The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,42

this time. Instead, he stomped past Drake and swung himself up into the saddle of his ruby red horse. “I tell you,” he muttered, “this ninety days can’t end soon enough.”

With a “Yah! ” and a tug of the reins, War and his horse took to the sky and were quickly lost among the clouds.

“He doesn’t mean it,” said Pest softly.

Drake sniffed. “I don’t care,” he said. “Just take me home.”

DRAKE LAY IN bed, listening to the ticking of his clock. He’d stopped looking at it a few hours ago, when the hands had been creeping past one o’clock. No matter how hard he’d tried since then, he couldn’t fall asleep.

He put it down to worry. He could never sleep when he was worried, and right now things were queuing up to be worried about.

Someone was trying to kill him. Someone had tried to kill him. Twice. That was one of the things bothering him, but that wasn’t even the biggie.

Armageddon. The end of the world. It sounded ridiculous – the idea that the whole world could just suddenly and abruptly come to a stop. How could one man destroy the whole world and everyone on it? It seemed impossible.

And yet both Pestilence and War had said it was possible. And, of course, Death Nine wasn’t just any normal man.

Drake thought about that. The old Death was human now – someone ‘dark and sinister’ if Pestilence was right. That pointed to one obvious suspect. And the metal sphere had come from inside his classroom.

Could Dr Black be the old Death? Drake had been relieved when Mr Franks showed up to take him away from the history teacher’s classroom, but now he couldn’t help but wonder what he might have found out if he’d hung around.

The cupboard, he thought, might still hold some answers, even if it didn’t hold the bodies of Bingo and his cohorts. It was worth a look, anyway. He’d have to find some way of unlocking the door, of course, but maybe there’d be something in there to help him figure out if Dr Black really was Death number nine. And, if he was, maybe there’d be some sort of clue as to whether he really was capable of ending the world.

Drake rolled over, making the bed creak. A few nights ago he’d been lying awake worrying about starting school. Now he was lying awake worrying about the Apocalypse. A lot had happened since Monday.

Drake got up, tiptoed to the window and looked out. Through the darkness, he could just make out a small red roof at the far end of the garden.

Pulling on a jumper and wriggling his feet into his shoes, Drake undid the window latch, and quietly slid the wooden frame open.

Famine was sitting on the grass outside the shed, his back leaning against a side wall. He looked up as Drake approached, revealing a face smeared with streaks of brown. The fat man’s fingers dipped into a jar of chocolate spread he held between his thighs. He scooped out a dollop of the stuff, licked the finger clean, then clamped a pudgy hand over the jar.

“It’s mine,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” Drake said. “I’m not hungry, anyway.”

“Lucky you,” Famine replied, as he scooped out some more of the gooey spread.

Drake sat on the grass beside him. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Thought some fresh air might help.”

“It won’t,” Famine said. “You don’t need as much sleep now. Hardly any, really.”

“Really? I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” Drake admitted.

“Bad,” Famine told him. “Very bad. Being awake’s overrated.”

Drake thought about this. “I suppose you could get lots done, though, without sleep.”

“Maybe. If you had something worth doing,” Famine said. “All we have to do is wait. You don’t need to be awake to wait.”

He reached the bottom of the jar. Drake watched in horrified fascination as the horseman stuck his tongue into the container and began licking the inside clean.

“You’re doing the right thing, I reckon,” Famine said, when the jar was spotless.

“What do you mean?”

“Jacking it in. We’ve been waiting on the call for what, six or seven thousand years now? Starting to drag a bit, if I’m being honest. You’re best getting out when you can.”

“How come you’ve all lasted?” Drake asked. “Why is it just Death that keeps –” he reached for a suitable word, but couldn’t find one – “cracking up?”

Famine shrugged. The shed he was leaning against creaked loudly in protest. “Death’s the leader, and he’s the most