Someone planted a bomb.

Dear God.

They come out of the woods as I crawl to the horseman, their forms quiet and sinister. There’s at least a dozen of them, maybe more, and unlike the last ambush, these people don’t bother wearing masks.

Know they’re going to die.

They do, however, dress in a similar fashion. Lots of black leather and camo print.

Gang, my mind fills in.

Their hate is visceral; it contorts their faces and thickens the air.

They won’t be like the others.

I’m not going to survive this.

“Pestilence.” I try to call out to him, but my voice is too hoarse from pain and smoke.

Even though he can’t possibly hear me, he slowly swivels his face to mine from where he’s pinned.

His eyes are full of fear.

For me, I realize, as the men close in on us.

The group doesn’t bother going for me first. Instead, they cluster around Pestilence. Deftly, they lift Trixie off of him, and for a moment, it almost looks like they’re saving him from being crushed to death, but I know better. People are not nearly so altruistic when it comes to the horsemen.

One of them holds a pump-action shotgun at his hip, pointing it at Pestilence.

Again my horseman’s gaze goes to me before moving to the people that surround him. “Spare my—”

BOOM!

The shotgun goes off, the cartridge blasting away Pestilence’s face.

A shocked scream rips from my throat.

Someone breaks off from the group. A woman, I realize. She steps up to me and cocks her head, inspecting me like a bird would a worm. Whatever she sees, it causes her to frown.

With a swift kick, she slams her booted foot into my temple, and the world melts away.

Chapter 45

I wake with a groan. My head feels like it has its own heartbeat.

I try to reach up to touch my temple, but my wrists are secured behind my back. My legs, too, are bound at the ankles, pinning me in place. I blink away the last of my confusion.

Someone’s propped me up against a tagged building, the paint weathered away. A few people linger next to me, but most are gathered around a nearby telephone pole.

I squint at them, trying to figure out what’s going on. It takes me several seconds, but I finally make out the bloody body they’re all staring at.

Pestilence.

A burly man is tying him to the base of the telephone pole, the rope wrapped a dizzying number of times around the horseman’s ruined form. At Pestilence’s feet are piles of firewood.

Pestilence’s face is nearly gone and most of his back must be burned away from the explosion. If he were mortal, the horseman would be dead five times over, and tying him up would be pointless. The fact that these people are restraining him means they know he can’t die.

Someone besides me finally learned the terrible truth.

And now these people are using it against him.

I let out a hopeless cry.

Once the man finishes securing Pestilence to the telephone pole, the nails and hammers come out.

Even as they bring the items up to his body, I can’t comprehend what they’re going to do; my mind won’t let me. It’s only when they hammer the first nail into Pestilence’s skin that I understand.

They mean to crucify him.

Pestilence’s body gives a jerk from the pain. A second nail quickly follows the first and then a third and a fourth. His body shudders again and again.

I begin to scream, and once I start, I find I can’t stop.

In my line of business, I’m used to seeing compassion, sacrifice. I’ve seen men hospitalized because they ran into a burning house to rescue a dog. I’ve seen neighbors empty their pantries and open their homes to victims because they wanted to help people in need. I’ve seen so much goodness. My job always showed me that even in the worst of circumstances, humans can be their very best. We as a people are good. We are.

So it’s all the more shocking to me to see this side of human nature. The cold, cruel side of it. So shocking that the only word that comes to mind is inhuman.

Several people assist in crucifying Pestilence while the others stand by, content to watch their comrades torture my horseman.

I scream myself hoarse, begging for them to stop.

“This cunt actually cries for the bastard,” someone nearby me says, nodding in my direction.

One of the men comes up to me, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Crouching in front of me, he peers at my face for a second, then backhands me.

I hear Pestilence’s garbled roar as my head whips to the side.

“Fuck me, Jesus, this thing really doesn’t die.”

I roll my head back to face the man in front of me, my cheek throbbing from the hit. It’s just one more pain to add to the rest.

“Stop hurting him,” I whisper. My face is wet, and that’s the first I realize that this entire time, I’ve been crying.

The man in front of me squints, taking in my tears. “I think we got ourselves here a couple. The horseman and his human whore.”

I stare miserably at him. It’s a terrifying sight, looking into the eyes of someone who thrives off of violence and hate. For all of his carnage, Pestilence never enjoyed himself.

“Tell me girl, how many times did you have to fuck that thing before he decided to keep you?”

Someone else calls out. “Maybe we should have a taste—see what’s so special about her pussy.”

A woman shouts, “I’m not going to stand here while you all fuck her. Keep to the plan, Mac.”

Mac, the man in front of me, looks over his shoulder at the woman with annoyance.

Sliding his shotgun off his shoulder, Mac pulls out a wicked looking knife from his belt. He grabs the bindings at my ankles and begins to saw through them.

“Try kick me girl,” he says under his breath, “and I’ll make sure everyone here enjoys that cunt of yours.”

Kicking him is tempting, but my legs are far too weak to do any real damage.

Once he’s cut away the ties, he grabs his gun and rises to his feet.

“Move,” he commands, giving my calves a kick. He jerks the barrel of his shotgun to a vague section of the road about fifteen meters away.

Forcing my injured legs under me, I rise to my feet, then limp down the street, Mac at my back.

I’ve only taken ten or so steps when he kicks me to the ground. In the distance, I hear laughter, and beyond that, an agonized moan.

Pestilence. Apparently he has enough line of sight and good enough vision that he can see what’s going on.

“Get up,” Mac orders, amused.

I bite back a moan at the pain as I push myself to my feet, then resume walking. A few steps later, he kicks me back down.

Again people cackle and Pestilence cries out. And again Mac orders me up only to kick me down soon after. The whole scenario happens a few more times, until the laughter dies off and the horseman’s moans become one continuous wail. Then I simply hobble down the road, my heart sitting like an anvil in my chest.

I think this is what it feels like when your spirit breaks. When there’s nothing left to believe in anymore. The unconquerable Pestilence has been conquered, these humans have lost their humanity, and I’m going to die on the most beautiful winter day.

When I reach my destination, Mac orders, “Stand there. Just so.”