Loss by Jackie Morse Kessler Page A

saw Joe and Kurt clutch their stomachs, their fingers splayed wide. Kurt’s face paled, and as his belly let out a liquid growl he lumbered to the door, one arm thrown out before him and shouting at anyone who dared to get in his way. Joe swayed and crashed onto the cafeteria bench, his face dripping with sweat, heat and sickness wafting from him like perfume gone to vinegar.
    Billy’s head swam as he stared at Joe, who stank of diarrhea and fever. Salmonella, Billy knew, without knowing how he knew. Even pasteurized milk wasn’t always safe. Watch that first sip.
    The cafeteria monitor barreled out of the room, her stomach a gurgling mess. The group of misfits at the far end of Billy’s table erupted with laughter, joining the rest of the students in their schadenfreude. No one pointed to Billy or shouted at him or accused him of firing a weapon. No one seemed to see him at all.
    And that made him want to shoot them all the more.
    He stared at the Bow, horrified by what was happening to him. But along with the horror, there was a building fascination, a sense of wonder. Of possibility. He could finally fight back. With the Bow, he could put everyone in their place. They’d know he wasn’t someone they could push around any longer. And if they didn’t know it, he’d teach it to them, arrow by arrow, sickness by sickness. And finally, wallowing in bacteria and drowning in viruses, they’d respect him. More than that: They’d fear him, the way that he’d feared them for so very long.
    It would be so very easy.
    No. No. He wouldn’t become what he detested. He wouldn’t!
    He lifted the Bow high and brought it down hard against the cafeteria table. And again. And again, smashing the weapon with all his strength. With every contact he screamed his frustration and his fear until his fury dwarfed all other sound. No one saw him. No one stopped him. He was the White Rider, invisible as a germ.
    In his hands, the black wood gleamed, unscarred.
    Bellowing his denial, he brought the Bow up one final time—and froze as a cold hand gripped his wrist.
    “Dude,” said Death. “There are easier ways to get my attention.”

Chapter 10
    “You’re Here,” Billy Said . . .
    . . . and nearly sagged with relief. Everything would be okay now; surely, Death could see that there had been a horrific mistake and would take the Bow away. Billy Ballard wasn’t White Rider material.
    As if to counter the argument, Joe chose that moment to double over and vomit loudly on the cafeteria floor. Cue the mass exodus: The lunchroom cleared out in a wave of screeching teenagers until the only figures remaining were Billy, Joe, and an all-too-bemused Death.
    “Ah, school food,” said the Pale Rider, smiling down at Joe, who was now curled up in a tight ball. “Who knew they had regurgiburger on the menu?”
    “Please,” Billy said, “you have to take it back.”
    “Fine, it’s not a regurgiburger. We’ll just stick with ‘mystery meat’ and call it a day.”
    “The Bow,” Billy said, desperation pitching his voice high. “Please, you have to take back the Bow!”
    The Pale Rider’s smile turned sly. “I have to do many things, William, most of them centered around life and death. What I absolutely don’t have to do is claim a tool that is not meant for me.”
    “But look what I did!” Billy flailed his free arm in Joe’s direction. “I made him sick! Him, and Kurt, and Eddie!”
    “Don’t forget the cafeteria monitor.”
    “Yeah, and her! And you don’t know what I was about to do!” Thinking of how close he’d come to attacking his classmates made his stomach drop to his toes. “You don’t know,” he whispered.
    “Oh, I know.” Death finally released Billy’s wrist. “All that power can be overwhelming at first. Happens all the time. Well, almost. There was a Famine once who accepted the Scales and attempted to stop the Flood. Shortest tenure of the Black Rider, ever. But she proved her point.”
    With