By the time we leave Ruth and Rob’s house, there’s a stillness to the surrounding neighborhoods and a faint scent in the air. This is death settling in for a long stay. It’s unnerving as fucking hell.

It rains as we ride out—which really isn’t all that surprising considering that we’re traveling along the Pacific Northwest, the birthplace of the rainstorm.

When the horseman and I are alone, we can pretend away each other’s faults. He can be my dashing, noble knight, and I can be his strange companion, but once we’re on open road where it’s impossible to ignore signs of the apocalypse, we both remember how things really are.

For the millionth time I hope my parents are alright. I’ve resigned myself to the reality that I’ll never see them again, but now, after watching Ruth and Rob die, I’m more aware than ever that my mom and dad could’ve endured the same fate. And that possibility utterly terrifies me, so I choose instead to hope they escaped the Fever unscathed.

Pestilence drives Trixie Skillz at a gallop, forcing the tireless horse to race kilometers on end. That’s how we enter Seattle proper—with houses and streetlamps, newly abandoned stables and long dead storefronts all whizzing by in a blur.

I appreciate the speed. Most of my focus is on remaining on the horse, rather than what sort of nasty welcome is waiting for us in one of the U.S’s big cities. Yet, despite the distraction, I can’t fool my body into relaxing. My muscles are locked up to the point of pain, and my limbs shake—both from the dreadful chill and from my mounting anxiety.

The longer the two of us go without something—anything—happening, the more apprehensive I become. There’s not a soul in sight. Not a single, frightened soul.

It’s not until the squat, rundown buildings and defunct shopping centers give way to the taller, decaying skyscrapers that I realize this is unusual. Really, really unusual. Evacuated cities are livelier than this, especially when they’re this big. You’re bound to run into someone.

“Where is everybody?” I ask.

Probably waiting to ambush your ass, Burns.

At my back, Pestilence is quiet, almost contemplative. A wave of trepidation washes through me. Did something change while the two of us stayed at Ruth and Rob’s house? Did the Big Man throw in the towel and decide none of us were worth redeeming?

If that were true, Einstein, you’d be dead too.

Eventually I see a man with a scraggly beard and dirty brown hair leaning against the wall of a high-rise. I feel so oddly relieved just to see another human being that it takes me a minute to realize that something is still very wrong. There are several open sores on his face, and he stares listlessly at the street.

“Stop the horse.” I’m surprised by the vehemence in my voice.

Pestilence pulls on the reins, and Trixie comes to a halt. Slipping off the steed, I run for the man.

Even several feet away he smells like rot and bodily fluids, and his eyes don’t move from the street.

Dead. That’s my professional assessment.

Only, when I place two fingers against his neck, his pulse beats weakly.

I rock back on my feet.

Shit, he’s alive.

Not for long.

His fevered eyes slowly move to mine, and his cracked lips move. “Help.”

My gut clenches at his plea. I don’t have the heart to tell him that there isn’t much I can do at this point.

Instead, I head back to Trixie and grab a few painkillers I swiped from Ruth and Rob’s place, along with a canteen of water.

When I return to the man, I show him the pills. “They won’t heal you,” I explain, “but they may take the edge off the pain.”

He opens his mouth weakly, too tired to even reach for the medicine. I place them on his tongue, then hold my canteen to his mouth. Behind me, I hear Trixie’s impatient whinny, and I sense Pestilence’s burning gaze.

The man takes a few weak swallows, nearly choking in the process. I’m just about to stand when he grips my hand with surprising force. His feverish eyes are pinned to mine.

“I see him,” he says.

My brows come together. “Who?”

Shouldn’t indulge the man. Fever is likely making him hallucinate, and his disheveled state suggests that he might not have been all that healthy before the plague struck.

“Winged Death,” he hisses.

I try not to be spoked, but my skin pebbles anyway. This is Year 5 of the Horseman. The supernatural exists, and it is wrathful.

Death still sleeps.

Giving his hand a final squeeze, I pull away from the man and make my way back to Pestilence. He still sits on his mount, waiting solicitously for me.

“He’s coming for me!” the man shouts at my back. “He’s coming for us all—” His words cut off as a hacking fit starts up.

My eyes meet Pestilence’s. “You’ve already been here,” I say.

The truth is written all over the dying man.

The horseman inclines his head. “I rode here a few nights ago,” he admits. “I did not want a repeat of Vancouver.”

I don’t know how I feel about that. Grateful, I suppose. I know he did it more for my benefit than for his. But then, what kind of person does that make me to feel grateful for death coming early to these people?

Dazed, I get back onto his steed.

The two of us ride deeper into Seattle, the city’s ominous silence settling into my bones. A few sheets of paper scatter in the wind. I catch a glimpse of one. Evacuate Now, it reads in thick red font before blowing away.

The place gives me the heebie jeebies. You can feel Death here, his hand pressed to the walls of this place, his shadow eclipsing the sun. I see several more individuals—some leaning against the wall like the last man, others collapsed in the middle of the road, like their bodies gave out before they could get where they needed to go. Already I can smell rot on the wind.

For every person I come across, I have Pestilence stop his horse so I can give them aid—if they’re alive to receive it. Most aren’t.

Trixie’s hoof beats echo off the sides of buildings as we move through the abandoned streets.

“I would’ve thought there’d be more … bodies,” I eventually say.

Maybe it’s macabre of me, but now knowing that Pestilence has already made his way through Seattle, I keep expecting to see the dead everywhere. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people had to have stayed behind in the city this big. Where are their bodies?

“Humans prefer quiet corners to die,” Pestilence says.

At his words, my skin pricks and my gaze moves up the buildings towering around us. Logically, I know no one lives that high up any longer—the elevators are all busted—but I can’t help but wonder just how many bodies are sequestered away in these goliath structures, bodies that will rot and stink and infect the living for who knows how long.

Pestilence tightens his hold and clicks his tongue. Trixie’s steady trot morphs into a gallop, and the towering structures begin to blur by.

Up the street is another prone body, but this time, the horseman shows no signs of stopping.

“Pesti—”

“Enough, Sara. You cannot help everyone.”

Obviously, I can’t. I already tried that route and it landed me here, in the company of a trick-turning horse and his tragic, monstrous master.

My stomach twists as we pass the person by—an elderly woman.

She looks dead, I reassure myself.

But not all of them do. Some cry out as we pass, begging for help or death—whichever they prefer. It hurts a deep and fundamental part of me to do nothing.

In the end, though, that’s exactly what happens. We leave the city of Seattle and the horrible, icy rainstorm behind, until they are nothing more than a grim shadow at our backs.