Читать книгу Afterworlds: The 13th Horseman - Barry Hutchison - Страница 13

THE TALL GRASS and weeds whipped at Drake as he high-tailed it away from the clearing. His heart thudded in his chest like a bongo drum made of terror as he frantically tried to put as much distance between himself and the shed as he possibly could. Were the men still inside? More importantly, had they heard him? One thing was for certain: he wasn’t sticking around to find out.

With a gasp he leaped from the grass, expecting to land on the uneven concrete of the back step. Instead his feet found themselves touching down once more on neatly cropped lawn. The shed stood before him, exactly as it had done a few moments ago. He’d gone round in a circle.

He turned and surged back into the jungle of weeds. How could he have been so stupid? He wouldn’t let it happen again. Fixing his eyes on the house, Drake made a beeline straight for it.

A few moments later he spilled out into the clearing. Toxie gave a happy yelp as Drake skidded to a halt on the grass. This was wrong. This was all wrong! Trembling with panic, Drake spun on his heels and darted back towards the high weeds. The men in the shed could be wanted criminals for all he knew. Murderers. Possibly even cannibals, judging by the size of the fat one. He had to get away.

“Haw, pal, you’re wasting your time,” boomed a voice from behind him. Drake’s stomach bunched into a tight knot of fear and he propelled himself into the head-high undergrowth, not daring to look back. The weeds seemed to work against him, tangling and grabbing at him as he ran.

When he emerged into the clearing for the fourth time it didn’t come as any great surprise. His legs and arms ached, his hands and face were covered in insect bites – even breathing was proving painful. The way he felt right now, death would almost come as a relief.

“Told you,” said the bearded giant who stood in the clearing. He was casually running a large brick along the length of an enormous sword, spraying the grass with little orange sparks. “Now, you can try running again, but you’ll only end up back here, and I’m getting fed up of hanging around waiting for you to get that through your heid.”

The man had looked big when he was sitting down in the shed, but out here he managed to make the rest of the world look small. Arms as thick as tree trunks bulged from his torso, which spread out like a brick wall on either side of the long, flowing beard. Rusted chain mail covered two telegraph pole legs. Boots that may have once been wild animals of some kind were pulled tight over feet large enough to make the very planet itself shake. He looked dangerous. And he was staring directly at Drake.

“Wh-who are you?” Drake stammered.

“To some I’m the living embodiment of cruelty and suffering, who will rain fire and fury down upon them come the Day of Judgement,” the man said gruffly. “To others I’m a big bugger with a red horse. Just depends who you ask, really.” With a flourish he flicked the sword around and slid it into a sheath slung across his back. He wiped his hands on his leather tunic, then extended one for Drake to shake. “But you can call me War.”

Hesitantly, Drake reached out and shook War’s hand. His own fingers felt all too fragile in the giant’s grasp.

“Drake,” he said. “Drake Finn.”

“Aye. I know.”

The shed door flew open and the skinny man Drake had seen earlier stomped out. He shielded his dark, sunken eyes from the sun as he marched angrily across the lawn.

“He’s done it again!” the man shrilled. “He’s eaten my antiseptic cream! That’s the fourth one this week. I’ll never get this rash cleared up at this rate!”

“I was hungry,” called a voice from inside the shed. The wooden doorframe groaned in protest as the fat man appeared and squeezed himself through. He inched slowly forward, supporting himself with two walking sticks.

“You’re always hungry!” snapped the scrawnier figure. He folded his frail arms across his pigeon chest in the universal language of sulk.

“Yeah,” the fat man mumbled, licking dollops of thick white cream from round his mouth, “and you’ve always got a rash.”

“This is Pestilence,” War explained, stabbing a thumb in the skinny man’s direction. “The walking dustbin over there’s Famine.”

“Nice to see you again,” gushed Pestilence.

“All 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 halfway to his open mouth.

Pestilence cleared his throat quietly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the scabby cat. “It’s a lot for him to take in.”

For a few long moments the world seemed to stand perfectly still. Then, with a low “Woof,” Toxie turned and wandered off across the grass. All three men let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Bit of advice,” War scowled. “Don’t go insulting a Hellhound, particularly not one that’s standing next to you at the time.”

“But... it’s a cat,” Drake said, his voice a low whisper. “I wasn’t insulting him, he’s a cat!”

“He’s got some problems. With changing,” Pestilence said, mouthing the last two words silently. “Bless.”

“Changing? What are you—?”

“It’s not important,” War intoned, his voice clipped by irritation. “You need to join us in the shed.”

“No.”

The giant frowned. “No?” he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time in his life.

Drake’s fear had temporarily deserted him, replaced instead by anger at being kept against his will. “You said I’m in charge here, right?”

“That’s right,” said War reluctantly. “Death is technically the leader of the Four Horsemen, but—”

“Then I order you to let me go. No garden looping or any of that. Put it back to normal and let me go home.”

“But we haven’t even started discussing your responsibilities,” War protested. “There’s a lot to get through if—”

“Now!” Drake demanded.

War’s bulging muscles twitched briefly. He bit down on his lip, fighting the urge to shout. An icy shiver of terror shot down Drake’s spine as he realised he may have gone too far.

Eventually, though, the giant gave a single nod of his head. “Whatever you say,” he said. “Pest.”

Pestilence reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary television remote control. He jabbed a few buttons, then slipped the device back in his pocket.

“You’re free to go,” said War.

Drake eyed the men closely as he backed towards the high grass. When he felt the foliage brushing against him, he turned and plunged off through the weeds. The others watched as the trodden undergrowth sprang back into place in his wake.

“Well,” breathed Pestilence, “all in all I’d say that went really rather well!”