Page 14 of Famine

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 saytree, “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 sobbing again.

“I’m looking for him,” I say. “Is he still in the city?”

The man doesn’t answer, just continues to cry.

I step in closer. Way up in that tree, I can just barely make out the man’s eyes.

I pause, assessing him, before I lift my shirt, showing him my own grisly wounds. I can’t say how many times I’ve stripped for men, or how many eyes have taken in my naked flesh. This, however, is one of the few times I’ve showed my skin for something other than money or pleasure.

After several seconds, the man goes quiet.

“He tried to kill me too,” I say, letting the stranger take in the various scars from my knife wounds. “I intend to return the favor. So, do you know where he is?” I say.

“God has spared you, girl,” he wheezes out. “Leave this place and live your life.”

I want to laugh at that. I took that option once; it landed me in a whorehouse. I’m not taking it again.

“God spared menothing,” I respond. “Now, do you know where he is?”

The man is quiet for a long time, but finally he says, “Seven kilometers east of here, there’s the neighborhood of Jardim Social. I’ve heard that he’s staying somewhere in there.”

Seven kilometers. I could get there within an hour or two—assuming I can find the place.

“Thank you,” I say.

I hesitate then, feeling like I owe the man something.

“Leave me,” he wheezes. “I belong here, with my family.”

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