The 13th Horseman - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,9
right?” nodded Famine. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any crisps on you?”
“I’d shake your hand, but you’d only catch something,” Pestilence continued, laughing nervously. “Still, I don’t suppose it matters really, what with you being—” War glowered at him, cutting him short.
“With me being what?” asked Drake.
“With you being... so handsome!” Pestilence gushed.
“Or some cakes?” asked Famine hopefully. “I could really go a Swiss Roll.”
“To understand who you are, you need to know who we are,” War explained. He bent forward slightly and glared down at Drake. “Do you know who we are?”
Drake’s gaze swept across the expectant faces of all three men. None of them had made any move to kill him, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t coming. It’d probably be safer to play along with their game, then make a run for it the first chance he got.
“War, Pestilence and Famine,” he mused. “Those are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, aren’t they?”
“You’ve studied your religious texts,” said War approvingly.
“Actually, I saw it in a cartoon,” Drake confessed.
“Oh.”
“Even some mints would do! I’m not fussy.”
“Sorry, I don’t have any food,” apologised Drake. Famine sighed and rubbed his swollen stomach sadly. “Hang on though, aren’t there supposed to be four of you?” Drake asked.
“Aye, well... There are four of us,” said War. There was a note of caution in his voice that couldn’t be missed. “We’re all here.”
Drake frowned. Not only did these lunatics think they were mythological characters, they also couldn’t count.
“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