Breath (18 page)

“This isn’t just some temper tantrum,” Pestilence said.

The Black Rider pulled her coat tighter around her and didn’t reply.

Missy tells him that she loves him, but he doesn’t reply—not with words. He holds her and loves her, and makes her feel so very alive.

But he never says those three words to her.

She still tells herself that it doesn’t bother her.

“Don’t you see what’s happening?” Pestilence looked at Famine, then at War, who grumbled and turned away.

“You do see it,” he said softly. “Don’t you?”

War refused to reply. She knew what he was insinuating, but she refused to acknowledge it.

“See what?” Famine asked peevishly.

“This morning,” the White Rider said, “when he visited me, he gave me a gift. That’s when he destroyed the malaria, and then he told me my work was done.”

Famine grew still.

“Did he give you anything?”

“At the wedding,” she said slowly. “He had a bouquet of flowers, and he gave them to me.”

Blood roared in War’s ears. “
He
gave
you
flowers?” She could count on no hands how many times Death had given her flowers.

Uneasy, Famine said, “They dried up as soon as I touched them.”

“You get flowers,” War snarled at Famine, “and you get a day off,” she said to Pestilence. “Me? I got the shaft.”

A beat, and then Famine asked, “Is
that
what they’re calling it these days?”

“He cut me off
!” War gnashed her teeth. “That was
my
gift: He cut me off from him. I can’t feel him.” She remembered him leaning over her, the press of his lips against hers—the sudden chill as he stole her heat. “He was right there, a breath away from me, but it was like there was a wall between us.”

Famine frowned. “I don’t understand. He . . . what, took away your empathy?”

“Only with him. But isn’t that enough? He shut me out.
Me.
” War ignored the sudden sting in her eyes. Softly, she said, “He hurt me so much.”

“Ask yourselves now,” said Pestilence. “Has he ever,
ever,
done anything like this before? Not just in your experience, but in your Rider’s?”

“He’s always cold,” Famine said.

“Harsh,” said War, shivering.

Pestilence said, “But he isn’t rash. Out of all of us, he’s the one who’s patient. He’s the one who understands the importance of waiting.” He looked at Famine. “He’s acting rashly, for the first time in forever. He’s gotten colder, crueler.” He turned to War. “He’s gotten distant, has even cut off the one person who could truly understand him. He’s giving us gifts. Don’t you see what’s happening here? He’s suicidal.”

The words rang true, and not just because the White Rider obviously believed them.

He spoke the truth. War could see it, could feel it.

She turned her back on him so that she wouldn’t punch him in his fat mouth. But already, the Sword was laughing and laughing and laughing as images of blood ran freely in her mind—her blood, the blood of others, it was one and the same.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Famine said. “He can’t be suicidal. He’s Death.”

“Oh, so you’ve never been hungry?”

The Black Rider didn’t reply.

“I’m telling you,” Pestilence said. “He’s suicidal. And that’s not the worst of it.”

War rubbed her arms. “No?” she said, not looking at him. “What could possibly be worse?”

“Have you noticed the weather?”

That threw her. “What about it?”

“It’s gotten colder. Windier.” Pestilence paused. “Angrier.”

War got it. Eyes wide, she turned to face the White Rider. “You can’t mean . . .”

He nodded, once, his mouth set in a thin line.

Famine let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just the weather.”

Pestilence insisted, “It’s
him.
When he gets cold, the world follows.”

“You’re insane. Winter happens. Wind happens.”

“But it happens more erratically when he’s like this,” Pestilence insisted.

“How do you know that?”

On his brow, the Conqueror’s crown gleamed. “Because I know.”

“He’s right,” War whispered, her words half lost as the Sword clamored for blood. “Oh God, he’s right.”

Famine spluttered, “Right about what?”

“This isn’t just about him being suicidal,” Pestilence said grimly. “He’s suicidal, and he’s taking the world with him. If we can’t stop this—if we can’t stop
him
—then it’s going to be hell on earth.”

“You’re being dramatic,” said Famine.

“I wish I were,” Pestilence replied. He took a moment to quash the nausea that suddenly flooded him—the White Rider antacid special, much better than the pink stuff he used to chug. “You have no idea just how bad it’s going to be.”

A SHEET OF WHITE,
the King wailed.

Yes,
he growled silently.
I know, shut up.

You can’t tell them,
the Elder whispered.

I have to.

What will the knowledge do, other than break them?

What other choice did he have? The three of them were coworkers, and like it or not, what was happening now was part of their job. Granted, it was firmly in the “Other Duties As Assigned” column, but still, the responsibility was theirs.

To his left, War stood in profile, rubbing her arms as if to ward against a chill. Her cherry red coat looked almost cheerful in the sunlight, but her face was a study in solemnity—tight jaw, pinched mouth, a troubled look in her eye. She, at least, understood what was to come.

Of course she does,
said the Elder.
She’s his handmaiden. She should be ecstatic. The Last Ride is coming.

You don’t know her,
Pestilence chided.
She’s not like that.

She’s War. Of course she’s like that.

Acid bubbled in Pestilence’s stomach again. He swallowed thickly, tasting bile.

Billy Ballard is delivering his grandfather’s eulogy, pretending his stomach isn’t about to rebel. He talks about the man who had become his father figure, the man who taught him how to ride a bike and throw a baseball and how to always find his way home. He talks about his grandfather’s slow slide into Alzheimer’s, and how over the last couple of years of his life, Gramps had shown remarkable resilience. Medicines and prayers and everything in between go only so far, he tells the mourners—the sick still must have spirit. They have to want to be healthy. They have to want to live. And his grandfather fought tooth and nail for life. He had enough spirit that three years ago, he even stood up to Death himself.

The mourners think he’s being metaphorical. He lets them think that.

He tells everyone that even though his grandfather lost the battle against Alzheimer’s, he held on to his dignity until the very end. He’s never been prouder of the old man.

He won’t say goodbye, he tells the mourners. As long as they keep his grandfather’s memory in their minds, part of Gramps will live on.

To his right, Famine hid in shadow, from head to foot. She was thinner than he remembered, and clearly anorexic, even though her long coat and baggy pants hid it well. He’d tried to talk to her about it, once. That had gone poorly. Even before that ill-fated conversation, he’d tried to become closer to her over the years—hunger and disease tended to work hand in hand—but she always kept her distance. She was far more guarded than any of the previous Black Riders. More wounded, perhaps.

Lady Black,
whispered the King.

Once, yes.
That playful name was from the time when Famine and Pestilence had been closest, during the first thousand years that the King had reigned as the White Rider. But the time of Black and White together almost intimately was long gone. Now he had Marianne, and Famine had . . . whoever it was that she had.

Three years ago, Billy Ballard had kissed the girl, and she had kissed him back. With tongue. Since then, he and Marianne have been together. It’s only gotten better after high school. Now they’re freshmen in college—same state, but different schools; he’d gotten a full scholarship to his, and her parents had handpicked hers. They talk every day and see each other almost every weekend. They do the party scene; they do the quiet scene. They learn more and more about each other as they slowly discover who they are. Eighteen, and learning about how far first love can truly go.

Eighteen, and learning about life.

“He’s not suicidal,” Famine said.

“He is. All the signs are there. And more than that,” Pestilence said. “Can’t you feel it? Deep down, in the part of you that makes you what you are, that makes you the Black Rider . . . can’t you feel that something’s wrong?”

Famine gripped the brim of her hat and said nothing.

“Can’t you feel it in your gut?”

War barked out a laugh. “That’s just hunger pangs she’s feeling.”

“Red,” he sighed. “Please. For this once, can the two of you let it go?”

“She started it.”

Famine snorted. “Oh, please . . .”

“Well, you did. Okay, not
you,
but the Black Rider did.” War’s eyes glittered like diamond chips, enticing and sharp. “You had to goad her on, didn’t you?”

“Enough!” Pestilence shouted. “This isn’t about the two of you!” He glared at them both. Famine, hidden within shadow, was still, but War laughed softly, lushly.

“Listen to you, so commanding. The Conqueror in truth as well as name. Will you lead us,” the Red Rider asked, “when the time comes for the Last Ride? Will it be your Bow lifted high that acts as our banner, signaling the end of the world?”

As I said,
the Elder sighed.
How could War not wish for the End?

“You know it’s not like that,” he said, to War and the Elder both. “There won’t be a Last Battle, no climactic explosion with the world falling to ash in our wake.” He saw it so clearly: the end of the world, arriving on a sheet of white. “It will be so much worse. If there’s no Death, then there’s no life.”

“If there’s no light, there’s no darkness,” said War. “Blah blah.”

See how casual she is about the end of everything?
the Elder asked.

She’s hurt,
Pestilence replied.
When Death cut her off, that scarred her. And more: that scared her. She’s lashing out in anger and fear.

That doesn’t forgive what she says.

No,
he agreed,
but it makes it understandable.

“It’s more subtle than that,” he said. “It’s not like if he dies, bang, out we go. We’re still here. But there won’t be any new life.” He paused to let that sink in. “No babies, from any species. Once everything alive now finally dies, that’s it. We’re the last generation.”

Silence, other than the screaming of the wind.

“Think about what that means,” he said, his hands imploring. “People talk all the time about making things better today, for tomorrow. But there won’t be a tomorrow, not like that.”

“Even if I believed you,” said Famine, “which I don’t, I doubt it would be as bad as all that.”

He quashed the urge to shake sense into her. “It would be the end of society. There would be no point to anything.”

“It’ll be nihilism,” War said slowly. “People will stop thinking about things like right and wrong, won’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. It’ll be one huge going-out-of-business party, with no one caring about the consequences.”

He couldn’t tell if she was disgusted or excited, and he didn’t want to know.

“Anarchy,” he agreed. “Many will die in the crossfire. More will die by choice. Whoever’s left will do whatever they need to do to make their lives tolerable. There won’t be any such thing as law or morality. It’s the end of society.”

Famine shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not. Even if the last generation lives to eighty, ninety, a hundred, what then? Who will take care of them? Help them as they age and weaken?”

“Scientists would come up with something,” she said curtly. “A cure.”

“For what? You can’t cure death,” said Pestilence. A memory that wasn’t his, of a father kissing his daughter good night one final time, her diseased face the color of plums. “Believe me,” he said gruffly. “I know.”

“Cloning, then,” Famine snapped. “They’ve done it with sheep.”

“It won’t work,” Pestilence said. “That’s what’s about to happen here: the death of the future. Life won’t continue, not in any form. No cloning. No cures. No innovation. No
nothing.
”

“Well then, robotics. Or some other scientific marvel. People work well under pressure.”

He stared into her shadowed face, and he said through gritted teeth: “It. Won’t. Work.”

“‘This is the way the world ends,’” War murmured. “‘Not with a bang but a whimper.’”

“You’re crazy. Both of you.” Famine shook her head. “He’s not suicidal. The world isn’t ending, not now, not anytime soon.”

Stunned, he blurted, “Why won’t you
see?
Why are you being so willfully blind?”

“Why don’t you believe in him more?” she countered. “After all he’s done for you, for us, how could you think so little of him?”

“It’s not about
believing
in him,” he shouted. “He doesn’t need our belief
! He needs us to stop him from doing something that affects everything forever!”

His voice echoed and was lost to the wind.

“If he really needs us,” War said softly, “then he shouldn’t have treated us so badly.”

Pestilence glared at her. “He’s not himself
!”

“That makes it less true?”

“You can’t hang the fate of the world on one bad thing that he did to you! Listen to you! You’re acting like he did this to you out of some personal vendetta, and you,” he said to Famine, “you’re sticking your head in the sand and pretending everything is fine! My God,” he shouted, “grow up!”

War’s lip pulled up in a fierce tic, and he could see her hands trembling like a junkie’s. Her urge for violence was a physical need, one he could easily sense—it radiated from her like sickness.

A moment later, a horse’s scream tore through the air, and then the red steed was right there, its black eyes narrowed to slits, its ears flat against its skull as its tail swished viciously back and forth.