The 13th Horseman

DRAKE BLINKED BOTH his eyes. He could do that, at least. That was something.

He was lying on his back. Mel was lying on his front, his arms holding her against him. The robe was on the ground beneath them. He didn’t have the energy to try to figure out how. He looked up and saw three concerned faces looking down at him.

“Oh, thank God,” Pest said, letting out a breath he had been holding on to for a long time. “You’re OK.”

“Welcome back,” War said. “Good catch.”

“Biscuit?” asked Famine, holding out a packet of digestives.

Pestilence and War looked at the fat man in quiet amazement. “Well, there’s a first,” Pest said. He reached for the packet. “I’ll have one, if it’s going.”

“Shove off,” Famine grunted, pulling the packet back. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Drake and his lady friend.”

“I’m OK, thanks,” Drake said. He tried a laugh. It didn’t hurt too badly. “What about you, Mel?”

Mel did not answer.

“Mel?”

Drake craned his neck so he could look at her. Her eyes were closed. The muscles in her face were slack. “Mel?” Drake said again, and he could hear the desperation in his own voice this time.

“Get her on her back,” Famine said, nudging War. “Check her pulse.”

Drake scrambled to his feet as Mel was lifted off him. He watched, saw nothing else, as War pressed two fingers against Mel’s throat, then gave a single slow shake of his head.

“N-no, but I saved her,” Drake stammered. “I caught her. I saved her.”

Pest took hold of his arm, holding him back. “The fall itself...” he said softly. “Humans, they’re fragile. The fall itself could’ve done it. There’s nothing you could have done. There’s nothing anyone could do.”

Famine licked his rubbery lips, then wiped the saliva away with the back of his arm. “Yes, there is,” he said. “Rules of First Aid. Step one, check for dangers.” All but Drake glanced up at the robot. “We won’t count that one,” Famine decided. “Step two—”

“Just hurry up!” Drake cried.

“All right, all right, keep your hair on,” Famine muttered, as he dropped to his knees. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, warming up, then he tilted back Mel’s head, clamped his lips over hers, and blew.

One breath, that was all it took. She coughed, spluttered, sat up, stared, then slumped back down again, her eyes closing as she fell. War checked again for a pulse. This time, he nodded.

Famine licked a finger, pressed it against the side of his face, and made a hissing sound, like water becoming steam.

“She reacted quickly to that,” War said.

Pest shuddered. “Do you blame the girl?”

Drake was down on his knees. He hugged Famine. Or rather, he hugged a small percentage of Famine. The rest would have to wait.

“Mel,” he said, but the word came out as a sob. He placed a hand on her face. He could feel her moving beneath his touch, as her breath came and went. “You’re going to be OK,” he whispered. He became aware that his cheeks were wet with tears. “You’re going to be OK.”

Her eyelids flickered, then opened. “Hey, Chief,” she croaked. “What... what happened?”

Drake resisted the urge to glance at Famine. “Trust me,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

She tried to sit up, but pain twisted her face and she lay back down. Her eyes swam for a moment, but she forced them to focus on Drake’s face. “Did you stop him?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what are you waiting for? We had a deal, remember?”

Drake nodded and smiled grimly. “I remember.”

From the noise she made, Drake knew it hurt, but Mel forced her head and shoulders up until she could kiss him on the cheek. “Go get him, Drake,” she said.

“Can we hurry this up, do you think?” War muttered. “I’m three seconds away from puking in my own beard.”

“Oh, stop teasing him,” Pest said, slapping War on the arm. “Can’t you see? The boy’s in love!”

“What?” Drake spluttered, his face reddening.

“Listen, if you ever need any advice, Drake, come and see me,” Famine told him, then he winked and tapped his nose. “I know a thing or three.”

“Will everyone please shut up?” War growled. “We’ve still got the big metal bugger there to deal with, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Drake joined War in staring up at the mechanoid. “Any ideas? Could you, like, chop its feet off or something?”

“Doubt the sword will get through that,” War said.

“I could eat it,” Famine suggested. “But it might take a while,” he admitted.

“We have to do something,” Pest said.

But the robot did something instead. Its foot lifted into the air as it began to stride forward once more. The horsemen watched the foot pass above them, before it slammed down on top of a parked car, sending all four tyres rolling along the road.

The machine paused then, before its arms raised out in front of it, first one, then the other. It twisted at the waist, then its head jerked round until it was facing the wrong way.

With a loud clank, the head and the torso snapped back to face the front again, just as the other leg lifted into the air.

“What’s it playing at?” War growled. “It’s going mental.”

“It must be the souls,” Drake said, peering up. He could see blue streaks looping around at the top of the robot’s head. “I set the souls free. They’re running riot up there. They must’ve damaged the controls. We need to bring it down before it trashes the whole town.”

“But how?” Pest asked.

Drake’s mind raced. There was something else about his two visits to Sunday School. Something else that had been covered in the puppet show. A sort of mini-show, before the Jesus and the Leper main event. What was it? What was it?

“Daniel and Goliath!” he cried.

“You mean David and Goliath,” War said.

“Daniel, David, whatever,” Drake said. He looked across to one of the spheres that had fallen during the battle. War followed his gaze. Realisation slowly dawned across his bearded face. “Can you do it?” Drake asked.

With barely a grunt, War picked up the sphere. “With my eyes shut.”

“Fire away,” Drake said. “Aim for the head, like Daniel did.”

“David!”

“Whatever! Just throw it.”

War balanced the ball in one hand, then pressed it against the side of his hairy cheek. Like a shot-putter, he launched the ball skyward. They all watched as it flew up, up, up towards the robot’s head.

“Easy,” War said, flexing his muscles. “It’s home and dry.”

There was a distant bang as the ball smashed against the robot’s thick shell.

“Look out!” Drake cried. A rain of metal and wire and dark red liquid fell to Earth around them.

Pest stared at the falling liquid in horror. “Blood,” he whimpered. “A rain of blood. Another sign!”

“It’s not blood,” War said, touching the stuff with his fingers and smelling it. “It’s engine coolant.”

“Coolant?” Drake muttered.

“Must be to stop the spheres overheating,” War said, wiping his gloves on his trousers.

“Looks like blood to me,” fretted Pest.

“It’s not blood!” War bellowed. “And it’s not the Apocalypse.”

“It might be if we can’t stop that thing,” Drake said. The robot took another thunderous step forward. “Can you try again?”

“The balls aren’t solid enough,” War told him. “It’s no use. We need something heavier.”

“We don’t have anything heavier!”

There was the sound of a throat being cleared. “Me.”

Drake, War and Pestilence turned. Famine stood behind them, looking a little embarrassed. He smiled uncertainly. “Throw me.”

“Don’t be daft,” Pest said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s a long fall from up there,” War said. “There’s no saying you’d survive.”

Famine’s round shoulders shrugged. “There’s no saying I won’t. Besides, Drake did.”

“Aye, but you’ve... got a bit more weight behind you,” War said diplomatically.

Something like a laser blast scorched from the robot’s outstretched hand and a petrol station a hundred metres away became a ball of flame.

“Better hurry,” Famine said.

“There’s got to be another way,” Pest protested. He had found his leather cap again, and was holding it in both hands, nervously fiddling with the peak. “There’s got to be.”

“Well, we could throw you, but the wind’d carry you away,” Famine told him. Then he smiled, warmly and patted his friend on the shoulder as he passed him.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Drake.

“Not really,” Famine admitted. He turned to War. “Let’s get it over with, eh?”

War creaked his neck and stretched his muscles. “Aye,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

He caught Famine by the back of the neck and the waistband of his trousers.

“Brace yourself,” he warned, as he began to spin like a hammer thrower, twirling the fat man out in a wide circle.

“Good luck,” Famine blurted, then he very suddenly felt lighter than he had ever felt before. The ground and the other horsemen fell away. Famine laughed. He was flying, soaring, rising up and up like some beautiful, elegant bird.

WHANG!

Famine’s arms and legs formed a sort of squidgy star-shape as his body struck the head of the robot. He barely had time to utter an “ooyah” before he slid down what passed for the mechanoid’s forehead, then began the long plunge back down to Earth.

He hit the ground like a meteorite, throwing up chunks of rubble and debris in all directions. He was very relieved that it hurt. That meant he wasn’t dead. Not quite, at least.

His head went light. The world turned grey at the edges. The last thing Famine saw before he passed out was an eighty-metre tall robot ever so slowly begin to topple backwards.





DRAKE HEARD THE sound of cheering or screaming in the distance, he couldn’t tell which. Then he heard the indescribable sound of a giant robot falling on to a row of houses, and then, for the next few seconds, he heard nothing but the ringing in his own ears.

Drake hadn’t seen him move, but Pest was already scrabbling down the side of the crater caused by Famine’s fall.

“He’s alive!”

Even over the ringing in his ears and the sound of settling debris, Drake heard War sigh with relief.

“He’s alive, but he’s hurt,” Pest cried. “Someone fetch me a Kit-Kat.”

“We did it,” Drake said, looking over at the fallen robot.

War nodded. “Aye. Looks like it,” he said. He nodded towards where Mel was still sitting on the ground. “Go and check on her. I’ll help that pair.”

Drake didn’t hang about. He hurried over to the side of the road and knelt down by Mel. She managed a smile for him, and he gave one right back.

“It’s over,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “We stopped him. It’s over.”

Her smile widened, until it became the crinkle-nosed grin Drake would never, ever tire of seeing. “Good work,” she said. “I knew you could do it.” She thought about this. “Well, hoped, at least.”

Down in the crater, Pest was cradling Famine’s head. He didn’t even appear bothered by the strings of drool hanging from the fat man’s open mouth, even when they began dripping on to his leather chaps.

War slid down the last few metres of the hole and nudged Famine with his boot. “Right, wake up,” he said.

“Steady on,” Pestilence complained. “He’s hurt. Don’t be so rough. You can’t just make him wake up.”

“Oh, look,” said War loudly. “I’ve found a cake.”

Famine’s eyes opened. “Cake?”

War smirked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an individually wrapped muffin. Famine took it and ate it, without bothering to unwrap it first.

“Did I do good?” Famine asked, as the other horsemen helped him to his feet.

“You did good,” War said, nodding.

“You were wonderful,” Pest enthused. He and War took an arm each and led Famine up the incline and on to the pock-marked road. They waved over to Drake. Pestilence began to say something.

That was when it hit them.

Drake didn’t see what hit the horsemen. The light was so blinding it forced his eyes to close, but even that couldn’t stop it burning into his retinas. He heard Mel hiss with the pain and shock of it.

When the light faded and Drake could open his eyes, War, Famine and Pestilence were face down on the ground, motionless.

Something moved in the pit behind them. Drake watched in horror as a twisted metal monstrosity clanked up on to the street.

It had Mr Franks’ face, but the rest of it was machine. Hydraulics hissed as it marched forward a few paces, each thunderous footstep driving a new pothole into the road. “Robotic exo-skeleton,” Mr Franks announced. “Now I know you weren’t expecting that.”

An arm rose. The palm of the robotic hand glowed a swirling white. Drake heard Mel gasp, turned and saw a blue light illuminate her from within. She sagged too quickly for him to catch her. She collapsed to the pavement as her soul streaked past Drake and was swallowed by the light.

“No,” Drake cried. “No!”

Mr Franks licked his lips. “Mmm, tasty, tasty!” he cackled. “That one’s going to be a meal all by itself.”

“Give her back,” Drake bellowed. He ran at the teacher. “Let her go!”

Mr Franks reached down and grabbed something from the ground. Something whummed towards Drake’s face. Drake twisted, but not fast enough. He felt his cheek split open and his blood fell like rain upon the ground.

“Ooh, that looks nasty,” Mr Franks grinned. He raised War’s sword triumphantly. The point drew a figure of eight in the air just a few centimetres from Drake’s nose.

“Give me back her soul, or I’m going to kill you,” Drake growled.

“See, this is how it should be!” Mr Franks cried. His eyes blazed with excitement. He was loving every minute of this. “Thrills, spills, drama, adventure. That’s what being a horseman should be about, not sitting in a shed for a thousand years playing Snap. I should have ended the world centuries ago.”

“You’re not going to end the world. We stopped you,” Drake reminded him.

“Oh, come on, Drake, you think I didn’t have a back-up plan?” He flexed the hydraulic muscles of the metal suit. “Mystical battle armour,” he crowed. “What do you think? Does everything the big robot did, but in an all-new slimline package. You were right, the giant robot was a little on the old-fashioned side, but this? This is the future.”

“I’ll tear it to pieces, with you inside.”

“Them’s fighting words!” Mr Franks laughed. With one robotic arm he reached round to his back. A long, loosely wrapped bundle of blue polythene landed on the ground at Drake’s feet. “So, let’s do this properly. Let’s settle it. A fight,” he beamed, “to the Death.”

Not taking his eyes off the teacher, Drake unfolded the bundle. A long-handled scythe rolled out. Its blade looked brand new, but Drake somehow sensed that the weapon was as old as time itself.

“So, you’re the one who took it.”

“The Deathblade,” Mr Franks announced. “Pick it up. Embrace your destiny. And then, I’m going to kill –” he breathed in deeply through his nose – “everyone.”

The wooden handle vibrated gently beneath Drake’s grip as he hoisted the Deathblade up. It stood taller than he did, but it felt almost weightless in his hands.

“Not if I kill you first,” Drake said.

“Man, I love this! It’s so... exciting!” Mr Franks cackled. “OK then, Drake, try to kill me. Try to save your girlfriend,” he said. With a click of his heels, two compact jet-engines unfolded from the backs of his metal-clad legs. “Catch me if you can!”

With a roar from his rocket-boots, Mr Franks propelled himself vertically upwards towards the clouds far, far overhead.

Drake didn’t stop to think. His hand was moving before his brain had fully realised what was happening. He curled his thumb and index finger. He put them in his mouth, and he whistled. Finally, he whistled, long and shrill and loud.

And he heard, as it were, the noise of thunder.





THE SONIC BOOM whipped up the air around Drake. He didn’t flinch, not even when the horse tore from the air directly in front of him.

Its front hooves came down hard on the ground, but they didn’t make a sound. Its back hooves also fell silently on to the tarmac surface of the road. The horse reared up on to its hind legs, and Drake realised it was bigger than even War’s mighty steed.

War had called it ‘the pale horse’, and it was pale, but not in the way Drake had been expecting. It wasn’t so much pale in terms of colour, as pale in terms of solidity. Light flowed through it, bending and warping as if passing through a crystal.

The animal wasn’t completely transparent, though. Swirls of living white heaved deep beneath its glassy skin, forming patterns that shifted and whirled every time it moved. When it stood still, as it did now, it could be mistaken for an ice sculpture.

There was no saddle on the horse’s back, and there were no reins with which to hold on. Neither of those things made Drake hesitate. In one leap he was sitting on the animal’s broad back, the Deathblade clutched in his right hand.

He had expected the horse to be cold, like ice, but it felt neither cold nor warm beneath him. It just felt... there.

Drake didn’t give the horse any command. He didn’t say anything to make it take to the air. He just thought the instruction and the horse obeyed. Up, he thought, and up the horse went, moving swiftly and silently in a steep uphill curve.

The faster the horse moved, the less tangible it became. It no longer resembled an ice sculpture. Now it was a horse-shaped cloud, a silvery vapour trail billowing out in its wake.

Up it went, higher and higher, until the ground was little more than a distant memory. They were running almost straight up now, but Drake was having no problem staying on the horse’s back, despite the oncoming wind and gravity’s insistent pull. It was as if he and the horse were one creature, inseparable until he decided otherwise.

Over the howling of the wind, Drake heard another sound. The horse banked right, just as the roar of engines filled the air. The robot battle armour whistled by them, performed an impossibly tight turn, then streaked back in their direction.

Drake swung with the Deathblade. There was a ching of metal hitting metal, and a bolt of angry lightning ripped across the sky.

Mr Franks drew back War’s sword. Red fire crackled along the length of its blade. It lit up his face, illuminating the madness that danced behind his eyes. “Nice horse,” he said. “Had it long?”

He lunged again with the sword. The Deathblade twirled in Drake’s hand. Was he moving it, or was it moving him? He couldn’t quite say. The hooked blade clanked against the side of the sword, knocking Mr Franks’ aim off.

More lightning exploded and the teacher leaped back, his rocket-boots blasting him out of harm’s way. They both lunged again, hacking and slashing with their weapons as they climbed higher and higher into the sky. Each time the weapons met, fingers of electricity clawed at the air around them.

“I’ve got this problem, Drake,” Mr Franks said. He had stopped attacking for the moment, but was still moving upwards. The horse trotted across the sky, maintaining the distance between them. “At first I thought it was just this minor irritation, but, well, it’s got bigger, and it just refuses to go away. It’s you, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Drake told him.

“I was trying to be nice to you. I wanted you free to fulfil your destiny when Armageddon all kicks off.” The teacher’s face filled up with contempt. “And it will all kick off. You see, you think you’ve stopped it, but you haven’t. You can’t prevent the end of the world, Drake. It’s inevitable.”

“There’s only one thing that’s inevitable,” Drake replied. “And I’m it.”

Lunging wildly, he swung the Deathblade in a wide arc. It sliced through part of a robotic arm, and a spray of red coolant pumped out. The liquid distracted Drake. He didn’t see the other exo-skeleton arm come up sharply. A fist the size of a breeze block went whump against Drake’s chin, and he discovered that he could, in fact, be separated from the horse.

The town was spread out below him like a toy village as he plunged towards it. He could see the roofs of houses. He could see his back garden. And there, lying among it all, was the giant robot the horsemen had defeated together.

The wind seemed to laugh as it howled past his ears. Gravity’s pull felt stronger than ever. Drake clung tightly to the Deathblade, as if it could somehow slow his descent, or stop his fall completely.

A metal fist clanged against his cheek, widening the split and sending blood spraying up behind him. He tried to twist, but there was nothing to push against. He cried out in pain as a robotic foot slammed against his lower back, and a white-hot jet-engine flame scorched his skin.

He hacked with the scythe, flailing it behind him. Mr Franks dodged easily. Hydraulics whirred and an alloy elbow was driven hard against the base of Drake’s skull.

The force of the blow flipped him. He spun until he was facing the right way, standing up as he fell down towards the now not nearly so distant ground. A flash of red fire sliced towards him. He held up the Deathblade and War’s sword smashed against the blade.

A jagged streak of electricity tore down at them from above, striking the weapons at the same time. They both watched helplessly, as the sword and the scythe were ripped from their hands, and sent tumbling down through the clouds.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Mr Franks roared. “Now how am I supposed to kill you? The fall? I doubt that’ll be enough.”

He looked up. A deranged grin spread across his face, and a metal hand caught hold of Drake. Rockets flared on the battle armour’s feet, and they began to climb, straight up at eye-watering speed.

“It’s been fun, hasn’t it?” the teacher hollered. “You and me. All of this. It’s been fun. But now I need you out of the way. The sword could’ve killed you, but now I’ve lost that, so you’ve forced me to improvise.”

A clear Perspex visor snapped down over Mr Franks’ head. “I still need to breathe,” he explained. “Until I eat your girlfriend’s soul, at least. But you? You’re a horseman. Breathing’s optional.”

Drake had no idea what the madman was on about. “So?”

“Look up.”

They had been climbing at an incredible rate. Drake raised his eyes and saw that the blue sky had become a haze of colours. It looked as if the fabric of the heavens had been stretched out, pulled so thin that he could see the stars shining through it.

“I’m ending the world,” Mr Franks cackled, as he saw the moment of realisation spread like a rash across Drake’s face. “But, lucky for you, you’re not going to be on it.”

Drake grabbed at the battle armour. A shock jolted through him, but he kept clawing, kept trying to find a way of pulling the helmet open, of tearing the exo-skeleton apart.

A glug of red coolant slicked his fingers and he lost what little grip he had on the armour. He heard Mr Franks laugh, even over the whistling of the wind, but his attention was fixed on the blood-like liquid.

He thought back to the cave of the Deathblade Guardian, and to the cupboard in Dr Black’s room. Air conditioning. Climate control. The engine coolant dribbled from his fingertips, and everything clicked into place.

They began to rise through a bank of cloud, which had appeared as if from nowhere. A horse-shaped section of the vapour suddenly became solid beneath Drake, and their impossibly quick ascent stopped impossibly quickly.

Drake took a moment to look around. He could see the curvature of the Earth stretching out far, far below. He could see the colours of the upper atmosphere, swirling like the surface of a giant bubble. He could see the stars, above and around them, and he could hear... nothing at all. Mr Franks was speaking – shouting – but Drake could not hear a sound.

There was no air, but neither Drake nor his horse required it. Drake looked down at the world spread out below him. It would not end today.

Ignoring the shock of pain, he took hold of Mr Franks’ metal frame. He didn’t even need to think the next command. The horse moved all by itself.

Down they went, plunging through the atmosphere, faster even than they had climbed. The silence ended with a sudden boom, and the sounds of hooves and wind and screaming filled Drake’s ears.

The metal of the battle armour went orange, then red, then white as the heat generated by their re-entry into the atmosphere began burning the suit up. Heat. That was the key. That was the weakness.

“Stop!” Mr Franks pleaded. But Drake did not stop. He rode, not across the sky, but straight down, ushering in one very specific, localised Apocalypse.

The heat was intense. Drake could feel it scorching against his skin, but it didn’t burn him, couldn’t burn him.

“Give me her soul back,” Drake snarled. “Let her go.”

Mr Franks tried to swing with a wild punch, but the heat was making the armour seize up. His fist creaked to a stop several centimetres from its target.

“Let her go, or you die!”

Mr Franks’s eyes were wide with terror, but he was hanging on to his defiance. “You won’t do it. You’re not a murderer.”

“No,” Drake agreed. “Murderers can be stopped. Death can’t. Not by burning, not by falling, not by you! “

“You won’t do it!”

“Yes,” said Drake. “I will.” He released his grip. A look of puzzled terror crossed Mr Franks’s face and he suddenly found himself freefalling.

Down, Drake thought, and the horse raced after the plummeting teacher, keeping pace, but making no attempt to intercept him. Drake listened to Mr Franks’s screams all the way down to the ground.

The madman closed his eyes and prepared himself for the end as the tarmac rushed up to meet him. But he did not hit it. At least, not right away. A firm hand caught him by a robotic ankle, stopping his skull splattering like an egg on the concrete.

“Well, well, well, look who dropped in,” War growled. He opened his hand and the armour, with Mr Franks inside, clattered down on to the ground.

Mr Franks looked up to see War, Famine and Pestilence glaring down. War’s sword was back in the giant’s hand, the tip of the blade held just centimetres from the teacher’s face.

“Oh God,” Mr Franks groaned. “Not you three.”

“Lovely to see you too,” Pest said. “We really mustn’t do this again some time.”

There was a moment of ominous silence, when even the blaring of the police sirens died away, and Drake’s horse touched down beside them. The other three horsemen stepped aside as Drake strode over, pausing only to pick up the fallen scythe. Even without the Robe of Sorrows, he looked every inch the embodiment of Death.

“Give me back her soul,” he commanded, in a voice like the tolling of a funeral bell.

“You want it?” Mr Franks coughed. “You’re going to have to kill me to get it.”

Without a word, Drake raised the scythe and angled the point towards the teacher’s head. “That’s it, boy,” Mr Franks hissed. “What are you waiting for? Do it. Kill me. Become the Death you are.”

Drake shifted his grip on the handle. He chose a spot in the centre of Mr Franks’s chest.

“Come on, what are you waiting for? Do it,” Mr Franks snarled, and Drake saw the teacher’s teeth were coated in blood. “Finish me; do it!”

Without a word, Drake brought the Deathblade down sharply. There was a sound of tearing metal and Mr Franks screamed briefly before he realised he was still very much in one piece.

The armour fell in two, like a peanut shell splitting open. From within the cables and circuitry, a blue glow began to flicker. Drake alone watched as the glow rose into the air, forming a pulsating egg shape. And then, it was gone.

Over by the side of the road, Mel made a sound between a sneeze and a scream. Then she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. “Wow,” she muttered. “That was... interesting.”

“She’s alive!” Pest cried. “You did it!”

“That’s one problem solved,” Famine said. He gave the teacher a kick. “What are we going to do with him?”

“Yeah, what are you going to do with me?” Mr Franks demanded.

“Leave him there,” War shrugged. He studied the blade of his sword for a moment, shook his head, then slipped it into the sheath across his back.

“You can’t leave me here!” Mr Franks looked pointedly to his arms and legs, which were still trapped within the twisted wreckage of the armour. “I can’t move.”

“Good, then you can explain everything to the police,” Pest said.

“The police?” Mr Franks spluttered. “But... but that’s for humans.”

“Yes, but you are human now, aren’t you?” Pestilence said. “Your choice, no one else’s. I’d imagine the police will want to ask you a lot of questions about giant robots and the like.”

“And then, I’d imagine, they’ll lock you up,” Famine added. “With other humans. Violent ones.”

“You can’t leave me,” Mr Franks cried. “What about all those times we had? We were a team. Right?”

“I can see your lips moving,” Drake said. “But all I can hear is this noise. Like the quacking of ducks. Quack-quack-quack.”

Sirens screamed just a few streets away. War looked over to the horses gathered together near Famine’s mobility scooter.

“We’d better get a shifty on,” he said. “Don’t want to be here when the Bobbies arrive.”

Drake crossed to Mel. She put her arms round him and they hugged until the sounds of the sirens were too close for comfort. “We’d better go,” he said. “Are we... OK?”

Mel looked up at the ice sculpture of a horse behind her. She looked back at Drake. “We’re OK,” she said, and then she kissed him for the third time that day. Not that he was counting.

They climbed on to the horse. War was already sitting on his, while Famine waddled across to his scooter. Only Pestilence remained behind.

“You coming?” Drake asked.

“Yeah, just a second,” Pest told them. He looked down at Mr Franks, pinned beneath the weight of the robotic battle suit. “Quick question,” Pestilence said brightly. “I was just wondering, with you being so clever and everything...”

He raised his gloveless hands and brought them closer to the teacher’s face. “Have you ever heard of Guinea Worm Disease?”

Drake felt Mel’s arms go round him. He placed his hands over hers, just as War took hold of his own horse’s reins.

“Ready?” the bearded giant asked.

“Ready,” said Drake. “Oh, but, I was thinking...”

War glared at him expectantly. “First time for everything, I suppose.”

“Next week sometime, once everything’s settled down, if you fancy – and if we don’t, you know, get cast into Hell for not doing our jobs properly – I thought that maybe we could, I dunno, go fishing?”

War looked off into the distance, as if suddenly able to see some previously unnoticed future spread out there, just beyond the horizon. “Aye,” he said, at last. “Why not?”

Then he dug in his heels, flicked the reins, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode across the sky and made their way home.





HE LEAVES THE plains of the afterlives behind and arrives like a dark, creeping fog in a neatly cropped circle of grass. It is midnight, the dead of night. This is not unusual. To him, it is always midnight.

A square construction stands before him. Although he has never seen this place before, he has felt it, sensed it, many times over.

The shed. At last, he has reached the shed. He has reached the moment of his destiny.

Like a drop of black oil he oozes across the grass, past the flowerpots and up to the entrance. His shape shifts, his living cloak wraps round his solidifying form, and a hand that is no more than bleached bone raps three times on the wooden door.

There is a sound from inside. A clatter and then a thud. A thin man appears, his body dressed in white, his hands clad in a thin second skin.

“Hello?” the man asks, surprised, but not shocked by his skeletal appearance. “What can I do you for?”

The words hiss out of their own accord. Words he has waited to speak since being brought into existence. Words he was created to speak.

I aaaammm Deeeeeaaathhh...

The thin-faced man looks him up and down. “Oh,” he says. “So you’re supposed to be... And he’s not...” The thin-faced man looks him up and down for a second time. “Oh. Well, this is awkward.”

There is another voice, loud and booming, from within the shed. “Hurry up, it’s your turn. Who is it?” the voice demands.

“It’s, um, a big skeleton thing,” the thin-faced man says, “says he’s Death.”

From inside the shed, there is silence, and then a muttering, and then, more clearly. “Tell him we’ve got one.”

The thin-faced man turns back to him and smiles apologetically. “Sorry,” he says, “we’ve already got one.”

And then, quietly but firmly, he closes the door.