War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(2)

The night is quiet. It’s been like this for the last month. Not that it’s ever particularly rowdy here at night, but this feels different. You can sense people’s worry in the still air.

It must be the rumors.

There were … strange stories from the east, stories meant to scare you when you’re huddled over a fire and the night seems especially terrifying.

Stories about entire cities going to the grave. About streets scattered with bones and cemeteries tilled like fields. And through it all, War, riding on his blood red steed, his sword brandished.

I don’t know how true they are—these days, so many things are hearsay—but Jerusalem has been more subdued than usual. A few people have even packed up and left.

I might’ve been one of those people, if I had enough money to get where I wanted to go. But I don’t, so Jerusalem it remains.

As I get close to the Judaean Mountains that lie on the outskirts of the city, I hear the echoing footfalls of someone walking behind me. Could be the Muslim Brotherhood, could be the Palestinian police force, it could be a raider like me or a prostitute looking to fill the last of her quota for the night.

It’s probably nothing. Still it doesn’t stop me from going over my survival code, otherwise known as Miriam Elmahdy’s Guide to Staying the Fuck Alive:

(1) Bend the rules—but don’t break them.

(2) Stick to the truth.

(3) Avoid notice.

(4) Listen to your instincts.

(5) Be brave.

Five simple rules that, while not always being easy to follow, have kept me alive for the last seven years.

I pick up my pace, hoping to put distance between me and the stranger. Less than a minute later, I hear the footsteps behind me quicken.

I sigh out a breath.

Sliding my bow off my shoulder, I remove an arrow from my quiver and nock it into place. Spinning around, I take aim at the dark shape.

“Move along,” I say.

The shadowy figure is maybe ten meters away. They raise their hands, stepping forward a little.

“I just wanted to know what a girl like you was doing out this late,” the man calls out.

So, the individual’s not a prostitute and probably not the police either. That leaves the Muslim Brotherhood, a local gang member, or an ordinary civilian willing to pay for a woman’s company. Of course, he could also be a fellow raider looking to poach my finds off of me.

“I’m not a prostitute,” I call out.

“I didn’t think you were.”

So, not a confused customer.

“If you’re with the Brotherhood,” I say, “I’ve paid my dues for the month.” It’s the cost of moving about the city with impunity.

“It’s alright,” the man says. “I’m not with the Brotherhood.”

A raider then?

He takes a step towards me. Then another.

I pull my bowstring back, the wood of my bow groaning.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He says it so kindly that I want to believe him. But I’ve learned to trust what people do rather than what they say, and he’s not backing off.

A criminal then. Honest people don’t just sweet talk their way into getting closer unless they want something from you.

And whatever he wants, I doubt I’m going to like it.

“If you come any closer, I will shoot,” I warn.

His footfalls pause, and the two of us stand there for several seconds at an impasse.

He’s standing in the shadows between the gaslit streetlamps, so it’s hard to make out what he’s doing, but I think he’s going to leave. It would be the wise thing to do.

His footfalls resume—one, two, three—

I close my brown eyes briefly. This is no way to start a day.

The man begins to pick up his pace as he gains more confidence that I won’t shoot. He’s completely unaware that I’ve done this before.

Forgive me.

I release the arrow.

I don’t see quite where it lands in the darkness, but I do hear the man’s choked gasp, and then I see him collapse.

For several seconds I stay where I am. Only reluctantly do I lower my bow and walk over to him, a hand hovering near the dagger at my hip.

As I get close, I see my arrow protruding from the man’s throat, his blood darkening his skin and the ground beneath him. His breathing is wheezy and labored.

I stare at his face for several seconds as he grasps at the projectile. I don’t recognize him, not that I assumed I would. I guess that’s a relief. My eyes go to the bag he was carrying.

Crouching down, I open it up and rifle through his things. Rope, a crowbar, and a knife. A murder’s starter pack.

Unease skitters through me. Most people who do bad things have their motives—greed, power, lust, self-preservation. It’s unnerving to cross paths with someone who plans on hurting you not as a means to an end, but as the end itself.

The man’s choking breaths slow, then stop altogether, his chest going still.

Once I’m sure he’s gone, I remove my arrow from his body, wiping it off on his trousers before I slip it back into my quiver.

No one will bother to investigate what happened. No one will be punished, and by the time the sun is high in the sky, the body will be moved and the city will soon forget there was ever a corpse in the road to begin with.