gleaming like jewels, her sobs silent. On her lap was a doll of a child, its eyes closed.
Numb, Lisa counted the bodies. Six people dead, and five of them were children. Babies. She had asked her steed to take her to Death, and it had—but not the death she'd wished for.
Wishes and horses
, she thought, feeling hollow and sad and mad and sick. Her stomach lurched. Lisa clamped a hand to her mouth and told herself not to vomit.
"You get used to the stench of death," a man said, "but the smell never really leaves you."
Swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat, she pivoted to face a tall man seated on a white horse. Dust hovered around him like a nimbus, but the white of his coat—and of his horse—remained immaculate, untouched.
She stared at him, at his horse, at the silver crown that sparkled on the man's brow, bright against his greasy black hair. His pockmarked face was waxy, his eyes rheumy. Cold sores peppered his mouth like lipsticked kisses.
Yuck.
She focused on the scarred man, even as the smell of death teased her like perfume dancing on a breeze. "You're a Horseman," she said, her voice tremulous from almost vomiting—and, honestly, from being so close to a man who looked so nasty.
His smile was a perfunctory flash. "Pestilence."
Remembering her encounter with War, and how she'd nearly gotten her hand bitten off, Lisa didn't offer to shake hands. Besides, she really didn't want to touch him. She wondered if he had leprosy.
"Of course I do," he snapped. "I bear all diseases. It's my lot in life."
Great, another Horseman who could read her mind. Embarrassed, she bit her lip. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." It occurred to her, then, that she sounded exactly like Suzanne.
"Of course you didn't. People never mean anything they say or think." He snorted, and snot flew from his nostrils.
She blushed, but the White Rider kept talking—ranting, really.
"'How are you,' they ask, and they never really want an answer. No one wants to hear about how people are slowly dying a little more every day."
Lisa, unsure of what to say, held her tongue.
"People are hypocrites," Pestilence said. "It sickens me."
"Um." What did one say to someone like him? "Are you here because they're sick?"
"Of course." He looked down his nose at her. "Much as you're here because they're starving. Famine and Pestilence work well together. We always have."
"Oh?" She pasted a smile on her face to hide her disgust.
"Look at these villagers," he said, motioning with a white-gloved hand. "Normally self-sufficient, they had once again planned on their crops to support themselves. But then the bamboo flowered. Life," he said with a smirk. "Life begets all evils of the world."
Oh boy.
Lisa's smile slipped. "Bamboo flowers?" She'd thought bamboo was a reed. Her mother had a collection of bamboo baskets.
"And with the flowers came the rats."
Lisa shuddered.
"And the rats, once here, feasted on bamboo, on maize, on all manner of crops. Entire fields, destroyed overnight." His pink-rimmed eyes glistened either with disease or with tears. "With no crops, the people gather what they can. Yams, dug out in the jungle. Bananas, too, when they're lucky. Roots and leaves."
"And rats," Lisa whispered.
"And rats," he agreed. "And that's when they're fortunate enough to have food to go around. When they don't, they starve."
"
How about a slice of toast?
"her father had asked her just this morning. And she'd said no, because the Thin voice had warned her that the toast was eighty calories. Once again, Lisa thought she would vomit.
"Children die soonest," Pestilence said, "as do the elderly and the sick. Even if they don't die of hunger, they suffer from diarrhea and gastritis, which in this place leads to death. With no crops to sell, there is no money to buy mosquito netting, and so at night their bodies are a feast for mosquitoes. And in the morning they awaken with malaria. Yes," he said, "Famine and Pestilence
Numb, Lisa counted the bodies. Six people dead, and five of them were children. Babies. She had asked her steed to take her to Death, and it had—but not the death she'd wished for.
Wishes and horses
, she thought, feeling hollow and sad and mad and sick. Her stomach lurched. Lisa clamped a hand to her mouth and told herself not to vomit.
"You get used to the stench of death," a man said, "but the smell never really leaves you."
Swallowing the bile that had risen in her throat, she pivoted to face a tall man seated on a white horse. Dust hovered around him like a nimbus, but the white of his coat—and of his horse—remained immaculate, untouched.
She stared at him, at his horse, at the silver crown that sparkled on the man's brow, bright against his greasy black hair. His pockmarked face was waxy, his eyes rheumy. Cold sores peppered his mouth like lipsticked kisses.
Yuck.
She focused on the scarred man, even as the smell of death teased her like perfume dancing on a breeze. "You're a Horseman," she said, her voice tremulous from almost vomiting—and, honestly, from being so close to a man who looked so nasty.
His smile was a perfunctory flash. "Pestilence."
Remembering her encounter with War, and how she'd nearly gotten her hand bitten off, Lisa didn't offer to shake hands. Besides, she really didn't want to touch him. She wondered if he had leprosy.
"Of course I do," he snapped. "I bear all diseases. It's my lot in life."
Great, another Horseman who could read her mind. Embarrassed, she bit her lip. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." It occurred to her, then, that she sounded exactly like Suzanne.
"Of course you didn't. People never mean anything they say or think." He snorted, and snot flew from his nostrils.
She blushed, but the White Rider kept talking—ranting, really.
"'How are you,' they ask, and they never really want an answer. No one wants to hear about how people are slowly dying a little more every day."
Lisa, unsure of what to say, held her tongue.
"People are hypocrites," Pestilence said. "It sickens me."
"Um." What did one say to someone like him? "Are you here because they're sick?"
"Of course." He looked down his nose at her. "Much as you're here because they're starving. Famine and Pestilence work well together. We always have."
"Oh?" She pasted a smile on her face to hide her disgust.
"Look at these villagers," he said, motioning with a white-gloved hand. "Normally self-sufficient, they had once again planned on their crops to support themselves. But then the bamboo flowered. Life," he said with a smirk. "Life begets all evils of the world."
Oh boy.
Lisa's smile slipped. "Bamboo flowers?" She'd thought bamboo was a reed. Her mother had a collection of bamboo baskets.
"And with the flowers came the rats."
Lisa shuddered.
"And the rats, once here, feasted on bamboo, on maize, on all manner of crops. Entire fields, destroyed overnight." His pink-rimmed eyes glistened either with disease or with tears. "With no crops, the people gather what they can. Yams, dug out in the jungle. Bananas, too, when they're lucky. Roots and leaves."
"And rats," Lisa whispered.
"And rats," he agreed. "And that's when they're fortunate enough to have food to go around. When they don't, they starve."
"
How about a slice of toast?
"her father had asked her just this morning. And she'd said no, because the Thin voice had warned her that the toast was eighty calories. Once again, Lisa thought she would vomit.
"Children die soonest," Pestilence said, "as do the elderly and the sick. Even if they don't die of hunger, they suffer from diarrhea and gastritis, which in this place leads to death. With no crops to sell, there is no money to buy mosquito netting, and so at night their bodies are a feast for mosquitoes. And in the morning they awaken with malaria. Yes," he said, "Famine and Pestilence
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