Page 157 of War

Nothing.

I stalk towards him.

His horse is already halfway spooked. I debate scaring the steed into a frenzy before I decide instead to force myself up and onto the horse.

I am mad, I think, especially when War’s mount lifts its front legs halfway up in warning. But I claw myself far enough onto the saddle to grab onto War’s armor, and then I begin to drag the two of us back down to earth.

The action is enough to fully frighten the horse. The horseman’s mount rears back, throwing me and War off its back. A split second later, the horse takes off into the melee.

War lays beneath me. His arm is no longer outstretched, his eyes no longer glassy. Yet still the undead don’t fall back to the earth. Whatever powers he drew on, they won’t be stopped by distraction alone.

I lean over him, and I cup the side of his face. “Please, War. Please find your compassion. Please stop.”

“I will not stop, wife. I willneverstop. It is you who mustsurrenderto my ways.”

That damn word.

I push myself away from him, suddenly repulsed at the thought of touching him. Of caring for him. He is a blight and a terror to my world.

Around me the town is descending into full blown chaos. The dead kill the living, and every person cut down only lays still for a moment or two. Then they rise again as the vengeful dead. They turn on the living, attacking the very people they sought to protect only seconds before.

Dead husbands kill their wives, dead parents kill their children, dead neighbors kill their friends. A lifetime of relationships—deep, meaningful relationships—are weaponized in an instant.

I barely register the tears tracking down my face. How did we deserve this? What could we have possibly done to deserve this?

The dead ignore me and War completely. It’s almost surreal, and for an instant, I remember what it was like to watch television. To be like a fly on the wall as some great scene unfolded around you. You watched it, like a specter, but you were never touched by it.

I force myself to my feet. In a trance, I pull my bow off my shoulder, and grab an arrow. And I begin to shoot the newly dead.

A mother, a grandfather, a husband, a daughter, a neighbor. They hardly react to the arrows that cut through them. I keep shooting, even as I cry. I shoot until there are no more arrows left to shoot. And still the dead keep killing.

I pull out my dagger from its holster and stride into the fray. The undead don’t fight me. They part like the Red Sea, moving around me to hunt down more innocents. I can’t seem to even get close enough to them to sink my blade into their flesh.

I want to scream.

“You think I wouldn’t know of your treachery?” War calls out behind me.

I turn to face myheavenlyhusband, and I’m shaking with all my anger and anguish.

“You hadn’t even left camp when my men told me.” He begins to casually close the distance between us, ignoring the carnage around him, even as blood sprays onto his black clothing. “How my wife slipped away—on my horse no less.”

There is only one thing in this world he will spare, one thing he can’t bear to lose. One way he might stop.

Fear washes through me.

Be brave.

I let him get close. It’s only at the last minute that I bring my dagger to my throat.

War stops, still too far away to make a grab for my weapon, but close enough for him to see it pressed to my skin. His eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second. The horseman didn’t foresee this coming.

“Miriam,” War uses his menacing voice, the one that makes you want to piss yourself. And yet there’s a spark of fear in his eyes.

Right now I’m too reckless to care about either.

“Stop the attack,” I demand.

“I willnotbe threatened,” he warns.

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