She sighs. “You know, most people I greet here say that to me. I’m tired of having to tell you all the brutal truth.”

“And what’s that,” I say as she winds us through rows of tents.

“Everyone who leaves, dies.”

Tamar leads me to a dust-stained tent that looks identical to the dozens of tents erected to either side of it.

“Here we are,” she says, gazing up at it. “Your new h—wait.” She calls out to another woman four tents down. “This is one of the one’s we’re giving out, right?”

The other woman nods.

Tamar turns back to me. “This is where you’ll be staying from now on.”

“I already told you, I’m not staying.”

“Oh, hush,” she says, shrugging off my words. “You’ve had a harrowing day. Tomorrow will be better.”

I bite back a response. I don’t need to convince her of my intentions.

She pulls the tent flaps back and gestures for me to peer inside. Reluctantly, I do so.

It’s a small space, hardly big enough for the rumpled pallet that lays the length of it. In one corner rests a dog-eared book and a Turkish coffee set. In another corner rests a comb and some costume jewelry.

It’s clearly someone else’s home.

“What happened to the last person who stayed here?” I ask.

Tamar shrugs. “She left on her horse this morning … but she never came back.”

“She never came back,” I repeat dumbly.

My eyes sweep over the furnishings again. Whoever this woman was, she’ll never pick up that book again. She’ll never sleep on this bed, wear this jewelry, or drink from those cups.

“They weren’t all hers,” Tamar says, staring at the items alongside me. “Some belonged to others who passed on before her.”

If that explanation was meant to give me any comfort, it missed its mark.

So I’ve inherited the dead’s possessions. And when I die, someone will inherit what few items of mine remain.

That is, of course, assuming I’ll stay. Which I won’t.

Everyone who leaves, dies.

I swallow a little at that. The thing is, I really don’t want to die. And I’m still bent on figuring out how to leave this place, but I can already tell that’s not going to happen just yet.

My eyes sweep over the sparse furnishings. So I guess this is home for now.

Tamar turns to me. “What can you do?” she asks.

My brows furrow before she adds. “Can you fight, cook, sew, … ?”

“I make bows and arrows for a living—or I used to anyway.”

“Wonderful,” she says, like I gave her the answer she was seeking. “We could always use more craftsmen. Very well, I’ll tell the administrative staff to keep that in mind when they assign you your duties.

“My duties?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

Our conversation is interrupted by several women who come over carrying a basin full of water.

“Ah,” Tamar says, perfect timing. “Go ahead and put it inside the tent,” she says to the women, who then proceed to march the basin into my new home.

To me, she says, “Enjoy the bath. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes with clothes and food.”

Before I can say anything else, Tamar and the rest of the women are gone, presumably to situate other newcomers.

I turn back to the tent. After a moment, I take a deep breath and step inside.

I chew on the side of my lip as I stare at the bath water. It’s reddish brown and murky. Next to it, one of the women left a wet bar of soap and a towel.

Dare I actually get in?

I almost don’t. It’s not that this is anything unfamiliar. We have to hand-pump most of our water these days, so I’m used to sponge baths and sharing bath water. It’s just usually not this filthy.

Still, I can feel the drying blood on my jeans, fusing the material to my legs, and that, in the end, is enough to drive me into the bath, murky water and all.

I wash myself quickly and towel off. Once I’m done, I go to work on my clothes, using the bathwater to wash the blood from them.

You can never fully get bloodstains out …

Midway through, one of the tent flaps pulls back and Tamar and the other women cram inside, bringing with them several items—most notably a plate of food.

My stomach cramps at the sight of it. I haven’t eaten for most of the day. Up until now, I’ve been too wired to feel much hunger, but now that I’ve had time to rest, my hunger has swarmed in.

Tamar takes one look at me, wrapped up in the towel they left me. She holds up the items draped over her arm. “Your clothing—and some shoes,” she says, handing me the gauzy clothing and a pair of sandals.

The outfit is a two piece ensemble, and all I can say about the top and skirt is that both are flimsy, the black and gold material gauzy and transparent in most places.

I shift a little in my towel. I want clean clothes badly, but I’m also not too eager to prance around this camp in that filmy outfit.

“Um,”—How to not be a dick about this?—“do you have anything more substantial to wear?”

Tamar frowns at me, clearly feeling unappreciated for helping out. “The horseman likes his women to dress up,” she says.

The horseman?

His women?

The fuck?

“I am not his woman,” I say defensively.

You are my wife.

This is the first time Tamar has even brought the horseman up to me. I set aside the fact that she just confirmed that War is in fact War and focus on the fact that Tamar has been grooming me for the horseman.

“Better his woman than someone else’s,” one of the other girls says. Some of the other women murmur their agreement.

I’m going to enjoy you later, that soldier had said to me only hours ago.

I suppress a shiver.

Is that how this place works?

Reluctantly, I take the silks from Tamar, the material seeming to slide through my fingers.

Do I put them on?

My only other option is to slip back into my wet clothing and shoes.

I eye the items again.

I’m no more War’s woman than I am anyone else’s, and wearing these items doesn’t change that. But the horseman’s interest in me is another matter.

There are things he wants from me, things that have nothing to do with my fighting abilities and everything to do with the fact that he calls me wife.

My grip tightens on the silks.

There are things I want too. Answers, information, a solution to this monstrous apocalypse.

Who knows, maybe tonight I’ll get some of them.

I just have to put on the damn outfit.

Chapter 5

Battle drums fill the night air. Outside my tent, torches blaze, their smoke curling into the inky sky.

I spin my hamsa bracelet round and round my wrist as I follow the women back to the clearing, my dark skirt rustling about my legs.

In the time since my near death, the place has been transformed. I can smell meat sizzling, and there are tankards of some sort of alcohol already set out. The sight of all that liquor is somewhat shocking. Most people in New Palestine don’t drink.

Around me, people are talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. It’s strange to think that earlier today, they were raiding and slaughtering a city. There’s no sign of all that depravity now.