The 13th Horseman

THE HORSE RACED through a row of back gardens, leaping the hedges and fences between them with practised ease. Despite the animal’s performance, though, Mel was concerned.

“I think your horse needs a vet,” she said, as they all ducked under a washing line. “He’s bleeding out of, well, everywhere.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Drake told her. “He’s fine, though.”

“Fit as a fiddle,” Pestilence chimed.

“My, uh, predecessor,” Drake said, keeping his voice low. “I found out who he is. His name’s Dr Black, he’s a teacher at my school.”

“Really? Interesting. But not our biggest worry at the minute.”

“What? Why? What’s happening?” Drake asked.

They’d left the robo-bullies back near the school. Dim and Spud had spun after them for a few hundred metres, but the horse had easily outpaced them. Even so, Drake shuddered to think what they and Dr Black might be up to now.

“We’re taking Mel home,” Pest said. He leaned round in the saddle. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Mel said. “But I don’t want to go home. I want someone to tell me what’s going on.”

“The end of the world,” said Pest. He turned and met Drake’s eye. “We’ve had the call.”

“What call?” asked Mel.

“The call?” Drake gasped.

“What call? Will someone please tell me what’s happening?”

The horse stopped, suddenly and without warning. Drake looked along a gravel driveway at a large house with two cars parked out front.

He swung down, just a little awkwardly. Mel dismounted beside him. She stared at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Look, the thing is,” Drake said. “I’m not really entirely sure what’s going on myself, so I don’t know how to explain any of it.”

“Try.”

Drake’s mouth moved, as if testing out the words before he said them. “The Horsemen of the Apocalypse live in my garden,” he said. “No, wait, that makes me sound mental.”

“It does a bit,” Mel agreed.

Drake tried to think of another way of phrasing it. “No,” he realised, “that’s pretty much it. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse live in my garden. Or three of them do, anyway. Dr Black used to be the fourth. He was Death, but he got bored of waiting for the Apocalypse, so he left to destroy the world on his own. And so I’m the new one.”

“You’re the new Death?” Mel said.

Drake smiled faintly. “Pretty hard to believe, right?”

“So, who’s he?” she asked, jabbing a thumb at the man on horseback beside them.

“Pestilence,” Drake said. “He’s not really my Uncle Bob. I made that up.”

Mel nodded. “I didn’t think he looked like a Bob.”

“Thank you! See? I thought maybe Alejandro or—”

“Not now, Pest.”

Mel looked at the two of them, then at the horse. “So, what happens now?” she asked.

Drake’s eyes widened. “What, you mean you believe me?”

“I just saw a cat change into a... thing that wasn’t a cat,” Mel said. “And some kids I’ve known for ten years become killer robot hula-hoops. Right now, I’ll believe pretty much anything you tell me.”

Drake found himself smiling. Mel didn’t join in.

“So, it’s happening?” she asked. “He’s really going to destroy the world, like you said?”

Drake nodded. “It looks like it.”

“We need to move,” said Pestilence softly. “The others will be waiting.”

“Uh, yeah,” Drake mumbled. “Just a minute.”

“We made a deal, remember?” Mel said. “This morning. We made a deal. I thought you were kidding, but… we made a deal. If he’s trying to destroy the world, we stop him, remember?”

He nodded. “I remember.”

“OK, then. Good,” she said. She leaned in and kissed him, just briefly, on the lips.

“What was that for?” he asked, when she pulled away.

“Luck,” Mel said. “Something tells me you’re going to need it.”

The shed looked different when Drake and Pest stepped inside. It took Drake a moment to realise why. The square table at which the horsemen usually sat had been pushed off to one side. Three of the chairs were stacked neatly on top of it. Famine’s reinforced seat was half tucked underneath.

“High time you got here,” said War as they both entered. He bent down and caught hold of a circle of metal that was set into the floor. Had the table still been there, the handle would have been almost completely concealed.

War pulled and a wide hatch swung upwards, revealing a stairway leading down into a brightly lit chamber beneath the shed. “Famine’s already down there,” he said. “Getting ready.”

“Getting ready?” said Drake. “What do you mean, getting ready?”

“Well, he’s hardly going to usher in the Apocalypse in a baggy grey tracksuit, is he?” War said. “He’s getting into uniform, like we all should’ve done ten minutes ago.”

“No, but listen, it’s not the real Apocalypse,” Drake said. “It’s Dr Black, the old Death, he’s the one doing it.”

War blinked. “So?”

“So? What do you mean, so? So it’s not the real Apocalypse.”

“Who’s to say what is and isn’t the Apocalypse? For all we know, this was always how it was going to end.” He gestured with his head for Drake to go down the steps. “Now come on. Shift it.”

It wasn’t a single room beneath the shed, as Drake had been expecting. It was a complex. The walls were painted in clinical white, and a dozen corridors led off in a dozen different directions. There were four doors set into the walls, each a different colour. One was white, one was red, one was black and the final one was a pale, sickly green. Black and white squares of vinyl covered the floor, and row after row of fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.

In the centre of this room were four leather couches, laid out in a square. A glass coffee table sat between them, with magazines stacked neatly on top. It looked like the waiting room of an expensive dentist.

Pestilence, then War, joined him at the foot of the steps. “What is this place?” Drake asked.

“It’s a... shared area, between the afterlives. We rent some space from the management company,” War said dismissively. He turned to Pest. “Go get ready.”

“Righty-ho,” Pestilence said. He smiled, but it sat uneasily on him. “See you soon, then.”

War caught Drake by the scruff of the neck. “You, with me,” he said, marching him towards the red door.

They pushed through into a locker room, with wooden benches lining three of the walls. There were just two lockers. They stood back to back in the centre of the room.

“That’s yours, that’s mine,” said War, indicating which was which.

“How come we’re not all here?” Drake asked. “We’ve all got our own changing rooms,” War explained. “I moved your locker in here so we could have a little chat about what happens next.”

“What does happen next?”

“Get dressed,” War said. He opened his locker and pulled out a gleaming breastplate.

Almost in a trance, Drake opened his locker. The Robe of Sorrows was hung up inside. He unhooked it and lifted it out. The material felt like damp velvet beneath his fingers.

“Do I put it on?” he asked. His voice wobbled. His heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t want to be going along with any of this, but every time he thought about resisting, the notion quickly slipped away.

“What do you think?” War snapped. He was wearing the breastplate over his usual leather armour now, and was pulling on a pair of thick leather gauntlets.

Drake’s arms, moving almost entirely of their own accord, slipped the Robe of Sorrows over his head.

“It’s too big,” he said.

A shiver ran down his spine as the black folds oozed and writhed across his skin. In moments, the robe was a perfect fit.

“Oh,” he said. “No, it isn’t.”

“Keep the hood down for now,” War told him. “No point putting it up until the big moment.”

Drake nodded. He didn’t want to put the hood up. He didn’t want to wear the thing at all. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What happens next?”

War closed his locker door with a clang. His breastplate gleamed. His leather gauntlets creaked as he flexed his fingers in and out. “I don’t know,” he said. “You tell me.”

“What? How should I know?”

“You said he was someone from your school. Did he tell you anything? Like what he was planning?”

“No,” Drake said. “Just that it was going to be something spectacular.”

“Aye, that sounds like him,” War said. “Bloody show-off. Anything else?”

“Not really. He had a smartphone thing. He pushed a button and said that was that, he’d started it all happening. Then Toxie appeared and attacked him.”

War slid his sword into the scabbard on his back. “Oh. So he’s dead?”

“He fought back,” Drake told him.

“Fought back? Against Toxie? Against a Hellhound?”

“Yeah,” Drake said with a shrug. “Seemed to be putting up a pretty good fight too.”

“What did you say his name was, this teacher?”

“Dr Black.”

War pulled a face that said the name meant nothing to him. “New, is he?”

“No, been there a while, I think.”

“Really? Interesting,” War said, stroking his beard. “Right, get the Deathblade and we’ll go and meet the others.”

“Where is it?” Drake asked.

“It’s there, in the locker.”

Drake looked inside the empty locker. “No, it isn’t.”

War was suddenly behind him. “It was there,” he growled. “I know it was there.”

“Well, it’s not there now,” Drake said.

War muttered something below his breath. “Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud. “We’ll make do without it. Let’s go and get the other two.”

Drake wanted to say ‘no’. He wanted to argue with the horseman, to convince him to call the whole thing off, but it was as if he were hypnotised. So, while he wanted to say ‘no’, what he actually said was: ‘OK.’

They left the locker room, then stopped abruptly when they saw the other two horsemen waiting for them.

“Ta-daa!” chimed Pestilence, holding out his arms. “What do you think?”

A stunned silence fell.

Pestilence looked like a violent encounter between a motorcyclist and a cowboy. On his bottom half he wore black leather chaps over his usual white trousers. Tassels dangled along the seams, swishing outwards when he turned to give the other horsemen a twirl.

His boots, which reached almost to his knees, were also leather, but shinier than the chaps. They finished with a large, square heel at the back, giving Pest another few centimetres in height.

The leather jacket he wore was studded across the shoulders. It hung open, revealing a black waistcoat underneath and, below that, a white roll-neck sweater.

There was a soft creak as Pestilence pulled on his cap. Also leather. Also studded, with a chain hanging across the front, just above the peak.

War, at last, found his voice.

“What... in the name of God... are you wearing?”

Pest looked down at his outfit. “What’s the matter with it?”

“That’s your official uniform, is it?” asked War, in the tones of someone who was a hair’s breadth away from the end of his tether.

“More or less,” Pest said. “I just sort of... zooshed it up a bit. It’s leather. Very practical, leather.”

War shook his head, then turned to Famine. He was still wearing the same faded grey tracksuit as before. “And what’s your story?” War asked.

“It doesn’t fit,” Famine said. “I can’t get the trousers past my knees. I ripped the backside right out of them trying to pull them on.”

“And what about the measuring scales? You’re supposed to appear carrying scales. It says so in the book.”

Famine looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, I sort of sat on them.”

War’s forehead twitched. “You mean you broke them?”

“Not exactly, not exactly,” Famine said. “See, I was trying to pull the trousers on at the time, and I didn’t know the scales were on the seat, and, well...” His voice trailed off and he gave a wobbly shrug. “I could try to get them back, I suppose, but I might need a hand. And some sort of lubricant.”

Pest’s face went an interesting shade of green. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Great,” War growled, looking up to the ceiling. “Just great. You’ve lost your scythe, you’ve wedged your scales where the sun doesn’t shine and you…” he looked Pest up and down. “I don’t know where to start. Some bloody Apocalypse this is going to be.”

“Speaking of which, we’d best get a move on,” Pest said. He took a deep breath, then turned to Drake and positioned his mouth into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but was a good effort all the same. “You ready, then?”

Drake felt himself nod. The weight of thousands of years of expectation pushed down on him, smothering his will to resist. He was Death, the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, and he had a job to do.

“Said your goodbyes to everyone?” pressed Pest. “You know, to your mum, and all that?”

“My mum?” Drake mumbled, as if confused by the word. Then his eyes went wide and his head went light, and like that, the spell was broken. “My mum! My mum’s going to die. Everyone is going to die!”

Drake’s breath came in big, shaky gulps, too fast for his lungs to cope with. “We can’t do this. We can’t go through with it. We can’t.”

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.”





THE FOUR HORSEMEN 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.

Like dominoes they fell, those closest to the school first, then the row behind, then the row behind that one. It took just seconds until the only movement beyond the school gates was the steady flashing of the police car lights.

“Did... did you kill them?” Drake asked.

“What do you take me for?” said Pest, slapping him on the upper arm. “Temporary narcolepsy. They’re all just having a bit of a nap. Be right as rain in twenty minutes.”

“Then we’d better move fast,” War said. He pointed up to the window the police had been so fixated on. “Is that the classroom?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so,” Drake said. “Looks about right. Should we wait for Famine?”

“He’ll only slow us down,” said War. He was already unsheathing his immense sword as he strode towards the door. “It’s up to the three of us. Let’s go and get this over with.”





THE WOODEN DOUBLE-DOORS at the front entrance to the school were closed over when they approached. Drake turned the metal ring handles and the doors swung outwards, revealing a solid metal barrier behind them.

Drake rapped his knuckles against the metal. They made a sound like the chiming of some ancient bell. “He’s sealed himself in,” Drake realised. He set off running. “There’s a hole round the side,” he said, racing towards the spot where Dim and Spud had torn through the wall.

He stopped, mid-way across the school yard. A wall of shiny chrome covered the hole like a sticking-plaster. “We can’t get in,” Drake cried. “He’s blocked us out.”

“You know your problem? Well, one of them, anyway?” War growled. “You give up far too easily.”

The giant hurled his sword. It flipped, end over end, before the blade buried itself in the rectangle of metal. Gripping the hilt with both hands, War dragged the blade across, then down. He pulled the sword free, then fired a kick against the damaged metal. It squealed, then swung inwards.

“Nae bother,” he said, ducking his head as he led the other two horsemen into the school.

“Up here,” Drake told them. He took the stairs two at a time until he reached the top. In moments, he was outside Dr Black’s classroom. He didn’t even wait for the others to catch up before pushing into the room.

The first thing he saw was Toxie. The cat-faced Hellhound was on his side, half buried by broken furniture. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and a puddle of dark, almost purple blood pooled on the floor around him.

“I figured, if I killed him, he’d only come back.”

Drake spun to find Dr Black sitting behind his desk. His clothes were torn and scorched in places, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for his battle with Toxie.

“So I let him live. But only just.”

“You monster!”

Drake hadn’t even heard the other horsemen enter the room, but Pestilence’s voice was suddenly there in his ear.

“Yes,” Dr Black chuckled. “I know. So good to see you again, Pest.”

“Yeah?” Pest sniffed. “Well... well... not likewise.”

“Still as devastatingly witty as ever, I see,” Dr Black noted.

“We’ve come to stop you,” Drake told him. “To stop... whatever it is you’re doing.”

The teacher blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. “Stop me?” he said. “Didn’t they explain to you how this whole thing is supposed to work? This is the end, boy. This is the Apocalypse. That word mean anything to you? You can’t stop me. No one can stop me.”

War took a step closer, his hand tightening round his sword. “Remember me?”

“Ah, War. I advise you to stay where you are,” Dr Black warned. He was on his feet, suddenly serious. “You know why all those police are out there? You know why the crowd has gathered?”

He beckoned with his finger for them to follow, as he made his way to the cupboard. “Because I have hostages,” he said, in a sing-song voice. With a kick, he opened the door to reveal Mel sitting on the floor beside Mr Franks. The young teacher was awake, but still flat on his back.

“Drake?” Mel cried, before the door was pulled closed again.

“She came back to check on him. Isn’t that noble?” Dr Black asked. His face was lit up with a manic glee as he strolled over and leaned an elbow on the windowsill. “But now I have them both.”

“In the cupboard,” War said.

“Precisely!”

“But you’re not in the cupboard. And neither are we.” With two big paces, War positioned himself directly in front of the cupboard door. “And now you can’t get in the cupboard, either.”

Dr Black’s grin remained fixed, but his eyes had begun darting left and right, as if War’s meaning was very slowly becoming clear.

“So, what he’s saying,” Pest explained, “is that you have now effectively lost your hostages.”

“And we’re free to kick your ass,” Drake concluded. He pointed to the bearded giant on his left. “Well, mostly him.”

Dr Black’s smile had gone completely now. “There’s only one little problem,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked Drake.

“You’re going to have to catch me first!”

With a crash, the teacher hurled himself through the window behind him. The horsemen raced over in time to see him crunch face-first on to the concrete twenty metres below.

“Ooh, that’s going to hurt,” Pest winced. Even before the sentence was out of his mouth, though, Dr Black had begun to move. He got quickly to his feet, looked up at the window, and smiled.

“That’s not right,” War frowned. “He shouldn’t be able to do that.”

Dr Black was off and running, racing towards the two steeds standing together by the school gates.

“The horses,” Pest gasped. “He’s going for the horses.”

“Bugger that,” War growled. “After him!”

With a twitch of his legs, War propelled himself through the window, taking a large chunk of wall out with him. Drake leaned over and watched as War landed on his feet, then began to sprint across the school grounds after Dr Black.

“Ready?” asked Pest, taking a series of quick, deep breaths.

“For what?” Drake asked. “We’re not... We can’t jump that!”

“Yes, we can. We’re the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. We can do lots of things,” Pest said. A rubber-gloved hand caught Drake by the sleeve and pulled him towards the hole.

Drake screamed as gravity took hold. The wind whipped around him and he felt Pest’s grip slip from his arm. His limbs flailed wildly. The wind continued to whip around him. He screamed some more. Flailing. Wind. Screaming.

He had just begun to think it was taking a very long time for him to hit the ground, when he hit the ground. His knees crunched on to the concrete first, then his shoulder, then the top of his head as his momentum bounced him over on to his back. He lay there, quite still, looking up at the broken window and idly wondering if he were still alive.

“See?” said Pest, leaning over him. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Dr Black raced across the school yard, moving faster than any human being had any right to. Each bound covered well over a metre, like a triple jumper preparing for take-off, but never quite reaching that final spectacular leap.

Had any of the gathered crowds been awake to watch him, they’d have thought he was running impossibly fast. But they would also have thought that the bearded man behind him was running faster. And they would have been right.

Dr Black glanced over his shoulder, realised he wasn’t going to have time to get on a horse, and so carried on past them. He tore through the yellow police tape and went rushing out on to the street beyond.

There, surrounded by the unconscious forms of his former pupils, he stopped, turned and waited for the coming of War.

“Given up, have you?” War boomed, slowing to a jog, then finally, to a stop. “Realised you can’t escape?”

“I wasn’t trying to escape, you idiot,” Dr Black told him, as Drake and Pestilence ran up to join them. “I was drawing you away.”

“What?” Drake asked. “What are you talking about?” He glanced nervously at War. “What’s he talking about?”

“It’s not him,” War said. “He was never Death.”

Dr Black’s eyes lit up. Literally lit up. “Can you say decoy?” he grinned. He was still grinning as War brought his sword slicing down towards his head.

There was the sound of metal slicing metal, and the tip of War’s blade buried itself in the concrete at his feet. Something gave a faint fizzle, and sparks began to flicker along the thin line that now ran the length of Dr Black’s body.

“You can’t stop him, you know,” the robot informed them, even as both halves of it began to fall in opposite directions. “The world ends today, and there’s nothing you can do to—”

The halves hit the ground. The voice faded and the glow in the android’s eyes grew dark. War yanked his sword free of the tarmac, then poked one half of Dr Black with his toe. “Techno-magic mumbo jumbo,” he said.

“What...? But...? How did you know?” Drake asked. “It was him. I was sure it was him!”

“I had my doubts, but I couldn’t say for sure until I’d seen him with my own two eyes. He fought a Hellhound, then face-planted twenty metres on to concrete without winding up a messy splat. Death Nine’s human now, and no human could do that. Besides, you said yourself, he’d been there for ages,” War shrugged. “He couldn’t be Death. Death’s barely been human a few weeks. He would have to be someone new.”

An icy needle of shock pricked at the centre of Drake’s chest. “New?”

“Aye. Stands to reason.”

It hit Drake like a sledgehammer. He reached for the fence to support himself, but his hand slipped and he lurched to one side. “Mr Franks,” he said in a barely audible whisper.

“Who?”

“Mr Franks. Darren Franks. D.F.”

“What you on about?”

“The other teacher. The one in the cupboard. He’s the old Death, and we’ve left him with Mel!”

“Helloooo!” called a voice from nearby. Famine was slowly approaching on his scooter, waving enthusiastically with one hand, while frantically trying to steer with the other. “Be with you in a minute.”

Drake didn’t wait for Famine, and he didn’t wait for the other horsemen. He ran back towards the school gates, his pounding heart making his legs move faster than they had ever moved before, until...

PZZZZKT!

A shock of pure agony exploded across Drake’s skin and through his skeleton, hurtling him backwards on to the ground. He rolled in pain, his legs refusing to function as he kicked and struggled to stand up.

In the depths of his shock-addled brain, he knew the pain, recognised it as the same sensation he’d experienced when he’d tried to shoulder-barge the Deathblade Guardian. Only worse. Much, much worse.

It took both War and Pestilence to get him to his feet and keep him there. They were still supporting him when Famine dismounted next to them. He gave the scooter a firm pat on the back of the seat, and it trundled over to a patch of grass on the other side of the road.

Famine looked at the sleeping children and police officers around him, and at the two halves of Dr Black on the pavement at War’s feet. “Missed anything?” he wheezed.

Leaving Pestilence to support Drake, War slowly made his way closer to the school gates. He stopped just in front of them and turned his head slowly left and right.

A pale blue glow hung in the air in front of him. It stretched up, down and side to side. It was barely there, barely anything. If War hadn’t been looking closely, he would never have seen it.

Cautiously, he raised a hand and touched one finger against the glow. A gasp of pain burst through his beard as he drew his arm sharply back. He shook his hand around and clenched it into a fist a few times, never taking his eye off the glow.

“Some kind of magic barrier,” he said.

“What, like a force field?” Drake asked. He pulled away from Pest and hobbled over to War. “Can you break through it?”

“I can barely even touch it,” the big man replied.

A sudden scream from within the school cut Drake off before he could say anything else. He looked up to the first floor, and caught a brief glimpse of Mel at the window, before a shadow appeared behind her and she was dragged back into the room.

“We have to do something!” Drake yelped. “We have to—”

The Earth trembled beneath his feet. On the other side of the force field, the horses neighed and stamped their hooves against the concrete.

A low rumble shook the ground, making them all stagger away from the glowing blue barrier.

“Can I just make it clear,” Famine said, “that that wasn’t me?”

“Earthquake?” Pest asked. “That’s one of the signs! It’s one of the signs of the Apocalypse. Oh, God, what if we’re wrong? What if this really is the end?”

The ground vibrated again. From inside the barrier there was the sound of falling rubble. Narrow cracks began to split the pavement beneath the horsemen’s feet.

“It’s not an earthquake,” War said grimly. He followed the lines of the cracks. They led all the way back to the school.

“Then what is it?” Drake asked. He was still looking up at the window on the first floor, and so he was the first to notice when it started to move. With a crack of snapping concrete, the extension on the front of the school building began to rise slowly up, revealing an enormous chrome construction below.

“What... What is that?” Drake muttered, his eyes following the first storey window as it rose higher and higher into the air, revealing more and more of the metal shape beneath it. “What’s happening?”

War groaned. “Something bloody spectacular.”