War leans out of his saddle, his arm outstretched. I begin to move out of the way, but War simply adjusts his trajectory so that he’s still closing in on me. The distance closes between us—ten meters, five, two.

His arm slams into my midsection, sweeping me off the ground. My breath leaves me all at once as I’m dragged onto his horse. I gasp for air as War secures my back to his front.

“Next time, you’ll wait for me,” he says into my ear.

Unlikely.

I scowl at him over my shoulder as he carries me out of town, hating that I’m pressed so close to him.

Once I’ve taken in a few deep breaths, I say, “You made me kill today.” They were his soldiers, but still.

It wasn’t right, none of it was right.

War doesn’t respond.

Of course he doesn’t.

The horseman’s steed slows as we rejoin the last of the army, who has gathered at the edge of Ashdod. I don’t know why War’s soldiers have stopped here, rather than back at camp, or why War is stopping with them.

Deimos comes to a halt, and as soon as he does I slide off the steed. War lets me go, and that in and of itself should’ve tipped me off that something strange was going on.

I feel the horseman’s gaze burning into my back as I make my way into the gathered crowd of soldiers. The people around me look to their warlord like they’ve been waiting for an announcement.

War’s phobos riders fan out around him, the group of them still on their steeds. I stare at these stoic, mounted men, each one wearing a red band on his bicep. Like War, many of them have taken to wearing kohl to darken their eyes.

A hush falls over the crowd, and my skin pricks at the silence. All eyes are still on War.

What is going on?

Wordlessly, the horseman reaches towards the ruins of Ashdod, his palm upturned. His arm begins to shake, his muscles tense beneath his armor. Slowly, he raises his arm, higher and higher as though lifting a great burden.

I glance around me again at all the rapt faces.

Okay, seriously, what the fuck is going on?

For a long minute, all is quiet, all is still.

Then, I feel it at my feet.

The earth begins to tremble. It’s subtle at first—I almost think it’s my imagination—but it continues to intensify until my legs are vibrating from it. Pebbles skitter along the ground and the earth. All the while War sits on his steed, arm uplifted, his features placid.

A shiver runs down my spine. Something is happening, something …

Around us, the earth begins to split open. People either jump or stumble away as the ground around them parts.

And then—

The ground is moving. Not just opening, but moving. It looks, alive and I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing—until, that is, a desiccated hand rises from the ground.

“Dear God,” I breathe.

From the earth, the dead rise.

Chapter 14

The stories were true. The ones from the east. The ones about the east.

My eyes sweep over the flat landscape. Everywhere my eyes land, the dead are rising. There are dozens and dozens of them. The ground beneath my feet was unknowingly speckled with unmarked graves, and from them, the long gone are coming back to life.

Some of them are nothing more than skeletons; others still have bits of flesh clinging to their desiccated bodies.

As soon as they rise, the dead turn towards Ashdod.

It takes less than a minute for us to hear the distant screams start up.

Dear God. There were still people alive in the city. Only now, hearing those screams …

The horrible, haunting truth sinks in, and it’s paralyzing.

The dead are killing the last of the living. This is why I heard nothing but rumors about those cities gone to the grave. War left no survivors, and without survivors, there was no way to warn the rest of the world that the horseman was coming.

I push my way to the front of the group, just off to the side of the phobos riders. Ahead of me I can see the road into Ashdod. My legs nearly fold as I stare out at the burning city now riddled with zombies.

My gaze moves back to War, with his arm extended.

He’s doing this. Singlehandedly.

Without thinking, my feet are moving me forward, towards him.

A mounted phobos rider blocks my way. “No one disturbs the warlord.”

War turns then, his eyes filled with dark intent. He lowers his arm, though the screams don’t stop.

“Jehareh se hib’wa,” he says.

Let her through.

I push past the rider, feeling the horseman’s gaze on me.

“Stop this,” I say when I get to him.

He stares at me for a long time, his face unreadable. Then, very deliberately, he turns from me, back towards the city.

There is my answer. It’s written in every line of his body.

No.

“Stop it,” I say louder. “Please. This isn’t war.”

This is eradication.

The horseman’s voice rumbles. “This is God’s will.”

I’m forced to wait until it’s over. It’s depressingly quick. From the sounds of it, there is no winning against the dead. If your opponent can’t die, then they can’t truly be stopped.

At some point, the screams begin to lessen. It’s no longer a distant chorus of cries but a whisper. And then that, too, is gone.

Shortly after the screams die away, something around me … changes. I can’t say exactly what it is, only that the air seems easier to breathe. Maybe it’s everyone’s collective tension. The crowd seems to be rousing itself now that the entertainment is over.

War lowers his hand and turns his steed away from the city, steering him over to me.

He stops at my side, extending a hand to me. It’s the same hand he used to raise the dead.

“Aššatu,” he says.

Wife.

It’s clear he means to load me back onto his horse and return me to camp.

I step away from his hand, my eyes rising to meet the horseman’s.

“I hate you,” I say softly, my pulse pounding in my veins. “I think I hate you more than I have ever hated anything.”

War’s confident demeanor slips a little at my words. I swear for a moment he looks almost … uncertain.

I back away from him then, and he gets the message loud and clear, withdrawing his hand. He lingers for several seconds longer, and again, I sense his deep doubt. For all he supposedly knows of humans, he doesn’t appear to know how to handle our moods.

Eventually, War gives me a heavy, final glance, then steers his horse towards the front of the crowd. I guess he figured I’d follow him back on foot alongside the rest of the soldiers, who are now trailing after him.

I don’t.

I stay rooted in place, watching them all retreat back the way they came.

I swivel around and face the burning remains of Ashdod. My heart aches at the sight of it. Was this what Jerusalem looked like? If I could stand on the Mount of Olives at this very moment and look out over my hometown, would it appear as silent and still as Ashdod?

I take a few steps towards the city, the thought giving me shivers.

This might be my chance at escape. There are undoubtedly bikes and boats and food and all other sorts of resources left in the city. I could arm and equip myself and I could leave.

Throwing a brief glance over my shoulder, I check to make sure that no soldiers are storming back for me. But none of the men and women so much as throw a glance behind them.