Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Read online

  This is how our fear and generosity are treated.

  A flash of anger eclipses my pain and horror for a moment.

  None of us deserved this. Well, maybe one or two of my shittier clients deserved this, but not everyone else.

  I push away from the tree and continue on. Now I really notice the trees and brambly shrubs that have broken through the cracked streets of Laguna. In each one, bodies are held captive, their forms contorted.

  No one besides me walks down the street. All the people are gone and the flies have moved in—them and the semi-feral dogs who tug at some of the more accessible bodies.

  I eye the plants around me like at any moment they might scoop me up and crush me. So far, they haven’t, and I’m really fucking hoping my luck holds out.

  By the time I get to The Painted Angel, nestled between a tavern and a gambling hall, I’m still alive. Alive and alone. I haven’t seen another living soul.

  I pass under the wooden sign depicting a naked angel whose wings barely cover her tits and pussy, and I slip inside the only home I’ve known for half a decade. The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing throughout the space.

  I come to a standstill inside the main parlor.

  Normally at this time of day, the girls are lounging about on the jewel-toned couches that fill the space. Sometimes there’s a midday caller, but usually this is the time when—if we’re not sleeping off the night’s work—we’re sprawled across these couches, coffee or tea in hand, playing Truco or gossiping or singing or doing each other’s hair—or a million other things.

  Today, the bordello is as still as the grave. And for good reason. Three giant, thorny bushes grow in the middle of the room, and caught in their clutches are—

  Luciana, Bianca, and Cláudia.

  All of them had decided to stay behind, unwilling to leave this life they’d built for themselves. But now they’re gone anyway, and all their hopes and dreams are gone with them.

  My throat is working. I’m trying desperately to not fall apart. I just hope to God that the women who fled before the horseman’s arrival are still alive and safe.

  I shuffle past the bodies of my former housemates.

  “Hello?” I call out, but I already know no one is left. Famine doesn’t leave anyone alive.

  I drag myself towards the kitchen. All I want to do is sleep, but my lips are cracked and my throat is scratchy from dehydration. Rummaging around, I find a few pieces of fruit that are past their prime, some stale bread, and a hard rind of cheese. That’s all that remains of the normally well-stocked kitchen. The icebox hangs open, its shelves bare, and the pantry, with its links of hanging sausages and bags of grain, has been cleaned out.

  I grab a partially empty pitcher of water that sits on the countertop, and bring it directly to my lips, draining it dry. I tear into the bread, only pausing to take large bites from the cheese and the shriveled fruit.

  I feel nauseous again, like maybe my stomach isn’t really fit to hold food. That thought nearly has me retching up my meal.

  God, I really hope this isn’t going to be some long, lingering death that takes a fucking month.

  I almost lay back down on one of those couches, my body is that ready to give out. But I can’t bear the sight of any more dead, so I stumble up the stairs and to my room, and thankfully, I see no more unnatural plants.

  I fall into bed, dirt and blood getting all over my sheets. Elvita isn’t alive to yell at me, and frankly, if there still is anyone left to yell at me, I gladly welcome it.

  Because I’m pretty sure that I’m well and truly alone.

  Chapter 5

  I don’t die. Not that day or the next or the one after that.

  I don’t know why, out of all the many people in Laguna—people who had good, enviable lives—it’s my miserable one that gets spared.

  Those first several days are a fever-filled blur. I am certain I dragged myself outside to the well to refill the pitcher at some point, and I managed to hoist myself out of bed to go to the bathroom, but the memories are fuzzy. I only remember eating once or twice.

  It has to be roughly a week before my fever subsides. My head finally clears and my stomach is cramping with hunger, despite the awful, rotting smell that fills the room.

  Ugh. I want to die.

  Pretty sure death would be easier than bearing this horrible pain, but for whatever cursed reason, I’m forced to live through it.

  A memory tugs at the back of my mind, of a hand on my shoulder and something whispered into my ear—

  But then the memory is gone, and it’s not coming back.

  I push myself up to a sitting position.

  For the first time in nearly a week, I see my surroundings clearly. There’s the trunk at the foot of my bed with some of my more interesting toys and costumes, there’s the closet that’s crammed with soft, skimpy outfits that tease and reveal all the most tantalizing parts of flesh. On the windowsill are my collection of plants, most now wilted. And then there’s the vanity, lined with glass bottles of perfume and makeup. It’s as though my room didn’t get the memo.

  The world has ended. Get with the program.

  Pushing off the bed, I force my achy muscles to move, wincing at the agonizing pull of my wounds. Even now, the pain is terrible, but I can bear it enough to focus on other things.

  Like the fact that at least two other rooms I walk by are filled with Famine’s frightening plants, more of my fellow housemates lying limp in their clutches, their bodies badly decayed.

  Fear and the overpowering smell drive me outside. I take in several lungfuls of air then, gathering together my courage, I wander into the tavern next door, looking for food.

  There are more plants, more dead people, more horror. I keep my eyes down and mostly hold my breath as I make my way to the kitchen.

  I have to work around another twisting tree as I search for food, ignoring the dead cook. Decomposing bodies, I’m quickly discovering, are nightmarish things.

  I’ll never be able to wash away the sight of them.

  Most of the tavern food has gone bad, but I quickly grab what little remains, and then I leave.

  That night, I sob as I wash my wounds.

  Partly the tears come from the pain. Several of the cuts are deep and they’re still infected. But another part of it comes from the fact that I cannot escape the rotting city that surrounds me. There’s death in the streets and inside every building, and I feel like the horror of it is going to break my mind—if it’s not already somehow broken.

  And then I cry for the women I worked alongside—for Elvita who sheltered me, and Bianca and Cláudia and Luciana who, if they were here, would’ve helped me tend to my injuries, just as the women did every time a client crossed the line.

  And then I cry for the other girls, dead in their rooms or strung up in the trees somewhere else in this city.

  I cry until my head pounds from the effort. When it feels like I have no more tears left in me, I draw in a long, ragged breath, then another.

  Each breath feels like a small victory. I shouldn’t be alive, I really shouldn’t. And with every breath I take, my resolve hardens.

  I’m going after him.

  Even if it means certain death, I’m doing it.

  That evil fucker made one huge mistake coming here: he didn’t make sure I was dead.

  And now he’s going to pay for it.

  Chapter 6

  I spend the next couple days breaking into homes and businesses and grabbing what supplies I can.

  To properly go after the horseman I need some form of transportation. My shaky legs carry me down the streets of Laguna. I grimace at the sight of birds screeching at one another as they fight over the remains of some poor soul.

  For the love of God, Ana, look away.

  I take a steadying breath, trying to force down my nausea.

  The first time I saw what Famine could do to an entire town, I hadn’t stuck around long enough to see the bodies deco
mpose. Now, my injuries have given me no choice.

  As it is, my breath is ragged, and I sway unsteadily.

  I make it to the post office, where they have horses and carriages and—

  They’re all gone. All the horses.

  Inside the post office’s stables, the horse stalls hang open, each one empty. The only explanation for how they came to be that way are the spindly plants that snake up the front posts of each stall, their vines still curled around the latches.

  Famine released the horses?

  I stare for a little longer before I leave the stables. It’s probably for the best that the animals are gone. I’m in no position to feed and water and shelter a creature—especially one that spooks easily.

  The post office also has rows and rows of bikes on their property, several which are already hitched to carts. I snag one of these, and roll it back to the bordello. From there it’s simply a matter of dumping all my supplies into the cart. Food, water, blankets, a first aid kit, a tent. Shit, Ana, who knew a hussy like you had a campy side?

  I stack a hefty amount of weaponry into that cart too. I don’t know who I’ll come across, but considering how my last encounter with an outsider went, I’m feeling pretty fucking stabby at the moment.

  By the time I’m done, the cart is nearly overflowing with supplies. I feel a small spark of excitement.

  I’m leaving Laguna. Permanently. I never thought I’d actually escape this city.

  But before I do so, I make a final stop back inside my room. I stand just inside the threshold for several seconds, taking the place in. These four walls have been mine for years, and I have all sorts of memories in here—most of them unnerving, some degrading, but then I have plenty of happy memories here too. It’s a funny, uncomfortable thing, remembering it all. I’d practically sold my soul to The Painted Angel. I thought this was all I’d ever be.

  Slowly, I begin to meander around the room. My eyes pass over a series of paintings hanging on my walls of nude women lying in various, suggestive positions. Elvita called them tastefully sensual when she had them put up. Leaning against one wall is a gilded mirror. Across the room is the window with my mostly dead plants and near that is a single shelf that holds a blown glass vase, a book of erotic poetry and a basket full of seashells.

  My gaze drops to the chest at the foot of my bed before moving to my closet and the filmy clothing hanging inside. Lastly my gaze stops at my vanity, with the glass vials of perfume and my bag of makeup. I move over to the low table, my fingers skimming over the wood. There’s a small wooden jewelry box next to a jar of lotion and my oil lamp.

  All of it is so impersonal. The closest I get to any meaningful belongings is in a box pushed to the back of my closet, but even that holds nothing much of value. Just a small, carved horse I bought with my first paycheck, a stack of letters several different admirers wrote to me, a bracelet Izabel once braided for me and a couple other knickknacks.

  None of it is particularly sentimental, and I find that I don’t want to take any part of this past of mine with me. Not the makeup, not the clothing, not any of the mementos. These things are reminders of who I have been forced to be. But I don’t intend to stay that woman. Not any longer.

  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.