War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(34)

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.

Why isn’t anyone stopping me? The worrying thought flitters through my mind only for a second or two before I face Ashdod again.

I take a few more steps forward. It doesn’t matter, I decide, it’s me who needs to stop lingering if I want to actually do this.

Because War will likely come for me, and I can only imagine his wrath.

With that chilling thought, I begin jogging towards the city.





Chapter 15


Ash swirls along the roads of Ashdod, and the air smells like smoke and charred flesh.

It’s just like the stories said it would be. Bones in the streets, cemeteries tilled like fields. Only now do I fully understand.

I crouch down and pick up a femur, leaving the rest of the skeleton where it lays in the road.

The dead came and razed the last living remnants of the city, and then by the looks of it, they went back to being dead. A chill crawls over me when I see the bodies, some who clearly died today, and others, like the skeleton in front of me, long gone.

Now to find a bike.

I begin to scour the streets for any bicycles left lying about, trying not to be spooked by the unnatural silence.

I’m so lost in my own quest that I nearly miss the soft footfalls at my back.

It’s almost too late by the time I turn around.

An enormous man is only a couple meters from me, and he’s sprinting at full speed, a sword in hand. I have only seconds to unsheathe my own weapon.

He swings his sword overhead, bringing it down upon me, and I grunt as I hastily block his attack, his blade meeting my shorter one. I have to hold my borrowed sword with both hands to keep him at bay.

I stare into the man’s eyes.

Holy shit.

They’re glassy like a doll’s and slightly clouded over. But worst of all, there’s nothing behind them. No intelligence, no curiosity, no personality.

We really do have souls. We must because that spark of life is gone from this man’s gaze.

Bringing my foot up between us, I kick him away, buying myself a few precious seconds.

Now that I get a good look at him, his eyes aren’t the only thing wrong about him. His torso is drenched in blood from a stomach wound he received, and his skin is an ashy color.

He might be moving and fighting, but there’s no doubt in my mind that this man is well and truly dead.

I manage to drop my bow before he attacks again. My arrows jiggle in their quiver as I deflect another hit, and then another.

I feel like an idiot. I came here assuming that whatever magic War used on his dead, it was over. I deserve the death I’m probably going to get for this sort of fuck up.

The dead man keeps coming at me, and it’s all I can do to deflect his blows.

I really hope my sword is sharp enough for the butchery I need to do. And it will need to be butchery. A lethal blow won’t stop this corpse.

I grab the man’s wrist, then nearly drop it out of shock. His skin is just a touch too cool, and there’s some other element to it, like maybe the flesh is too hard, or it gives when it shouldn’t—I don’t know, something—that’s distinctly abnormal about it.

A second later, I draw my sword down and begin sawing through his wrist. My assailant jerks his arm away, sending me stumbling into him.

In a fit of panic I unsheathe my dagger and stab him in the eyes, grimacing as I do so.

If he cannot see me, I might live.

I try to remember that the man is gone, that this thing is just a puppet that can’t feel pain. And I’m pretty sure the creature really can’t feel anything because rather than fending me off, he drops his sword and reaches for my throat.

And now my blind attacker doesn’t need to see me to kill my dumb ass. He can squeeze the life out of me perfectly fine without his eyes.

So I desperately begin to saw at his wrist again, and when that makes no notable difference I wedge one of my feet against his chest, then the other.

Black dots fill my vision.

Choking.

The water rushes in—

No, no, no. That’s not going to happen again.

With one massive thrust, I shove my feet against the dead man’s chest, leaning back against his hold.

My neck rips free from his hands, and I fall hard onto the ground, choking for air. When he dives after me, I manage to roll away just in time, my weapons miraculously still in hand.

Heaving, I drag myself off the ground.

The dead man is scrambling to get back on his feet.

Can’t let that happen.

I squeeze my eyes shut against what I’m about to do, and then I bring my blade down on his neck.

My sword hacks away at his flesh, and it really isn’t as sharp as it needs to be. It takes a few too many swings to sever his head from his body, and I’m ashamed to say that all the while I’m biting my lip to keep from screaming—just in case there are more dead around.

Fuck this day and all its atrocities.

Even after I manage to remove the man’s head from his shoulders, his body still moves. His arms still flail, his legs still kick; he hasn’t lost any of his motivation.

I stagger away from him, then trip, landing hard on my ass. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, holding back a lingering sob that wants to claw its way out. The corpse picks itself up, swaying a little now that its head is gone.