Loss (20 page)

The first contact was the bite of winter wind, the splash of water hitting the face, the shock of walking into a punch; the Conqueror stepped through him, and Billy was left squeezed out, empty. He thought he heard a voice, heavy with phlegm, and that voice said:
I’ll not forget you, Billy Ballard.

Shivering, Billy turned to watch the Conqueror climb atop the white steed. With a shout that might have been a sneeze, Rider and horse left the forest to face the world.

Another clap of thunder, one that Billy felt in his teeth. Next to the pale steed, Death paused . . .

. . . and turned his head to look at Billy.

He can’t see me
, Billy thought wildly.
He can’t. He’s just a memory!

“Even memories die.”

Whether it was from Death’s words or from the absence of the Conqueror or from something else entirely, the forest began to change. The waterfall shimmered once, brightly, and then it folded in on itself, leaving behind a massive wall of gray. Not like rain clouds or turbulent waters, but
gray
, winter-sky gray, the gray of in between. As Billy stared, the gray nibbled at the edges of leaves, at the branches, at the very air itself, eating away everything with any color or spark of life. A sound like a groan, and then it felt soft beneath Billy’s sneakers, as if he was standing in mud. He looked down and saw that he’d sunk ankle-deep into what had been a fallen tree. With a yelp, he pulled his feet out, nearly losing his shoes in the process. And he immediately began to sink again, this time up to his shins.

Not like mud at all. More like quicksand.

Panicked, he freed himself from the softening bridge. Standing on the grass, Billy thought the ground felt . . . spongy. Overhead, the gray silently ate the world.

“You should run,” said Death.

Billy ran.

***

He’s running through the forest, not stopping to worry about thorns or rocks or half-hidden springs. He’s charging through the woods, a scream building in his throat as all around him the green leaches away into gray. Something brushes against him, cold and familiar, like snowflakes on skin, and Billy hears a word—

Gotcha

—and then something’s got him by the hair, is pulling him, reeling him in as around him the world falls away to nothing. Billy releases the scream as he’s pulled out of the dying memory—

***

—and, still screaming, he sprawled to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and froze, knees bent, arms out, ready to run, to flee, to bolt for his life. Panting, he darted his gaze around, quick flicks as he breathed in and breathed out, one two, breathing, just breathing and looking until two things penetrated the rush of adrenaline and terror: one, he wasn’t in the forest anymore; and two, Death—grunger Death, street musician Death—was standing in front of him, grinning hugely and giving him a thumbs-up.

“And that,” said the Pale Rider, “is how a Horseman pulls off a rescue.”

Billy blinked stupidly. Slowly, he realized he was back in the Greek hospital, clutching the Bow in one hand and sporting a killer headache. Wincing, he raised his free hand and rubbed his forehead. His neck hurt, too, as if he’d slept wrong.

“The Conqueror?” he asked. His voice sounded strange to his ears, off somehow, as if it were coming from some great distance. And there was something wrong with the temperature in the hospital room, because he’d begun to sweat like crazy.

“Out of bed, and riding in the world.” Death motioned to the empty hospital bed. “His steed sends its thanks, by the way.”

Billy’s thoughts felt soupy and slow. He repeated, “Steed?”

“The white horse. It’s tough on steeds when their Riders don’t ride. And that particular steed gets nervous when its Rider neglects it.” Death smiled, shrugged. “Abandonment issues.”

Billy thought of the powerful white horse from his nightmares, and then of the rather ordinary horse he’d seen in the Conqueror’s memories of Alexandria and the Greenwood, and he couldn’t imagine them being the same animal. Riders changed over the years; did their steeds?

“Of course they do,” said Death. “Nothing lives forever, not even Apocalyptic horses. But as with their Riders, the essences of those steeds are passed down from horse to horse. Collective memory, some would say. Very convenient, if you’re not able to take notes or read.”

Billy’s head pounded fiercely. He wanted to ask Death why he still had the Bow if the Conqueror had finally gotten out of bed, but his mouth refused to work any longer, and his legs must have decided to go on strike, because he slid to the floor. A tremor worked its way along his shoulders and arms, and his neck was horrible, and his head was threatening to split open.

He whispered, “What’s wrong with me?”

Silence, broken only by the sounds of Billy’s labored breathing. Finally, Death replied, “At times, the Conqueror can bear a grudge.”

Billy closed his eyes and wished his head would stop hurting; it felt like Eddie Glass was using it as a soccer ball. He sensed movement over him, and he tried to open his eyes to see what Death was doing, but his body no longer obeyed his brain.

The Bow
, he thought, or tried to think, but it was so hard to focus on anything over the incessant pounding of his head.

“No worries, William,” said a still, small voice. “I’ll see you soon.”

And then something cold touched his forehead—

***

—and Billy Ballard woke up.

He was in a hospital bed, with tubes and machines attached to him. His mother and grandfather were there in the room, and his mother cried with relief when Billy opened his eyes. Things slipped in and out of focus for a bit, but when he woke up for real, he learned that he’d gotten sick with bacterial meningitis. He’d been rushed from school, where he’d collapsed, to the hospital, and he’d been dosed with antibiotics and other medicines. Now his fever had broken, and soon he’d be allowed to go home, and look, said his mom, look, everything’s going to be just fine.

But she didn’t see what was leaning against the corner of the hospital room. In fact, no one saw the thin black limb, polished so that it gleamed in the harsh florescent lighting—an intricately carved limb that looked like a walking stick but wasn’t that at all.

Staring at the Bow, Billy understood that no, everything was not going to be fine, not by a long shot.

Part Three

Pestilence and the Conqueror

Chapter 18

Billy’s in the Sandbox Again . . .

. . .
but this time he’s solemn as he works on the ultimate castle, where the battle of Good versus Evil is supposed to play out. His heart’s not in it, and this shows in the sloppy work by the towers; if it were a real castle, guards would lose their footing on the uneven ground and easily topple over the edge to their deaths. Billy doesn’t care about that, and he doesn’t care that sand is sifting down the sides of the fortress, making a dune where the moat should be. The problem is he knows that Good and Evil aren’t so clear-cut; sometimes, good people do evil things, and, more confusingly, evil people sometimes do good things. Even kings might let people die, all for the greater good.

“Balance,” he says aloud. It’s a stupid word, and it shouldn’t be part of the battle between Good and Evil, and yet there it is. There has to be a balance between the two, because one is defined by the absence of the other.

He knocks down one of the towers, and takes no pleasure in the wanton destruction. He’s too old to be playing in a sandbox.

It’s a turbulent spring day, the sort that can’t decide if it really wants to be jacket weather or not. The wind is a little too strong, and clouds barricade the sun. The trees aren’t convinced that winter is truly gone, so they haven’t yet budded with new leaves. The playground carries echoes of children laughing and parents calling out warnings to be careful and let your brother play and other such soft reprimands, but the voices are just ghosts in the breeze; the playground itself is deserted.

A cloud passes over Billy, and he feels a tickle in his nose. He fights the sneeze until the feeling passes. Now his nose is leaking and his eyes are watering. He sniffles and blinks until his nose behaves and his eyes know better.

A shadow falls over him.

Billy stares at the ruined sand tower, and he doesn’t understand the sense of grief and loss that is bubbling inside him, sour as heartburn.

“It won’t last,” says a man’s voice.

Billy, unsurprised, turns around and sees a tall man dressed in white. The man looks sickly, for he’s far too thin: His coat, although clean, is much too big for him, and his pants are baggy. His face is a ruin of melted wax. On his brow, a silver circlet gleams.

“Nothing ever lasts,” says the man in white. “Not health. Not peace. Not abundance. Not life. Oh, no, especially not life.”

Part of Billy wants to shout for his mom, but that’s five-year-old Billy, the part of him who still can build sandcastles and is sure that all the problems of the world can be solved by superheroes. The rest of him, the William Ballard part that’s traveled to a distant land and has crossed through time and memory, isn’t frightened by the man in white.

“I know you,” says Billy. “You’re the Conqueror.”

“I was, perhaps.” The man lowers his head, and his long greasy hair shrouds his face. “But now? Now I am the defeated.”

Billy’s brow crinkles as he tries to make sense of the man’s words. “Defeated? By what?”

“Everything. All my plans are undone. All my fears are realized.” His voice drops to a whisper, which rattles in the air as if the wind is coughing. “I am nothing.”

Billy considers this. “You’re still the Ice Cream Man,” he finally replies, although that isn’t quite correct; the Ice Cream Man had been a thing of nightmares. This man, this one-time king, looks tired and used up. Not the walking dead, for death is not his demesne, but perhaps the walking ill.

The man in white smiles slowly. It’s rather horrible to look at. “I had been many things. Why not an ice cream man as well?”

Billy nods somberly.

“Come with me,” says the Ice Cream Man, who turns his back on Billy and starts to walk off the playground, his white boots kicking up a cloud of dust. Billy Ballard follows as if in a dream.

At the edge of the park, Billy sees a white horse. Not a merry-go-round horse, either, but a real live horse, large and so white that it’s like staring at the sun. Its eyes are pale green, like springtime peeking through cracks of ice, and those eyes are gazing at him intently, as if the horse is waiting for Billy to do something.

“It’s a sad thing when a horse wants for a Rider,” says the Ice Cream Man.

Billy frowns. “But you’re the White Rider.”

“I was.”

“You still are.”

“You agreed to wear the Crown when the time comes. This Crown,” says the Ice Cream Man, motioning to his forehead.

Billy squints at the thin silver band nestled over the man’s eyebrows. “But you’re still wearing it.”

“For now. It won’t last. Nothing lasts.”

“Why me?” Billy asks. “Why did you trick me into making a deal I didn’t understand?”

“Because I remembered you, Billy Ballard. I remembered you, and I came to you with an offer. You agreed to wear the Crown, and to get a ride on my fine white steed.” The man in white grins, and Billy sees rotted stumps where there should be teeth. “I saved you from your meager little life.”

There’s a pit in Billy’s stomach, and it’s white and filled with bugs. “You didn’t save me! You stole my future!”

The Ice Cream Man throws back his head and laughs, laughs like the roar of a waterfall. “What makes you think there’s a future for anyone? Don’t you understand yet?”

“Understand what?”

Around them, the edge of the park begins to bleed into gray—and beneath the gray, the White beckons.

“Come here, Billy,” hisses the Ice Cream Man. “Come here and see the end of the world.”

The man in white reaches out to Billy, who sees that the man’s gloved hand is twisted into a monster’s claw, and Billy opens his mouth to scream—

***

—
and Billy Ballard shook himself awake. He was in bed, his heart beating too fast, sweat already drying on his face. It was the fourth night he was home from the hospital, the fourth night that he’d had the same dream. And why not? He’d first known the Conqueror as the Ice Cream Man, the Nightmare Man, all those years ago. Why wouldn’t he be dreaming about him once more?

As he got his breathing under control, something itched in the back of his mind.

Billy forced himself to think about returning to school—anything to stop thinking about the incessant tickle worming around in his head. His doctor had finally given him an official note that would return him to the hell that was high school, and tomorrow was the big day. Billy sat in bed, thinking about what waited for him in the hallways, or lurked in the cafeteria, or loomed just outside of the bathroom, and even though he had a vague disquiet about Eddie and the Bruisers, it wasn’t the all-encompassing terror from before.

The itching grew stronger.

Billy turned to his reliable fantasy of kissing Marianne Bixby. He’d been texting with his favorite girl in black all throughout the week he’d been out of school, so he knew that even though he was the only one from school who’d been admitted to the hospital with meningitis, nearly everyone else in the school had gotten pumped full of antibiotics by their doctors. He also knew that besides his illness, there had been a rash of other sicknesses: Eddie had gotten a nasty stomach flu, and Kurt, Joe, and the lunch monitor had been stricken by salmonella, so now the school was getting sued. Between the freaking out over a possible meningitis outbreak and the food-poisoning lawsuits, the high school had been featured repeatedly on the local news—and that had temporarily turned Billy’s classmates into minor celebrities. “You’ll see when you’re back tomorrow,” Marianne had said earlier, laughing over the phone. “Some of them were such camera whores, chasing after anyone with a microphone. I swear, it’s like they think there’s a reality TV show in their future, all because Eddie puked, a few guys got food poisoning, and you were recovering from the brink of death!” Now as Billy lay in bed, he tried imagining the sound of Marianne’s laughter, but it warped into a scratchy whine, like the sound of a mosquito’s hum.