Afterworlds: The 13th Horseman

“No,” he ventured. “There’s three.” He pointed at each of them in turn. “One, two, three.”

“One,” repeated War, pointing at himself. “Two.” He pointed towards Pestilence, who gave a little wave. “Three.” Famine’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. “And four.” The giant held out a finger in Drake’s direction.

“Erm... what?”

“You’re the fourth,” War intoned.

“The fourth what?” asked Drake. He was stalling for time now, his eyes scanning for the easiest escape route through the weeds.

“The fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse,” explained Pestilence.

“The rider of the pale horse,” Famine chipped in.

“Death,” announced War gravely. “You are the living personification of Death.”

“Right,” chirped Drake, after a pause. “Well, that’s a turn-up for the books.” He rested his hands on his hips and shook his head in wonder. “Death, eh? Who’d have thought it?”

“You’re taking it very well,” Pestilence told him. “I mean it must come as a bit of a shock, that. Finding out you’re Death and everything.”

“Not really,” Drake shrugged. “I suppose it’s just a case of – YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS!”

With that he launched himself into the weeds once more, shouldering his way through them as quickly as he could manage.

“Mum!” he squealed as he crashed on through the grass. He wasn’t even sure if she’d still be home, but he shouted for her anyway. “Mum, help, the nutters are back, the nutters are back!”

“She can’t hear you, you know,” War sighed, as Drake stumbled back into the clearing. “We’ve... we’ve... What have we done again?”

“Created a reality loop,” whispered Pestilence.

“We’ve created a reality loop in the garden,” continued War. “Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. All roads lead right back to this shed. A bit of techno-magic mumbo jumbo the old Death put together for us before he packed up and went.”

“Went? Went where?”

“Went mental,” Famine snorted. He was munching on a hunk of beef. Drake didn’t want to think about where he’d found it.

“That’s enough, Famine,” War warned. “He went away. Retired.” War was choosing his words carefully. “To... pursue other projects.”

“And you’re the replacement!” beamed Pestilence. “You’re our new leader!”

“I’m not the replacement anything!” Drake exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air. “I’m not Death!”

“Course you are,” Pestilence argued. “Think about it, even your name says you are. Drake Finn. D. F. Death.”

“What? D. F? What’s that? That doesn’t sound like Death!” Drake protested. “It’s deaf, if anything! What, the end of the world is going to be ushered in by the hard of hearing, is it?”

Something nudged gently against his ankle. Toxie sat by his foot, gazing happily up at him, his tail thudding out a regular beat on the ground.

“And I suppose this is my horse, is it?” Drake scoffed, as he bent down and took his money from the animal’s mouth.

“Actually,” said War, “he’s a Hellhound, but he owed us one so he helped bring you here.”

“A Hellhound?” Drake said, stuffing the note in his pocket.

“Aye.”

“But... it’s a cat.”

The thudding of Toxie’s tail stopped, and an uneasy silence descended on the clearing. Even Famine had paused, his food halfway to his open mouth.

Pestilence cleared his throat quietly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the scabby cat. “It’s a lot for him to take in.”

For a few long moments the world seemed to stand perfectly still. Then, with a low “Woof,” Toxie turned and wandered off across the grass. All three men let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Bit of advice,” War scowled. “Don’t go insulting a Hellhound, particularly not one that’s standing next to you at the time.”

“But... it’s a cat,” Drake said, his voice a low whisper. “I wasn’t insulting him, he’s a cat!”

“He’s got some problems. With changing,” Pestilence said, mouthing the last two words silently. “Bless.”

“Changing? What are you—?”

“It’s not important,” War intoned, his voice clipped by irritation. “You need to join us in the shed.”

“No.”

The giant frowned. “No?” he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time in his life.

Drake’s fear had temporarily deserted him, replaced instead by anger at being kept against his will. “You said I’m in charge here, right?”

“That’s right,” said War reluctantly. “Death is technically the leader of the Four Horsemen, but—”

“Then I order you to let me go. No garden looping or any of that. Put it back to normal and let me go home.”

“But we haven’t even started discussing your responsibilities,” War protested. “There’s a lot to get through if—”

“Now!” Drake demanded.

War’s bulging muscles twitched briefly. He bit down on his lip, fighting the urge to shout. An icy shiver of terror shot down Drake’s spine as he realised he may have gone too far.

Eventually, though, the giant gave a single nod of his head. “Whatever you say,” he said. “Pest.”

Pestilence reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary television remote control. He jabbed a few buttons, then slipped the device back in his pocket.

“You’re free to go,” said War.

Drake eyed the men closely as he backed towards the high grass. When he felt the foliage brushing against him, he turned and plunged off through the weeds. The others watched as the trodden undergrowth sprang back into place in his wake.

“Well,” breathed Pestilence, “all in all I’d say that went really rather well!”