The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,32
held the card up for the others to see, then threw it down on the table. “Stupid bloody game, anyway.”
“Well done, Drake,” Pest beamed, as he took back the cards and set the boards up for himself and Famine to play.
“So...” began Drake, looking across at War. “So what?”
“The old Death. You said we’d talk about him.”
War crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, if he’s trying to kill me, I want to know everything,” Drake replied.
“He was here for a thousand years. Everything might take a while.”
“Well, I never liked him, I don’t mind telling you,” Pest offered. He was staring intently at his board. “Right, then,” he said, eyeballing Famine. “Did he lead the children of Israel out of Egypt?”
Famine shook his head. “Nope.”
Pest flipped down the cartoon Moses. “Your turn.”
“Why didn’t you like him?” Drake asked.
“He just never really fitted in,” Pest shrugged. “You’d never catch him doing this, for example.”
“Did he beget Isaac?” Famine asked.
“It’s not Abraham, no,” Pest said. He turned to Drake. “He was more into tinkering with his gadgets. Little robotic creations and what not, like them metal balls and the guardian thing. It was like he preferred their company to ours.”
“Really?” asked Drake, trying not to sound sarcastic.
“He was obsessed with the Apocalypse too,” Famine added.
Drake frowned. “Aren’t you all, though? I mean, isn’t that the whole point of you being here?”
“Oh, I mean we’re all interested in the Apocalypse,” Famine said. “We’re all interested in it, yeah, but he was over the top, he was.”
“Was he beheaded?” Pest asked.
Famine blinked. “What, Death?”
“No, the person on your card.”
Famine looked down at the board, as if suddenly remembering it was there. “Oh. No,” he said. There were a couple of clacks as Pest flipped down two more faces.
“I don’t understand. In what way was he obsessed?” Drake asked.
“He just banged on about it a lot,” War said. “Always wondering what it was going to be like, always complaining that it was taking too long. He just wanted it to hurry up.”
“And the longer he waited, the worse he got,” Pest added. “On and on he went. On and on.”
“Don’t you all want it to hurry up, though?” Drake asked.
For a fraction of a second, War said nothing. “Well, aye,” he nodded. “Course we do, but the difference is, we don’t keep harping on about it.”
“Did he beget Achaz?” asked Famine.
“Don’t just ask if they begot someone,” Pest said. “That makes it boring. Think of other questions.”
“All right, all right,” Famine grumbled. He looked long and hard at the board in front of him. In the silence of the shed, Drake could almost hear the horseman’s brain working.
“Right,” Famine said, at last. “Was he the father of Achaz?”
Pest sighed. “No.”
Famine nodded. “Right.” His eyes went across the faces on his board. “Who was the father of Achaz again?”
“So, that’s why he left?” Drake asked, ignoring the ensuing bickering between Pestilence and Famine. “He didn’t want to wait any more.”
“That’s about the size of it,” War said. “He said he was going off to make it happen. Said it was his responsibility to make sure it happened.”
“And what did you say?”
“‘Good riddance, ya nutter.’”
Pest and Famine were still arguing. Drake raised his voice to be heard over them. “And what do you think? Can he actually do it?”
War took a moment to consider this. “He’s human now, so probably not.”
Drake hadn’t realised until that moment that he had been tense, but now he felt himself relax a little. “Right,” he said. “That’s good to know.”
“Although,” War said, “if he put things in place before he left, if he had a plan – and God knows, he had enough time to come up with one – then... aye. Maybe he could.”
The relief that had washed over Drake drained slowly away. “He could really end the world?”
War nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“And what if he tries to kill me again? What if he sends more robot things?”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” War said, but the way he shrugged didn’t do much to put Drake at ease.
“Right, I give up,” Pest announced in a voice filled with shrill annoyance. “I had Saint James the Lesser, OK? Happy now?” He held up a picture of a bearded man, then stuffed it back into the pack. “Drake, you’re playing him,” he said, glaring at Famine. “Good luck, it’s like beating your head against a brick wall.”
Drake stood up. “No, I can’t hang