Who else could possibly be following the horseman?

The hoof beats seem to multiply on themselves until it starts to sound like thunder.

I peer from that shell of a window. What I see takes my breath away.

There must be hundreds of riders all squeezed onto the road, armed with knives and bows and swords and all other manner of weaponry.

My heart begins to pound faster and faster, and yet I keep still, so still, afraid to even breathe too loudly.

I wait for them to pass, but they keep coming, the riders followed by what look like foot soldiers, and those followed by horse-drawn carts.

The longer I watch, the more riders pass me by, until it becomes clear that there aren’t merely hundreds of men, but thousands of them, all who follow in War’s wake.

There’s only one reason this many armed men are traveling together.

War isn’t simply riding into Jerusalem.

He’s invading it.

Chapter 2

I wait until the entire army has passed through before I leave my hiding spot. I step out of the building on shaky feet, unsure what to do.

I’m no saint. I’m no hero.

I stare at that road heading west, in the direction opposite the army, and it looks awfully enticing.

I glance in the other direction, towards where the army headed.

My home.

Leave, my mother’s voice says in my head, leave with the clothes on your back and never come back. Leave and save yourself.

I make my way to the road, leaving behind the branches I chopped down. I glance both ways—west, away from the city, and east, back to Jerusalem.

I rub my forehead. Goddamn but what should I do?

I go over my survival code again: Bend the rules—but don’t break them. Stick to the truth. Avoid notice. Listen to your instincts. Be brave.

Always be brave.

Of course, these are the rules to staying alive. I don’t need the rules to know that going west will increase my survival odds while going east will lower them. It shouldn’t be a question at all—I should go west.

But when I turn and start down the road, my feet don’t take me west.

Instead I march back towards Jerusalem. Back to my house and the army and the horseman.

Maybe it’s stupidity, or morbid curiosity.

Or maybe the apocalypse hasn’t beaten the last bit of selflessness out of me after all.

I’m still no saint.

By the time I arrive in the city, the streets are already running red with blood.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to cover up the sick smell of meat that tinges the air. I have to step around the bloody bodies that litter the streets. Many of the buildings are burning, and smoke and ash billow about me.

In the distance I can hear people screaming, but right here, right where I’m walking, the people have already been killed off, and the silence seems to be a thing itself.

Before New Palestine was New Palestine, Israel’s military drafted most of its citizens. Since my country’s civil war, there’s been no mandatory conscription, but most youths here learned to fight anyway. As I glance around at all the dead bodies, I realize none of that matters.

For all the knowledge they may have on fighting and warfare, they’re still dead.

Truly, what was I thinking, coming back here?

My grip on my bow now tightens. I pull out an arrow and nock it.

I shouldn’t even care to save these people. After everything the Muslims did to the Jews and the Jews did to the Muslims, and what everyone did to the Christians and the Druze and every other minority religious sect, you’d think I’d be happy to just let it all burn to the ground.

All religions want the same thing—salvation. I can hear my father’s voice like an echo from the past. We’re all the same.

I walk faster and faster through the streets, my weapon at the ready. The place has been swept through. More structures are on fire, more dead bodies lay scattered in the streets.

I came too late. Too late for the city, and too late for the people.

A few blocks more, and I start to see living people. People who are fleeing. A woman runs with her son in her arms. Ten meters behind her, a mounted man chases her down.

I don’t even think before I raise my bow and fire off the arrow.

It hits him square in the chest, the force of it knocking him off his horse.

I glance over my shoulder in time to see the woman and her son duck into a building.

At least they’re safe. But then, there are so many others who are fighting for their lives. I grab an arrow, nock it, and shoot. Grab, nock, shoot. Over and over. Some of my shots miss, but I feel a flush of satisfaction that I’m managing to pick off any of these invaders at all.

I have to duck as I continue through the streets. People are leaning out their windows, throwing whatever items they can at this strange army. As I move I see a man get pushed off his balcony. He lands on a burning awning below. The last I hear of him are his screams.

At some point, a few of the invading soldiers recognize that I’m a threat. One of them aims his own bow and arrow at me, but he’s on a horse, and his shot goes wide.

Grab, nock, shoot.

I hit him in the shoulder. Grab, nock, shoot. This time my arrow gets him in the eye.

Need more arrows. And other weapons, for that matter.

I make a break for my flat, which is several blocks away, whispering a prayer under my breath that I don’t run out of arrows before I get there. I have a dagger on me, but I’m no match for a bigger opponent, and most of these soldiers are just that—big opponents.

It takes about thirty minutes to get to my place. I live in a condemned building—not that anyone’s going to tear it down anytime soon. It sustained some damage during the fighting a few years ago and most people moved as a result. I didn’t. Call me sentimental, but it’s where I grew up.

When I get to it now, the entryway is on fire.

Crap, why hadn’t I thought of this?

I eye the structure. It’s mostly made out of stone, and besides the entrance, it looks alright. I chew the side of my lip.

Making a decision, I dash inside. Not three seconds after I do, the overhang collapses, closing me in.

Well shit. I’m going to have to either hop out of a window or else hope the ancient fire escape works.

Once I’m inside, I dash up the stairs to my flat, coughing against the smoke.

I slow when I catch sight of my apartment. The front door hangs ajar.

Motherfucker. Someone else must’ve already had the same idea I had. People around here know I make weapons.

I step inside, and the place is a mess. My workstation has been overturned. Along the shelves, the knives and swords and daggers, bows and quivers and maces and arrows I’d carefully stored have almost all been removed.

I don’t pause to scavenge through them. Rushing to my bedroom, I lift up my mattress. Beneath it are dozens upon dozens of arrows and a spare dagger.

Dropping my canvas bag to the floor, I scoop up the arrows and shove as many as I can into my quiver. Then I grab a sheathed dagger and quickly strap it to me.

After I’ve armed myself, I head downstairs. Kicking in a door to one of the apartments I know is abandoned, I step inside. The windows here are mostly intact, and I have to grab a discarded chair and smash it against the glass for it to shatter.

Knocking out the last shards, I step outside and run into the fray once more.