On a whim I blow the room a kiss and walk out of there, shedding the past like a second skin.

I leave the city and get out just far enough to leave the stench of death behind. Then I stop and pitch the tent, and I stay put for well over a week, letting my wounds heal. I keep my weapons close—highwaymen are infamous for committing all sorts of crimes against travelers—but my fear is unnecessary in the end. I don’t see or hear a soul.

Once my wounds are healed enough, I begin traveling. And traveling and traveling. The days blur together, one bleeding into the next until the days become weeks. My progress is slow, both because of my injuries, and because I have to stop to scavenge for food—which is a pretty way of saying that I have to enter more cities full of the rotting dead, and I have to break into more homes and steal food from those who no longer need it.

There’s also the issue of following in Famine’s wake. There’s no one to ask for directions, so I have to use my intuition when tracking the horseman. To be honest, it’s not too difficult. The man kills off crops wherever he goes, so it’s a simple matter of following the dead fields and orchards.

And everywhere I go, there are bodies. In trees, next to fields, strewn across the road, outside of homes and outposts, and everywhere in between—all of them caught up in those awful plants. The sound of flies buzzing has become almost constant. I was foolish to think that leaving Laguna would somehow insulate me from the sight of so much death. That’s all that’s left of these towns and cities.

But even though the journey is full of horrors, there’s beauty too. I see kilometer after kilometer of the Serra do Mar, the mountain range that stretches like a reclining woman along the coast. I hear the call of birds and insects that I never heard so crisply while living in the city. And sometimes, when the night is clear, I forgo the tent altogether and sleep under the stars, staring up at those distant lights.

So it’s not all bad.

Not to mention that living through the end of the world means no more sex work for me, and that means I don’t have to give a shit what my face or body looks like. Which is nice. Also, I don’t have to have a horny, heavy body bearing down on me. That’s nice too.

Fuck it, even after everything, I’m still an optimist.

The entire time I ride, I only end up seeing one other soul. I happen across him while passing through the coastal town of Barra Velha. I don’t know who he is or why he was spared, but my best guess is that he was a fisherman out at sea when Famine struck his town. It makes me wonder if during that first feverish week after the horseman’s attack some other local fishermen docked back in Laguna, coming ashore only to find a city full of death. The thought has the hairs along my arms standing on end.

I don’t approach the weeping man—though I do wave at him when he glances up at me, his eyes going wide. A month ago I might’ve stopped to talk to him and make sure he was okay, but a month ago I had a little more heart and a little less vengeance.

The trail I follow turns inland, and the bodies I pass seem … fresher. That’s when I know I’ve just about caught up to Famine. By then, it’s been roughly a month since I was stabbed. I can’t imagine I’m even a flicker of a thought in the horseman’s mind.

Just considering that has my anger rising anew. He might’ve forgotten me—twice now—but I have to live with the horrors he’s inflicted. Movement still pulls at my wounds, and then there’s all the pain that isn’t physical. I couldn’t forget that if I tried.

I finally catch up to the horseman in Curitiba, and I know it only because I can hear the moans carried on the wind.

I stop my bike, gazing at the city’s skyline. I’ve seen skyscrapers before, but I’ve never seen so many, all of them clustered so close together.

Humans made those.

Sometimes people talk about what it was like before the horsemen came, their voices full of wistfulness. The past sounds like a dream, one that, most of the time, I can’t believe. But then there are moments like this one, when I stare at the incredible evidence that once man’s abilities rivaled God’s.

It’s only as I get closer that I notice how decayed they are. Many of them look like molting snakes, half of their surfaces fallen away. Vined plants seem to have taken root in the bones of these skyscrapers, making them appear even more ancient than they must be.

The horsemen only arrived a quarter of a century ago, and yet this city looks a thousand years old.

A moan tears my gaze from the buildings.

Not three meters from me a young woman is caught up in the twisting branches of one of the horseman’s plants, this one producing clusters of bright berries. There’s a thick vine wrapped around her neck, but it’s not tight enough to suffocate her—yet anyway.

Dismounting off my bike, I grab one of the knives I packed. Approaching the plant, I begin to rip away at the branches. In response, the branches encircling the woman tighten, causing her to choke. Her eyes bulge a little—either from fear or suffocation. Frantically I begin hacking away, trying to get to her. All at once the plant squeezes the woman impossibly tight. I hear some awful, snapping noises. The woman’s eyelids flutter and the light leaves her eyes.

“No.” I choke out.

I drop the knife and back up, staring at the plant. My stomach churns at the disturbing sight. It’s all I’ve seen for weeks and weeks.

The shock of all this death has worn off, and beneath the horror only one thing remains.

Rage.

I am full of it. So full it’s hard to breathe.

I get back on my bike and begin to ride again, moving through the dying streets of Curitiba. Street vendors have had their wares upended by these savage plants, and in some areas where there was heavier foot traffic, whole forests have sprung up in the streets, making roads inaccessible. Just like in most of the other cities I’ve visited, the plants here seem to have swallowed these people up within minutes.

What’s the point of a Reaper blighting the land if he’s going to kill people before anyone can starve to death?

He wants to watch them die. The thought whispers through my mind. I can see the cruelty on his face still. He wants to watch the earth squeeze the very life out of us.

I ride around the city, hunting for the horseman. There’s a very real chance that Famine is still here in Curitiba. The thought thrills me, though finding him in such a large place is going to prove challenging.

I’m almost to the center of the city, where the structures appear especially dilapidated, when I hear another choked cry, this one coming from inside a building that showcases woven baskets, pottery, ceramic figurines, and some traditional Brazilian clothing.

Bringing my bike to a stop, I lean it against the building and head inside.

Inside, the store is dim, but it’s not dark enough for me to miss the four separate trees that rise from the floor, their canopies pressed against the ceiling. Caught in each one of them are dark forms. One of these forms shifts, letting out another pained sob.

My eyes snag on the figure. Slowly, I approach.

“I can’t cut you out,” I say by way of greeting. “The last person I tried to help was killed by that …” I can’t bring myself to say tree, “thing.”

In response, I think I hear soft sobs. The sound twists my gut.