Page 82 of Famine

The horseman steers us towards it. Nearby, several guards loiter. The horseman gestures for them, and several hustle over.

“Get me another chair,” the Reaper demands.

A couple of the men’s eyes go to me, and I can see their confusion.Why does she get special treatment?

Sorry guys, I wish I knew the answer.

They hurry off to do Famine’s bidding, and within minutes another chair is dragged inside and placed next to Famine’s.

“Sit,” the horseman tells me, releasing my shoulder.

I frown at him but take the seat.

The Reaper moves to his own chair, removing the scythe from his back before he sits. He lays his weapon across his legs, lounging back.

“Why are you doing this?” I say, staring out at the sea of people who are quickly filling the room. They keep to the edges, standing in nervous groups. A few brave souls have dared to serve themselves some food, but most people seem to be of the opinion that it’s better to leave the food alone.

Fools!I want to shout at them.Why did you stay when you could have fled? The horseman won’t take pity on you. He doesn’t know what pity is.

Famine arches an eyebrow at me. “I thought you would want me to do something more human. Don’t you mortals love parties?”

That answer only causes my heart to pound harder.

“Look,” he says, gesturing to the tables laden with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. “I haven’t even destroyed the food.”

Yet.

We both know he will. He always does.

Whatever this is, it’s another one of Famine’s cruel tricks.

A band begins to play sambas, and it’s an awful pairing—this joyful music with the frightened faces of Registro’s citizens.

I sit in my seat, beginning to squirm the longer nothing happens.

People—mothers, fathers, friends, neighbors—all of them are beginning to relax. Slowly, the noise in the room rises as people talk to each other.

Without warning, the Reaper grabs his scythe and rises from his throne, his bronze armor glinting in the candlelight.

All at once—silence. I’ve never seen a crowd go quiet that quickly.

He raises his arms. “Eat, dance, be merry,” the horseman says, his gaze sweeping over them.

If Famine thought that his words would somehow jumpstart the evening,he thought wrong.

No one moves. Peoplewereeating—some were even being merry—but now no one is budging a centimeter. Even the music has stopped. If anything, I think the horseman reminded everyone that thiscelebrationis a little too surreal to be trusted.

Famine sits back in his seat, clutching his weapon like a scepter, a frown on his face. The longer people stay pinned in place, the angrier his expression becomes.

“Damn you all,” he finally says, slamming the base of his scythe down against the cracked concrete floor. “Eat! Be merry!Dance!”

Frightened into compliance, people begin to move, some shuffling towards the tables of food, a few creeping towards the open space in front of the band. I can see the whites of a few people’s eyes.

It’s still silent, so the Reaper points his weapon at the musicians. “You useless sacks of flesh,do your jobs.”

They scramble together, some discordant notes drifting off their instruments as they rush to make music. Once they begin playing a song, people move to the dance floor, woodenly beginning to dance.

My stomach squeezes at the sight and my skin feels clammy, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

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