A sound slips from my lips. For a moment, the mayor’s plea is forgotten. I rise to my feet, then stumble over to the edge of the pool nearest her, my vision darkening from the pain. I don’t bother to muffle my cries, even though a small part of me worries that it will draw the attention of Famine’s men.

I fall to my knees and frantically reach for her. She’s close enough for me to touch, but the moment my fingers brush her, I know she’s gone. Her skin feels nothing like living flesh.

A sob slips from my lips.

Elvita is gone.

Truth be told, I have—I mean, I had—a complicated relationship with this woman, one that was equal parts resentment and gratitude. I know she used me—exploited me even—but she was also a friend and confidante, and she protected me from the worst of our world. This plan of hers—to throw one of her girls at the horseman—wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Over the last five years, my old anger towards Famine stayed with me like a scab, and now it’s as though he picked it open.

He took everything from me twice.

It’s time he pays.

Once I’ve gathered myself, I stand, moving away from the pool and the flies that circle it.

All this time I’ve been too distracted to notice that neither Famine nor any of his men have approached this backyard. And for that matter, the pit is filled in. Their business here must be done.

I stumble towards the front of the house, grinding my teeth at the impossible pain.

I shouldn’t be alive, and how badly I’m regretting that fact right now, when my body feels flayed wide open.

I round to the front of the house. The front door hangs open. The place looks abandoned.

How long was I lying inside that pit?

I stagger home, taking in shallow, ragged breaths. I have to pause numerous times to catch my breath when my vision clouds or the pain and exhaustion become too unbearable. I gasp out hushed cries.

As I walk, I skirt around large plants that have broken through the asphalt road. Perhaps if I’d been less focused on making it through each step I would have noticed how quiet my surroundings had become. Quiet and empty. I would’ve noticed the putrid smell stinging my nose and the road’s altered appearance.

I’m more than halfway home when I finally notice the drone of buzzing flies, a sound that’s accompanied me for most of the walk. Even then, I don’t process the noise until I lean against one of those trees growing in the middle of the street—a tree, now that I think about it, that wasn’t there the last time I used this road …

The buzzing is nearly deafening, and that’s when I finally realize something’s not right.

I glance above me, towards the sound, and I swallow a scream. Dangling from the boughs of an enormous paraná pine tree is a twisted body, the feet bare and discolored. As I watch, the corpse gently sways in the breeze. A swarm of flies circles what I think used to be an old man, flying and landing and flying and landing round and round the corpse.

As my eyes move over the canopy of leaves, I notice another body, this one a young woman. Her limbs are tangled up in the branches, her eyes bulging.

I’ve seen this before—Lord help me but I have.

I’ve seen trees like this one grow spontaneously from the ground, and I can easily imagine how it plucked men and women off the street and squeezed the life out of them like an anaconda squeezes prey.

Not that it makes it any easier to process.

I lean over once again and heave. But there’s nothing left in my stomach to expel.

I think of how all us townspeople lined the road, waiting for the Reaper, our arms full of gifts meant to placate him. Then I remember his face when he ordered my death. All because I caught his attention.

This is how our fear and generosity are treated.

A flash of anger eclipses my pain and horror for a moment.

None of us deserved this. Well, maybe one or two of my shittier clients deserved this, but not everyone else.

I push away from the tree and continue on. Now I really notice the trees and brambly shrubs that have broken through the cracked streets of Laguna. In each one, bodies are held captive, their forms contorted.

No one besides me walks down the street. All the people are gone and the flies have moved in—them and the semi-feral dogs who tug at some of the more accessible bodies.

I eye the plants around me like at any moment they might scoop me up and crush me. So far, they haven’t, and I’m really fucking hoping my luck holds out.

By the time I get to The Painted Angel, nestled between a tavern and a gambling hall, I’m still alive. Alive and alone. I haven’t seen another living soul.

I pass under the wooden sign depicting a naked angel whose wings barely cover her tits and pussy, and I slip inside the only home I’ve known for half a decade. The door slams shut behind me, the sound echoing throughout the space.

I come to a standstill inside the main parlor.

Normally at this time of day, the girls are lounging about on the jewel-toned couches that fill the space. Sometimes there’s a midday caller, but usually this is the time when—if we’re not sleeping off the night’s work—we’re sprawled across these couches, coffee or tea in hand, playing Truco or gossiping or singing or doing each other’s hair—or a million other things.

Today, the bordello is as still as the grave. And for good reason. Three giant, thorny bushes grow in the middle of the room, and caught in their clutches are—

Luciana, Bianca, and Cláudia.

All of them had decided to stay behind, unwilling to leave this life they’d built for themselves. But now they’re gone anyway, and all their hopes and dreams are gone with them.

My throat is working. I’m trying desperately to not fall apart. I just hope to God that the women who fled before the horseman’s arrival are still alive and safe.

I shuffle past the bodies of my former housemates.

“Hello?” I call out, but I already know no one is left. Famine doesn’t leave anyone alive.

I drag myself towards the kitchen. All I want to do is sleep, but my lips are cracked and my throat is scratchy from dehydration. Rummaging around, I find a few pieces of fruit that are past their prime, some stale bread, and a hard rind of cheese. That’s all that remains of the normally well-stocked kitchen. The icebox hangs open, its shelves bare, and the pantry, with its links of hanging sausages and bags of grain, has been cleaned out.

I grab a partially empty pitcher of water that sits on the countertop, and bring it directly to my lips, draining it dry. I tear into the bread, only pausing to take large bites from the cheese and the shriveled fruit.

I feel nauseous again, like maybe my stomach isn’t really fit to hold food. That thought nearly has me retching up my meal.

God, I really hope this isn’t going to be some long, lingering death that takes a fucking month.

I almost lay back down on one of those couches, my body is that ready to give out. But I can’t bear the sight of any more dead, so I stumble up the stairs and to my room, and thankfully, I see no more unnatural plants.

I fall into bed, dirt and blood getting all over my sheets. Elvita isn’t alive to yell at me, and frankly, if there still is anyone left to yell at me, I gladly welcome it.

Because I’m pretty sure that I’m well and truly alone.