The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,16

coldness of the water made Drake gasp. It swirled in through his open mouth, filling his throat and his belly. He felt the reins pull away, heard the frantic splashing of the horse. And then he was floating.

And then he was sinking.

And then, he was drowning.

The darkness eased behind Drake’s eyelids, like shadows fleeing the coming of dawn. Something warm and wet pressed against his mouth. And his cheeks. And his forehead. It pulled back as he sat up and spewed dirty river water on to the grass.

“Knew it,” said Famine. His head was directly above Drake’s, his rubbery lips folded into a wide smile. “Kiss of life. Never fails.”

Drake turned his head and spewed again. Not water, this time.

“What... what happened?” he asked, when he had finished retching. “Where’s the ball thing?”

“Over there.” Pestilence’s head appeared from behind Famine’s bulk. He pointed to a scorched patch of ground nearby. “And over there. And there. And there’s a bit down there, by those trees. War headbutted it. It was really quite impressive.”

“You’re lucky we found you when we did.” War was standing a short distance away, running his hand over his horse’s flank. “And you’re lucky Famine’s got his first-aid certificate.”

“Have you been eating Frosties?” Famine asked. His tongue rummaged around inside his mouth. “You have, haven’t you? That’s definitely Frosties. And milk. Semi-skimmed.”

Drake’s hand went to his own mouth. “I think I’m going to puke again.”

War clapped his horse on the back and turned to Drake. His face was beard, scowl and very little else in between.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” he said. “‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘don’t pull back on the reins.’”

“No, you didn’t,” Drake snapped. His pulse was racing, adrenalin pumping the blood through his veins. “You said ‘For God’s sake don’t...’ and then you jumped off. How was I to know the horse would start flying?”

“Don’t be so stupid. It didn’t fly,” War said with a grunt. “Horses don’t fly. They gallop.”

“Well, it galloped across the sky!” Drake replied. He pulled himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “Horses don’t do that.”

“Well, that depends on the horse!” War roared, bending until he was almost nose to nose with Drake. “Now, you’re going to come back to the shed, and you’re going to start your training.”

“No, I’m not!”

War’s face went the colour of his beard. He opened his mouth to shout, but Pestilence slipped between them and quickly guided Drake away.

“If I might interrupt,” he said, smiling thinly. “I think what my irate colleague is trying to say is that we’d very much appreciate it if you’d perhaps come back to the shed and listen to what we have to say.” He held up his hands. They were still hidden beneath white rubber gloves. “Just hear us out, that’s all.”

Drake remained silent for a long time. Pestilence watched him, eyebrows waggling encouragingly. “Here,” Drake said at last. “Tell me here.”

Pestilence glanced at the others, as if looking for some cue. None came, so he shrugged, then carried on.

“The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have existed since the dawn of time itself,” he began. “We are servants of the Almighty, created for one purpose and one purpose only.”

“To usher in the end of the world,” blurted Famine.

“Oooh, shut up, you!” Pestilence gasped, his hands going to his hips. “I’m supposed to do that bit! You never let me do that bit!”

“Just get on with it,” said War.

Pestilence shook his head. “That’s my favourite bit,” he muttered. “Anyway. Yes. We were created to usher in the end of the world.” He looked pointedly at Famine before continuing. “It’s a pretty important job, really. I mean, it’s probably – what – sixth most important job in all creation?”

“’Bout sixth,” Famine confirmed. “’Bout sixth, yeah.”

“It’s about the sixth most important job in all creation,” Pestilence said. “And it’s great. I mean, it’s an honour to be picked and everything, it’s just...”

Drake waited for the rest of the sentence. It didn’t seem to be forthcoming. “It’s just what?”

“God, it’s dull,” Pestilence groaned. “I mean, we’ve been kicking about for thousands of years, us three, just hanging around, you know? Waiting on the phone call. Thousands of years and nothing. Not even a false alarm.”

“So? What’s that got to do with me?”

“Death got fed up of waiting,” Famine said. Drake could tell from the fat man’s voice that he was munching on something. He couldn’t bring himself to look and see what it was. “He decided he was going to bring on