Page 54 of War

I take a few steps towards the city, the thought giving me shivers.

This might be my chance at escape. There are undoubtedly bikes and boats and food and all other sorts of resources left in the city. I could arm and equip myself and I couldleave.

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 alongthe 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 isgonefrom 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 itwillneed 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.

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