Vancouver 18 km.

I stare at the sign in growing horror.

Up until now, I’ve only ever seen the horseman pass through settlements and small towns. But Vancouver is another beast altogether.

Hundreds of thousands of people live there. Surely they’ve already posted evacuation notices. Surely the city is empty enough …

The two of us continue down the highway, and each hour that passes has me more and more tightly wound.

The wilderness gives way to ritzy neighborhoods. The houses are nestled on either side of the highway, most secreted away behind large trees and shrubs, but still visible enough for them to see the water on our right.

There’s not a soul in sight.

The closer to the city we get, the smaller and more tightly packed the houses become. Here, in the outlying suburbs, I spot the first true signs of life. The sight of a biker off in the distance, the faint sounds of shouting.

The click of Trixie’s hooves against the asphalt is suddenly deafening. It reminds me too much of the moment Pestilence rounded the corner into my neck of the woods.

So I shouldn’t be surprised when a gunshot shatters the normal sounds of the day.

But I am. I nearly fall out of my seat at the noise.

The horseman’s grip tightens. “Hold on.”

He clicks his tongue, and Trixie takes off at a gallop.

We race down the highway at breakneck speeds. Another gunshot follows the first, then several more as a few doomed individuals try their hand at vigilante justice.

None of the bullets, however, find their target. Even as the sound of gunshots fades in the distance, Pestilence races on.

The highway branches, the 99 separating from the 1. Instinctively, the horseman heads west, staying on the 99. I don’t know if he is aware of this, but the decision is a good one.

We sprint down the highway, crossing the bridge before entering Stanley Park. Here the city is interrupted by a dense patch of wilderness. Still, my body is poised for another assault. In a city with this many inhabitants, there’s bound to be more.

The park blurs by us, the trees blending together to create a green backdrop.

On the other side of the park, blocks and blocks of high rises loom ahead of us and to our right, their steel and glass frames glittering in the midday light. Between each block of them I catch glimpses of the ocean.

That’s all I notice before the gunshots resume.

Pestilence yanks on Trixie’s reins and steers us off the highway and down a side street, making a beeline for the water. The goliath structures stand like sentinels on each side of us as we dash down the road.

I can’t hear much over the pound of hoof beats, just the steadily increasing sound of gunfire. If maneuvering us off the highway was supposed to solve our situation, it hasn’t.

Like me, other people—many of them by the sound of it—decided to sacrifice themselves in order to kill the horseman. I wonder if they, too, assumed the horseman could die.

I feel a bullet whiz by me. If things keep up like this, I’m going to get hit.

I notice the people lingering in the doorways of buildings, or leaning out the windows of them. Others still are openly running towards us, guns in hand.

Now this, this is a true ambush.

Without warning, Pestilence shoves me off his steed. I’m so surprised I forget to scream as I fall.

I slam hard into the street, my eyesight darkening at the impact. All my old wounds shriek at being so violently jostled.

Ahead of me, more gunshots ring out.

A few people rush around the street, trying to get a good aim on the horseman.

Ahead of me, Pestilence brandishes his bow and arrow. Now that his hands are free, he uses them to shoot arrow after arrow at his attackers. I see one man fall from a window three stories up and another slump forward from where he crouches behind a tree.

As he rides away from me, the horseman takes out his assailants, sometimes turning in his saddle to shoot backwards. I watch him for some time before I remember myself.

You’re a firefighter, Burns. Get up and act like one.

I force myself to stand, favoring one leg over the other. As far as I can tell, nothing’s broken, though I’m going to have one hell of a bruise where I landed on my thigh.

I begin moving, a slow limp that doesn’t get me far fast, but then, I’m not trying to flee. I scan the street, looking for the injured.

I head over to the closest victim, a wiry man whose hair (what little there is left of it) is more white than brown.

“Sir, are you—?” My voice cuts off when I see the raw, bloody flesh at his throat. It’s not even the horseman that got this guy. One of the bullets that missed Pestilence found another victim.

He tries to talk to me, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes wide with shock. All that comes out are a few red bubbles that gather on his neck.

There’s nothing to be done for him.

I take his hand, kicking his gun aside; he has no need for it now.

“You’re alright,” I say soothingly. We both know that’s a lie. “I’m right here with you. I won’t leave you.”

His hand squeezes mine tighter, and his lips keep moving. I lean in to try to hear him better, but all I hear is the wet gurgling that comes from his throat.

I nod anyway, acting as though I’m keenly aware of exactly what he’s saying. His lips slow until he has nothing left to say. He still clutches my hand, but then his eyes move above me, beyond me, and his hand relaxes.

Fuck death. Seriously, fuck this horrible, horrible thing that we all must endure.

I let go of him and stand, my eyes already looking for the next person.

Farther down, a woman is trying to get to her feet, one of the horseman’s golden arrows jutting from her chest. I jog over to her, ignoring the pain in my thigh.

Time blurs as I move from person to person, giving what aid I can, which isn’t much, but it does catch the eye of a paramedic-turned-infantryman. He joins the effort, and that, in turn catches the eye of a doctor.

The longer we linger out in the street, the more people trickle out of whatever buildings they took shelter in to now lend a hand. My throat thickens at the sight.

This is what Pestilence misses in his quest to kill us off. That right alongside the worst of human nature is the best of it.

We all work somberly together. No one outright says it, but I can practically hear the thoughts around me.

Am I infected?

Is it already too late?

How long do I have?

When will I start to feel ill?

A series of screams punctuate the air.

I glance up from the man I’m kneeling next to, the doctor at my side.

Off in the distance, Pestilence gallops back down the street on his white steed, his armor and face blood-smeared.

What has he done?

He holds his bow, an arrow notched, ready to kill anyone who dares to rise against him.

I tense at the sight. I’d almost believed that this was the end of our partnership.

Should’ve known better. Pestilence the Conqueror gets to have his cake and eat it too.

“What in the hell?” the paramedic utters next to me. “He’s back?”

I stand, drawing a few eyes to me.

Pestilence’s jaw is tight, his eyes scanning the street as he charges down the road. When the horseman sees me, his expression doesn’t change, but I swear he relaxes.

Why does he want me so badly?

He surges forward, his steed’s pace quickening as the two head straight for me.

Run, an irrational part of me thinks—like that would do a fat lot of good now that he’s set his sights on me. Instead I move into the middle of the street, away from where the other people are gathered.

“What are you doing?” the doctor calls to me.

I ignore him, my gaze trained on the horseman. Pestilence, for his part, now pays the last of his assailants no heed. Nor does he need to. The gunshots that punctuated the air earlier are now all silent.

The stillness squeezes my gut tight. The horseman effortlessly cut all these people down. How does anyone make a stand against this sort of power? It’s too great, too unstoppable.

As he closes in on me, Pestilence leans deeply to the side of his saddle, not slowing. I don’t realize what he means to do until his arm extends out.

And now, even knowing I’m not going to get away, I bolt. I don’t know what drives me to run. Maybe it’s the punishing pace of Pestilence’s steed, maybe it’s the fierce look in the horseman’s eyes. Or maybe it’s that rider and mount look like they bathed in the blood of their enemies.

Pushing my aching thighs for all they’re worth, I sprint down the street, back towards the highway. Trixie’s hoof beats sound louder and louder as the two close in on me. I pump my arms, forcing my legs to move faster.

I don’t make it very far before I feel Pestilence’s arm wrap around my back. With a jerk that has my nearly healed wounds screaming in protest, he lifts me off the ground, setting me smoothly on the seat in front of him.

“Secure yourself, Sara,” he commands, not slowing.

Going as fast as we are, there’s no way I’m going to be able to adjust myself from sitting sidesaddle, so I wrap my arms around Pestilence’s midsection, holding on tight to him as he directs us towards the water. His arm rests almost possessively around me, further securing me to him.

We speed by the large buildings for a second time, and as we race down the street, I catch sight of a few more fallen shooters laying in pools of their own blood, their bodies shot through with arrows. I stop looking when I see one of the golden arrows protruding from a dead man’s eye. The whole thing is so ghastly and violent and sad.

Pestilence didn’t spare them. Not like he spared me. And he may think that I have the worse fate, but at the end of it all, I feel lucky to be sitting here on the horseman’s steed rather than finding out what lies on the other side of death.

Abruptly, the buildings give way to sand, and I have a clear view of the inlet I’ve kept catching glimpses of. I stare out at the water, and beyond it, Vancouver Island.

Trixie’s strides pound against the sand, his hooves spraying the fine grains against me. It’s been years since I’ve been this close to the sea, but I don’t get the chance to enjoy it. The dry sand gives way to wet, and still the horse doesn’t slow.

“What are you doing?” I yell at Pestilence over the pound of hooves, not quite able to tear my gaze from the water.

Other than securing me even closer against him, Pestilence doesn’t respond.

My breath catches as the beach ends, and then, quite suddenly, we’re thundering through the water.

Wait, that’s not quite right …

I glance down.

“Oh my God,” I say, staring at the rippling waves. “Oh my God.” The steed is not wading through the water, he’s galloping on top of it.

Trixie’s hooves splash against the water’s surface as though the inlet were nothing more than a puddle, kicking up a few stray droplets of sea spray onto me and the horseman.

We’re riding on water.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again.

Still on top of the water.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Pestilence can spread plague just by moving through a city, and he’s impervious to death. What’s one more freakish power?

Once we’re well away from land, Pestilence’s steed slows to a reasonable gait. Only now am I able to—awkwardly—throw one of my legs over the saddle and face forward. (I still nearly fall off in the process.)

Land hedges us in on all sides as we move across the water, chilly droplets splashing against my thighs.

Pestilence leans against me, his chest pressing against mine with enough force to lean me forward.

Goddamn but he’s heavy.

“Can you let up a little?” I say.

So close to elbowing his ass.

He ignores my request.

Typical.

As the minutes tick away, a little more of his weight presses down on me. It happens so gradually that I’m bent substantially forward before I realize this might not be intentional.

“Pestilence?”

No response.

“Pestilence?” I say, a bit more urgently this time.

Nothing.

Damn me, but my stomach is churning with worry.

I begin to rotate around when I notice the blood dripping off the wrist that holds the reins.

Something is wrong with him. Very wrong.

I face him as best as I can. His eyes are closed, his face is slack, and his crown sits slightly askew on his head. This last one makes him look—contradictorily—both more rakish and more innocent.

I put my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, but I can’t get a read on him with the way our bodies are rocking on his horse.

“Pestilence, can you hear me?” I try to pull him away enough to get a response.

His head rolls backwards until it appears he’s staring at the sky, and I have to catch his crown before it slides off.

His body sways in his seat, then he pitches forward again, his face burying itself in the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around him as his body begins to list sideways.

What happens if he falls off? Will he land on top of the water, or will he sink? What will happen to Trixie—and to me—if he does so?

Really don’t want to find out.

I cradle him awkwardly in my arms as I steer his steed towards a nearby island. Of course, once the land looms large enough for me to see the details, I can make out streets and buildings—lots and lots of them.

Shit.

I tug on the reins, changing our trajectory, all while trying to stabilize Pestilence, who may or may not be dead. Temporarily dead, but dead nonetheless.

How had I missed this until now? I’d heard the gunshots and seen the smeared blood on him when he came for me. And now that I’m looking for it, I can see that he’s bleeding from a dozen different wounds, and the fluid is all over him and all over me.

For Christ’s sake, he’d been bleeding on me, and I’d still been unaware. Lulled by the steady trod of his horse’s gait and distracted by the fact that we were traveling on water.

Eventually, Trixie heads towards another section of land. By the time the horse nears the shore, my arms are shaking from the strain of keeping Pestilence in his saddle.

It’s only once his horse is clomping through the sand that I allow myself to relax my hold. The horseman’s body cants to the side, and then the two of us topple off his mount.

Pestilence groans weakly when we hit the sand, our limbs tangling.

Alive.

I let out a breath, relief flowing through me. I don’t know what else I expected from an immortal man.

And I definitely don’t know why, of all things, I feel relief.

I drag my body from under his, then lay him out on the sand, pulling his weaponry off of him and tossing it aside. He’s in even worse shape than I thought, his clothes saturated in blood. It seeps out from beneath his armor and drips onto the sand. And his armor …

Some of these bullets blew straight through the metal, making the golden breastplate look like a slice of Swiss cheese.

Piece by piece, I unfasten the armor, grimacing as trapped blood drips onto the sand. My eyes move to Pestilence’s face. The normally tan skin is now pale and wan.

I skim my fingers over a cheek, feeling the chill that now clings to his flesh.

His chest rises and falls as he takes in shallow breaths. At least he’s breathing.

Since when did you want him to breathe?

I peel back what I can of the horseman’s wet clothes. Bullet holes litter his arms, his legs, and his chest. His face, however, had been left untouched. That’s why I hadn’t noticed. I’d been so transfixed by his beauty and his intensity—intensity he’d focused on me—that I hadn’t noticed.

I pause when I see blood congealing in the sand around his head.

Dare I?

Before I can think twice about it, I lift his head and probe the back of his skull. I nearly gag as I come into contact with something soft. He makes a plaintive noise at my touch. It’s clearly painful for him.

Of course it’s painful—it’s a head wound you’re poking, you moron.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure why I’m whispering.

I glance around. Trixie Skillz is lingering nearby and, like his owner, the horse is dotted with bullet wounds.

And still the horse carried not one, but two riders across an ocean.

I take a shuddering breath and look down the beach. On either side of me, the shoreline is thick with trees. Far down the beach to my left, a lone house is nestled amongst them.

At least there’s a place to stay if we need it.

I move Pestilence’s head so that it rests in my lap. I don’t know why I do that, or why I remove his crown so that I can stroke his matted hair. Even with blood and seawater tangling it, the blond locks are so soft, softer than hair has any right to be.

My thumb smooths over one of his annoyingly perfect eyebrows. Battered and broken like he is, my stupid heart actually aches for him.

It’s just because he’s stupidly pretty, I tell myself.

I run my knuckles over his brow.

“I’m sorry they did this to you,” I admit. Just as I’m sorry for everything he has done to them. It’s a catch twenty-two.

I continue to stroke his hair, waiting for him to heal himself.

You could escape right now—vanish while he’s recovering. Then you’d never have to answer to him again.

My legs stay folded beneath his head.

I’m slowing Pestilence down, I reason with myself. I’m giving people more time to escape. The world is caught in a hopeless game of cat and mouse, and I know that in the end the horseman will make his rounds and kill us all anyway, but I’m slowing his progress. That counts for something, right?

The shadows have deepened by the time the first of the bullets makes its way out of Pestilence’s body. It wiggles out of his lower leg for a few seconds, then tumbles harmlessly into the sand.

Several minutes later, the horseman shifts for the first time, a pained breath escaping him.

“I’m right here,” I murmur, continuing to run my fingers through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

Pestilence stills.

“… Sara?” He forces his eyes open. They’re unfocused as he gazes up at me.

“Hi.”

He reaches up, his bloody fingers touching my cheek. “You didn’t run.”

I let out a laugh that’s far too shaky for my liking. “I probably should’ve,” I say.

“Probably,” he agrees.

His hand drops, and he closes his eyes again.

“Pestilence? Pestilence.” But he’s unconscious once more.