal. The closest I get to any meaningful belongings is in a box pushed to the back of my closet, but even that holds nothing much of value. Just a small, carved horse I bought with my first paycheck, a stack of letters several different admirers wrote to me, a bracelet Izabel once braided for me and a couple other knickknacks.

None of it is particularly sentimental, and I find that I don’t want to take any part of this past of mine with me. Not the makeup, not the clothing, not any of the mementos. These things are reminders of who I have been forced to be. But I don’t intend to stay that woman. Not any longer.