Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,11

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.

Inside, the store is dim, but it’s not dark enough for me to miss the four separate trees that rise from the floor, their canopies pressed against the ceiling. Caught in each one of them are dark forms. One of these forms shifts, letting out another pained sob.

My eyes snag on the figure. Slowly, I approach.

“I can’t cut you out,” I say by way of greeting. “The last person I tried to help was killed by that …” I can’t bring myself to say tree, “thing.”

In response, I think I hear soft sobs. The sound twists my gut.

“Can you speak?” I ask.

“He killed my children and their children too,” the man rasps out. “He didn’t even have to touch them to end their lives.” He begins