The next rider’s tent belongs to a woman, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at her things. My only clue is the framed photo next to her bed. I recognize her face immediately. It’s hard not to when there are so few female phobos riders. In the photo with her is a man—her husband?

All at once I feel some unwanted emotion towards this woman who’s undoubtedly slaughtered dozens of innocents. But I can’t help it. She once had a family, just like the rest of us, and somewhere along the way, she lost them—most likely to War himself.

For the millionth time I wonder what motivated these riders to not just fight for the horsemen, but to become his most trusted and lethal soldiers. Was it survival? Was it a love of bloodsport? Something else?

I leave the woman’s tent then, slipping out like a ghost.

Snooping is starting to lose its appeal. Reluctantly, I head into a fourth tent.

My last one, I promise myself.

This home looks like it’s a shared space; there are two pallets pushed together, the sheets mussed from sleep.

Looks like me and War aren’t the only two people in camp who are shacking up.

These riders have the unusual luxury of having a wicker chest in their room. Not many do since furniture is hard to travel with.

I head over to it.

Kneeling in front of the chest, I open the lid. Inside, I notice a hookah, tobacco, a spare set of clothes, and a Turkish coffee set. Amongst it all is a folded piece of paper.

I pull out the piece of paper and unfold it. On it is a hand drawn map of the area we’re currently in, right down to the Nile River we’ve been following, the road we’ve been traveling on, our temporary settlement, and the city of Karima, the latter which is situated in the top, right corner of the map. Certain areas on the paper have X’s on them, alongside the names of various phobos riders.

This is a tactical map, I realize. One that seems to include people and the places they need to defend … or attack.

But War had told me that he was giving up the fighting.

He wouldn’t lie to me—particularly not about this.

Which means the map is wrong. It has to be. My brow wrinkles as I continue to study it. The longer I look at it, the stranger I feel.

And then I realize why.

On the map, the phobos riders are positioned along the road, and judging from the markings, the plan is to lead their assailants towards a specific location, one where they can then ambush them. The only problem is, the map doesn’t show the assailants coming from the city.

It shows them coming from camp.

Chapter 56

War was right. There is nothing to fear.

Until, of course, there is.

I put the map back where I found it, and then I sprint to War’s tent.

He’s going to be ambushed.

At least I think he’s going to be.

But … I must be wrong about what I saw. Not because I have faith in War’s riders—I wouldn’t trust them farther than I can throw them—but because they know better than anyone the extent of the horseman’s power and savagery.

They know he can’t be killed.

So why plan an ambush?

Maybe I read the map wrong. I don’t have a lot of experience looking at tactical maps. It’s possible I misinterpreted this one.

Inside War’s tent, I grab my dagger and holster and strap it to my waist. It takes a little while longer for me to find the bow and quiver War once gave me. I feel a little foolish, arming myself when I’m still so unsure of what I saw.

War’s riders must know something I don’t. Or maybe I’ve gotten this whole thing backwards. Maybe they’re not going to kill the horseman—why does my mind keep going there anyway? The man can’t die.

Nevertheless, unease sits like a stone in my stomach.

I stride outside, heading for the corral, where a few horses remain. I pause when I see them, another wave of uncertainty washing through me.

Am I really going to do this? It’s one thing to strap on weapons, another to saddle a horse and ride into battle on an assumption I made.

And even if my worst fears are true, what could I possibly do that War himself couldn’t?

I never get the chance to answer my own questions.

All at once, the earth comes alive beneath my feet, and it is angry. Violently it buckles and rolls, nearly throwing me to the ground. I stumble away as all around me, the tents shake and collapse. The horses shift nervously in the corral.

In the next instant, the dead are bursting forth from the ground, clawing their way to the surface. They move with unnatural agility; I’ve never seen them rise so quickly.

One of the horses charges, breaking through the brittle wood of its enclosure. The rest follow, galloping away.

I spin around.

In all directions, the dead are surfacing. There are hundreds of them as far as the eye can see. I’ve never seen War call so many.

Most are simply husks of humans, some with many bones missing. There are other animals too—horses, goats, cattle, and something that might be a dog or a jackal. They rise from the desert earth, dust sloughing off of them.

Once they’re topside, they begin to run in a single direction: towards the site of the ambush.

War.

Something’s happened. I’m certain of it now.

And my earlier plan is in shambles—the horses are long gone. If I want to help War, I’ll have to go it on foot.

I begin to jog in the same direction as the dead as they rush past me. There are so many of them—so many more than one would assume, given the fact that the land seems to be devoid of life.

The earth is full of so many bones.

Far in the distance, I hear a dull boom. The sound sets my teeth on edge.

What in the world?

Less than a minute later I hear two more booms, each one ratcheting up my nerves.

In response, I push my legs harder.

I’ve only covered about four hundred meters when suddenly, the undead fall to the ground all at once.

I glance around me at the countless bodies now littering the landscape, my hackles rising.

I step up to one of the corpses, this one nothing more than a skeleton. I stare down at it as the seconds tick away. One—two—three—four …

Something isn’t right.

Something really isn’t alright.

I glance to the horizon. My unease is back, but now it’s redoubled.

You know what?

Fuck. This.

Rule Four of Miriam Elmahdy’s Guide to Staying the Fuck Alive: listen to your instincts.

I haven’t, not since I came to camp. The past several months have forced me to disregard this rule I lived by, but I won’t today.

Instinct is telling me that something terrible is happening to War—that something terrible may have already happened.

I grab my bow and pull out an arrow from my quiver. I continue jogging along the road heading towards Karima, sidestepping piles of bones and bodies that litter the ground. It’s as I’m running that I realize if War’s men mean to dispose of him, then they’re going to come back to camp to dispose of me as well.

Shit. They might be coming back for me this very moment.

Part of me wants to continue storming headfirst towards War, but the more calculating, survivalist part of me knows that the only advantage I have on two dozen armed phobos riders is surprise.

I scan my surroundings as I run, until I catch sight of a rusted out car which sits just off the road. I make my way to it, and crouching behind its rough metal frame, I train my weapon on the road coming in.