War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(27)

It once was, hence my rules for surviving the apocalypse. But now the game is no longer just about survival. It can’t be. It’s about remaining decent during the true end of the world.

War wants us to fight—well, to be fair, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether I fight. He made that plain the day he took me. But most of the camp’s occupants are supposed to go into battle and kill just as their family and friends were killed. I don’t know how many people here can stomach that, but I can’t. I can’t just stand by as innocent people get slaughtered.

I glance over at where I’ve propped up the photo of my family.

My hands still.

What if I spent my time in battle killing off this ungodly army?

Killing is a horrible, messy business. And killing War’s army is akin to a death sentence—if I get caught doing so. My idea isn’t all that wise or decent.

I also know I can’t simply sit around and watch the world burn.

My tent flaps are thrown open, and a phobos rider peers inside. “The warlord wishes to see you.”

My stomach clenches.

Re-holstering War’s dagger, I follow the rider out of the women’s quarter, the two of us making our way towards the horseman’s tent.

As we move through camp, I notice that weapons have been set out, and people are picking through them, finding which ones best suit them. I even see a child checking out a dagger. I shudder at the sight.

Among the cluster of people, I see the man from the first night who grabbed his crotch and pointed his dagger at me. He chats with a few other men, but their eyes follow me as I pass by. The crotch-grabber runs his tongue across his lower lip as he takes me in.

He hasn’t forgotten about me, which isn’t good.

This is one of the reasons why Rule Three—avoid notice—has made my list of guidelines to live by. When people notice you these days, it’s often for the wrong reasons. Too pretty, too wealthy, too vulnerable, too wounded, too sick, too stupid. You can become easy pickings for the wrong person.

I frown at the man and move on.

When War’s tent comes into sight, my heart begins to pound.

This is the first time the two of us will have talked since we traveled together, and my emotions are conflicted. The War I rode alongside was a halfway normal person. The War who manages this camp is a fearsome, conscienceless being.

And the truth is, I don’t even know the full extent of his power and cruelty, only that it’s capable of wiping out entire cities.

How much of New Palestine is gone? For that matter, how much of the lands east of New Palestine is gone?

Nausea rolls through me. That’s the man I’m dealing with. A horseman who has already killed off countless. A horseman who enjoys the carnage.

As soon as we near the opening of War’s tent, the phobos rider steps aside, leaving me to enter alone.

Inside, War sits on a chair, his fingers steepled and pressed to his mouth.

When he sees me, the horseman’s eyes come alive. My heart stutters a little at the sight.

Out of fear, not flattery. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The horseman stands and comes up to me, and he’s just as intimidating as ever. He reaches out to touch me, but I flinch away before he can.

Things are different now.

War frowns. “You slept in my arms only two days ago, and now you can’t bear my touch?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the horseman sounded a tad wounded.

“I didn’t mean to sleep next to you,” I say.

“Didn’t you though?” he throws back at me. “I lavished your bed as best as I could, and still you came for me.”

“Stop rewriting what happened,” I snap.

He steps in close. “Am I?”

“I wouldn’t knowingly sleep with you,” I say. “Not while you’re butchering my kind.”

“I am doing what I must, just as you are,” he says. “Can you fault me for it?”

“Yes.” I damn well can.

“If you knew what lay on the other side of death,” he says, “you would know it is nothing to fear.”

“And what about pain?” I add.

“What about it?”

“If you don’t care about the fact that you’re killing us, what about the pain you’re causing us?”

“Your kind only feel it for a short while.”

I stare at him. He doesn’t get it. Pain is pain, and death is the end—maybe we go on in some other form, but it is an end. Our bodies die, and all those earthly hopes and dreams die along with it. He’s overlooking the fact that there’s worth in life itself.

I step back. “Why did you call me to your tent?”

“The fight tomorrow is not for you,” he says. “You are to stay here, in my tent. I will have all the amenities you might need.

Ah, so he is happy to kill people, but when it comes to me, he doesn’t want me touched by his violence.

Surviving is no longer good enough.

“What if I want to come along?”

War’s eyes narrow. He stares at me for a beat too long, and I have to fight the urge to fidget.

“What mischief are you up to?” he says.

“Why are you worried?” I say a tad defensively. “What could I possibly do?”