The 13th Horseman (13 page)

War shot Pestilence an angry glare. “Oh, well done. Nice work.” He gestured with a thumb towards the hatch. “Get upstairs, the pair of you. We’ll be up in a minute.”

“But... the Apocalypse,” Pest said. “What if we’re late? We can’t be late!”

“What are they gonnae do? Fire us?”

“No, but they could banish us to Hell,” Famine said.

“Aye, just let me see them try it,” War snapped. “Now get upstairs. We’ll be up in a bit.”

Famine and Pest exchanged a worried look, but they both knew better than to argue with War. Drake watched them until they had clumped all the way up the stairs, and out through the hatch at the top. Only then did he turn to the other horseman.

“We’ve got to do something,” Drake said. “We can’t let this happen. All the people, we can’t just let them die.”

“Sit down,” War told him. A leather couch squeaked in surprise as War’s full weight came down on it.

“What?” Drake spluttered. “There’s no time!”

“Sit down and catch your breath,” War insisted. He lifted a magazine, then rested his enormous feet on the coffee table. “You’re nervous. I get it. Take a minute to get your head together.”

“My head is together. I’m not nervous,” Drake said. “That’s nothing to do with it. It’s just... it’s wrong. It’s all wrong!”

“Aye. It’s hardly surprising, you seeing it that way. You’ve only been in the job a day. No wonder it’s messing with your head.”

There was something different about War’s voice. It took Drake several seconds to realise what it was. He wasn’t shouting. “I’m gonnae let you in on a wee secret,” War said.

Despite himself, Drake took a step closer. “What?”

War held up the magazine. There was a salmon on the cover. “I always wanted to go fishing,” he said.

Drake blinked. “What?” he asked, for a second time.

“Fishing. I always wanted to go, but never did. Don’t know why, really.” He flicked through a few pages. “You ever fished?”

“No, I... Why are you telling me this?”

“I’d have liked a boat too,” War continued. “You know where you are with a boat.”

“On the water, usually,” Drake said automatically.

“Exactly.” War sighed and sat the magazine down. “Still, too late now, I suppose. Missed out on that opportunity.” He looked over at a clock on the wall, then picked up another magazine. It was a thin, glossy one, filled with ‘Real Life’ stories sent in by readers.

War scanned the cover, picking out the headlines. “
My baby breathes through his ears
,” he read. “Look at this one.
Cannibals ate my feet
.”

“What? So what? What are you on about?”

“It’s life’s rich tapestry,” War said. “Check this one.
I’m afraid of my own hair.
Her own hair. The nutter.” He turned a page and chuckled at another headline. “They’re a strange old bunch, humans. Interesting. Annoying, a lot of the time, aye, but... interesting.”

Drake watched the giant, as he casually flipped through the magazine, occasionally chuckling at some story or other. He didn’t know why, but as he looked down at War, a question just popped in there, right at the front of Drake’s thoughts.

“Do you want to do it?”

War’s eyes lifted and glared over the top of the magazine. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted it to happen. Do you want the Apocalypse?”

“Do I want it? What do you mean, do I want it? What are you saying?”

“You don’t, do you?” Drake realised. Excitement flushed through him. “It doesn’t have to happen. Don’t you see? We can stop it.”

“Stop it?” roared War, suddenly back on his feet and looming larger than he had ever loomed before. “
Stop it?
Have you even read your job description?”

“You didn’t give me a job description,” replied Drake, standing his ground.

“Well, it’s the exact opposite of what you just said,” War barked. “We don’t stop Armageddon, we welcome it in.”

Drake searched his face. “But you don’t want to.”

“What I want has nothing to do with it!” War bellowed.

“Just admit it,” Drake shouted back. “Say it.”

The bit of War’s face that wasn’t beard turned scarlet. “Admit what? That I don’t want the Apocalypse to happen now because I’m worried you’ll mess it up? That I don’t want to have wasted six-and-a-half thousand years waiting for the end of the world, only for you to come along and ruin it for everyone?”

War kicked one of the couches so hard it flipped across the room and thudded against a wall. “You are without doubt the
worst
Death we’ve ever had,” he boomed. “And I’m including the goldfish in that. You’re not picking any of it up, you haven’t developed any of the abilities, you can’t even whistle! We’ll be a laughing stock!”

The gleaming breastplate rose and fell as War took a series of deep, steadying breaths. “So, in answer to your question, no I don’t want the world to end. At least, not today,” he admitted.

“Besides,” he added more quietly, “I’d quite like to try fishing.”

“Well, OK, then,” said Drake. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“What’s taking them so long?” sighed Pestilence. He was wearing a hole in the floor, pacing back and forth, his eyes trained on the open hatch. “It’s all very well War taking his time, he’s not the first horseman. I am. If we turn up late, who do you think’s going to get the blame? Muggins here, that’s who.”

There was a sound of footsteps from below. Drake hurried up the steps and into the shed, with War at his heels.

“Finally!” Pest said. He gave Drake a friendly smile, then looked to War. “Is that us ready for the off, then? Judgement Day’s not going to start itself!”

“Aye, about that,” said War, with a sideways glance at Drake. “There’s been a bit of a change of plan.”

T
HE
F
OUR
H
ORSEMEN
of the Apocalypse stood in the clearing outside the shed. They were arguing. Or rather, three of them were arguing. The other was having a Cornetto.

“Have you lost your minds?” Pestilence asked, looking from War to Drake and back again. “I mean, I mean... The entire point of our existence is to usher in the end of the world.
Usher it in
, not put a stop to it. Have you lost your minds?”

“We don’t know if this
is
the end of the world, though, do we?” Drake said. “It’s the old Death doing it, so it’s probably not the real thing.”

“Of course it is! War got the call!”

“Aye, but they’ve lost the book,” War said.

“That was careless,” Famine said, taking a bite from his cone.

Pestilence’s gloved hands went to his mouth. “They’ve lost the book? The Book of Everything? They can’t have lost the Book of Everything. How could they lose the Book of Everything?”

War shrugged. “No idea, but they have. They don’t know anything for sure. It’s guesswork. They told me on the phone earlier, but I didn’t want to say anything, in case, you know, you had a breakdown or something. But aye, they’ve lost the book.”

“Oh, well... It doesn’t matter,” Pest said, after some consideration. “We got the call. It’s not our job to question, it’s our job to ride across the sky. Come on, War, we’ve been waiting a long time for this. We can’t blow it now.”

“But that’s exactly what
will
happen if we ride out with him in tow,” War stabbed a finger at Drake. “He can’t even summon his horse.”

“The end can’t come soon enough for my liking,” said Famine. “All this sitting around’s doing my head in.”

“We don’t have to sit around all the time, though,” Drake said. “There’s a world of things to do out there – you don’t have to sit in a shed playing board games. You could go fishing, or hillwalking, or take up, I don’t know, showjumping or something.” Drake aimed the next suggestion squarely at Famine. “You could get a job reviewing restaurants, or, God, I don’t know, join a theatre group.”

Pestilence briefly raised both eyebrows. “Musical theatre?”

“If you wanted,” Drake said, nodding enthusiastically. “You were created at the beginning of the world, and you’ve been waiting around for the end. But you’ve missed out on the middle bit in between. You’ve wasted it.”

Famine and Pest exchanged a look. Behind his beard, War smiled.

“It’s too late,” Pestilence said, but he didn’t sound sure of himself. “We’ve had the call.”

“OK, then what if this is the end of the world?” Drake asked. “What if this is the big finale? What happens to us afterwards?”

“Well, I mean we...” Pestilence began, but he stopped there. He looked to War. “What happens to us again?”

War’s broad shoulders raised, then lowered. “Dunno. You got your contract?”

“I lost it years ago,” Pestilence said. He tried to smile, but his face was having none of it. “I expect we just... what? Go to Heaven? I expect that’s it.”

Famine crammed the last of the Cornetto into his mouth. “Hang on,” he mumbled, before swallowing. “Lemme check the old filing system.”

The fat man cleared his throat noisily. He sucked in his belly, but it was hard to notice any difference. He cleared his throat again, then punched a fist against the top of his stomach, right below where it met his chest bone.

“You might want to step away,” War said, guiding Drake a few paces back. Pestilence was looking the other way, his rubber-gloved hands over his ears, his eyes tightly closed.

There was a sound like a cat vomiting up a furball. Famine’s face was turning a moody shade of purple as he struck himself again and again below the sternum.

“Uh, should we help him?” Drake asked.

War shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

With a final spluttering cough, Famine hacked up a tight roll of paper, wrapped in a clear plastic cover. It landed with a soggy
splat
on the ground.

“Told you,” War said.

Groaning with the effort, Famine stooped and retrieved the package. He wiped it on his tracksuit to dry it, then removed the waterproof wrapper and uncurled his contract of employment.

“Is it over?” Pest asked, opening one eye. When he saw that Famine was no longer regurgitating paperwork, he opened the other eye and brought both hands down from his ears.

Famine’s sausage-fingers fumbled slowly through the pages. Somewhere near the last page, he stopped. His bloated lips moved silently as he read.

“Anything?” War asked.

Famine nodded. “We become human, apparently.”

Pestilence’s lips seemed to tighten. “What? When?”

War snatched the contract from Famine and skimmed over the page. “Right away,” he said, at last. “Soon as we’ve finished riding.” He passed the contract back to Famine. “You know what that means?”

“We’ll be judged,” Pest gasped. “With the rest of them. We’ll all be judged.”

“Still reckon we should go through with it?” War asked him.

Pest’s face had gone pale. Paler, even, than usual. “We have to,” he whimpered. “Don’t we?”

“The way I see it,” said War, “is that, one, we don’t know if this is the real Apocalypse...”

“If it
was
the real one there would be signs,” Drake said, remembering the conversation on Pest’s horse. “You said so yourself. Raining blood, plagues of locusts, all that. You seen any locusts around here lately?”

“No,” Pestilence admitted. He wrung his hands together, nervously. “But, still—”

“
Two
,” said War, irritated by the interruption, “if it is the real Apocalypse, then this clown is only going to make a right mess of it. No offence.”

“None taken,” Drake assured him.

“Three, we’ll be judged along with the humans, which I don’t fancy one little bit.”

Pest chewed his lip. “I know all that, but... it’s our job. We’ve got to go through with it.”

War squeezed the bridge of his nose between two gloved fingers. He sighed loudly, then looked Pest squarely in the eye.

“I’m only going to say this once,” he said, his voice low. “And after that, we’re never going to talk about it again.” He cleared his throat. “I... don’t mind being in the shed with you both. I complain about it, aye, and half the time you do my head right in, with your whingeing and moaning and arguing and—”

“Was there a point coming?” asked Drake.

“What? Oh, aye. Aye.” War looked up to the sky, then back at Pest and Famine. “If I’m being honest, the other reasons don’t matter. The fact of it is, I don’t want the Apocalypse. I thought I did, but I don’t. I don’t want everything to end. I don’t want us three to end.”

“Us four,” said Pest, nodding in Drake’s direction.

“Aye. Well. Whatever. I’m just... I’m not ready for it. Not yet.”

Pest looked across the faces of the others. “What’ll happen if we don’t ride?”

War shrugged. “No idea.”

An anxious smile twitched across Pestilence’s lips. “Well, then I guess we’ll find out,” he said. He saw the surprise in War’s eyes. “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it? I mean, come on. Who has Armageddon on a Wednesday?”

“So, we put a stop to it,” Drake said. There was a commanding tone in his voice that even he hadn’t heard before. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said War.

“OK,” said Pest, not quite so confidently.

They turned to look at Famine. He had re-wrapped his contract and now had his head back as he crammed the roll of paper down his throat. There was a series of short
ack-ack-ack
sounds, before he swallowed it down.

“Sorry, wasn’t listening,” he admitted. “What’s happening?”

“We’re stopping the end of the world,” Drake told him.

“We can’t do that!” Famine protested. “We got the call, so we have to—”

“There’ll be a cake in it for you,” War told him.

Famine’s face became deathly serious. “I’m in. What’s the plan?”

“Dr Black’s probably still at the school,” Drake said. “If we can find out what he did maybe we can figure out how to reverse it.”

“Right then, gents,” War intoned. “Time to summon our rides. Stick to the ground, though. No going airborne.”

“We’d get there quicker if we did,” Famine said.

“Aye, but we don’t want to kick Armageddon into top gear accidentally by riding across the sky, do we?” War said. “We stick to the ground.”

“Good call,” said Pest, stepping forward. He thrust a gloved hand into the inside pocket of his suit. “But before we go anywhere...” He pulled out four matching badges. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it properly.”

Drake took the one with ‘I AM 4’ printed on it and balanced it in his palm. It was heavier than it looked, about the weight of a pound coin. He opened the fastener and tried to attach the badge to his robe, but the pin would not go through the thick material.

He tried to force the pin through, but the material refused to give. “What’s this made of?” he asked, pushing the pin so hard it bent double.

“Solidified darkness,” War said.

“Oh, right,” Drake said, who by this point had stopped being surprised by anything the horsemen told him. He looked up and saw that they were wearing their badges. Even War had found somewhere on his armour to attach the thing. Pest stared at him expectantly.

“Um, the robe bent it,” he explained. “I’ll stick it in the pocket.”

Pestilence gave a sigh. “I don’t know. You try to do something nice...”

“Right,” said War, interrupting him, “let’s do this.”

Pheeeeeep!

Pest’s whistle was short and shrill. Even before the sound had faded, a sonic boom raced around the garden.

“‘And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder’,” quoted War, as the white horse tore through a hole in space and landed with a thudding of hooves on the grass.

War himself whistled next, and there came his red horse, leaping from nowhere, its mane spluttering like fire as it clip-clopped to a stop beside them.

Famine stuck two fingers in his mouth. The sound came out accompanied by a spray of saliva, but it was still unmistakeably a whistle.

No horse appeared. Drake stood, watching on expectantly, waiting for the thunder of hooves. He was just about to suggest that Famine try again, when he did hear something. It was a low whine, not unlike the sound of the air conditioning in Dr Black’s cupboard, and back in the cave.

A ripple appeared in the air half a dozen or so metres ahead of them. A black shape lurched through, trundling along on its four hard-rubber wheels. The electric engine rose in pitch as the vehicle passed them, before returning to a low hum when it stopped by the horses.

“Mobility scooter,” Famine explained. He smiled shyly. “Like I said, haven’t ridden in a while.”

“Your turn,” War said, turning to Drake.

Drake shook his head. “I... I don’t think I can.”

“You can do it,” Pest said encouragingly. “We believe in you!”

Drake glanced between them all, then gave a single determined nod. “I can do this,” he said. He curled his thumb and index finger, stuck them in his mouth and blew.

Pffffff.

He blew again, harder this time.

Pffffffllllffff.

“Oh, forget it,” said War. He was already on his horse. In one moved he hoisted Drake off his feet and deposited him on the saddle behind him. “Seriously,” he told him. “Worst Death
ever
.”

“Don’t you listen to him,” said Pest, settling himself into his saddle. “Oh, so you can’t whistle. So what?” He smiled and winked. “It’s hardly the end of the world.”

The horses clattered towards the school gates, scattering the crowds that had gathered there. Hundreds of children in matching school uniform lined the fence, held back by men and women in an altogether different type of uniform.

Yellow ‘Do Not Cross’ tape had been draped across the gate. Beyond it, more uniformed officers stood, their eyes trained on a window mid-way along the first floor.

“Police,” Drake said. “How are we going to get past them?”

War flicked the reins and his horse sped up. A clattering at their back told them that Pest too had picked up the pace. Several hundred metres behind them, Famine twisted the throttle of his mobility scooter, but it was already going at top speed and had nothing more to give.

With a “Yah!” from War, the horse leaped over the metal fence. Drake heard the gasp from the people below as the animal sailed over their heads. Sparks sprayed into the air as its hooves skidded down on to the school grounds.

Another gasp; another spark shower, and Pestilence’s horse touched down beside them. The police were racing over as the three horsemen dismounted.

“Oi, who the Hell are you? What do you think you’re doing?”

War didn’t bother to look at them. “Pest,” he said, waving a hand vaguely.

Pestilence gave a gentle cough, then opened his mouth wide. There was a sound like rushing air and a faint green haze wafted from within his throat. The first row of police officers toppled backwards as the cloud hit them. The next row froze in confusion, and then they too were falling.

The rest of the police pushed back, even as the crowd began to panic. Their reaction had come too late, though. The green mist rolled across them, filling their airways even as they started to scream.