Afterworlds: The 13th Horseman

Afterworlds: The 13th Horseman Barry Hutchison Pratchett -meets-Python in this dark-comic fantasy with plenty of action, perfect for 11+ boysDrake is surprised to find three horsemen of the apocalypse playing snakes and ladders in his garden shed. He’s even more surprised when they insist that he is one of them. They’re missing a Horseman, having gone through several Deaths and they think that Drake is the boy for the job. At first he’s reluctant to usher in Armageddon but does being in charge of Armageddon have to spell the end of the world?An apocalyptic blend of riotous comedy, heart-stopping action and a richly imagined fantasy adventure. Dedication (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) For Kyle and Mia, my own little harbingers of doom. Epigraph (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. –Revelations 6:8 Contents Cover (#uab798c0b-8ed8-5b3d-af6c-e85b1b0c7f56) Title Page (#u55b53462-720b-56a1-8aaf-bb6d8a8652ea) Dedication Epigraph PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX EPILOGUE Copyright About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) THE VAST, LONELY wastelands of oblivion stretch out in all directions, infinite in their scale and in their emptiness. Darkness lies heavy over this most desolate of plains, like a burial shroud on a long-forgotten corpse. This place – if, indeed, it can be called a place – has been this way since before the dawn of time itself. Uninhabited. Undisturbed. It will soon change. Everything will soon change. Since the first fragments of reality came to exist, there has been nothing but silence here. Yet the silence in the air now hangs ominous and foreboding, as if the very cosmos itself is holding its breath, and waiting. But waiting for what? Like the leathery wings of a startled bat, the darkness rustles. In time – though it is impossible to say how much – the sound swells in volume, until it crashes and thunders like a storm called down by the devil himself. In all the endless reaches of this place, there is nothing and no one to bear witness to this terrible sound. At least, not yet. But soon a fragment of the darkness warps and buckles, contorting as if pulled by some violent, invisible hand. The shadows stretch like treacle, screeching and howling in protest as they are forcibly rearranged into a new form. A form that could almost pass for that of a man. Almost. Angry tendrils of inky black hiss and slither across his frame. A fabric woven from the dead of night crawls across bare, bleached bone: a living cape concealing his full horror from all the worlds. Though freshly born, he is already aware of his purpose. He knows beyond question the reason for his creation. And he knows what he must do. His empty eye sockets turn and fix on some unseen horizon. He has an epic journey ahead of him. He has unimaginable distances to cross. It will not take him long. (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) DRAKE KNEW IT wasn’t the frogs’ fault. It couldn’t be. They were, after all, only frogs. And yet, if it hadn’t been for them, he wouldn’t be here now, standing before a jungle of tall grass and weeds, holding the smooth wooden handle of an ancient lawn mower. Then again, if it hadn’t been for him, the frogs would never have exploded, his science teacher, Miss Pimkin, would still have her hair, and the top two floors of his school would still be where they were supposed to be. All things considered, he’d probably come off best. He’d been marched to the headmaster’s office before the dust had settled. By the time the fire brigade had finished beating Miss Pimkin’s flames out, he’d been expelled. And all because he’d tried to help those frogs. So much for good deeds. Moving school had been bad enough, but the only school he could move to was twenty-five kilometres away, and that meant moving house too. His mum hadn’t been happy about that, and he’d been trying to make it up to her ever since. The grass was the latest attempt. He’d promised he’d cut it the day they moved in. That was four days ago, and it was still standing as tall as ever. After a night spent lying awake, worrying about his first day at the new school, Drake had got out of bed at six-thirty, and decided the grass’s time had come. The back garden was fairly small – about the length of an average-sized bus. That was the good news. The bad news was that the previous occupants didn’t seem to have ever set foot in it, much less made any attempt to keep the grass in check. A tangled wilderness swayed gently in the summer breeze. Two-metre-high weeds waved slowly forward and back as if beckoning him in. “OK,” he said below his breath. “Here goes.” By the fifth push, Drake realised that the lawn mower was not doing what lawn mowers were meant to do. He knew that the purpose of a lawn mower – the entire reason for the existence of lawn mowers – was to cut grass. No one, it seemed, had bothered to tell that to this lawn mower. It was an ancient, weather-beaten contraption, with five blades set into a barrel shape, so they spun as the mower was rolled forward. Or, at least, that was the theory. But the entire mechanism had rusted solid, meaning the blades remained completely motionless as Drake shoved the thing further into the jungle of grass. The effect was that he wasn’t cutting the grass so much as temporarily flattening it down, only for it to spring back up the moment he’d passed, none the worse for its ordeal. Still, he refused to go back into the house without having made some progress, so he tightened his grip on the handle, dug his toes into the soft ground, and pushed on until he was swallowed by the overgrown undergrowth. His arms and shoulders quickly began to ache from the strain. Tiny insects with enormous appetites dive-bombed him, tormenting him with their teeth. Clenching his jaw, he heaved the lawn mower another half-metre up the garden, briefly pushing over yet another patch of head-high grass. And then, without warning, the weeds parted and Drake and the lawn mower emerged into a neatly kept clearing. The grass beneath his feet was a deep, lush green – not the wishy-washy grey of the other stuff – and just a centimetre or so long. It looked like a putting green at a golf course, cut into a pattern of perfect straight lines. A raised flower bed stood off to one side of the circular space, sprouting with all the colours of the rainbow. A single bee bumbled lazily from flower to flower, happily checking for pollen, and appearing not in the least bit bothered when it found none. Nearby, birds sang songs of joy and harmony to one another, and to anyone else who cared to listen. But Drake noticed none of these things. Instead, what he noticed was the shed. It stood in the centre of the clearing. Or perhaps slouched would have been a more appropriate word, considering its condition. The shed was about two metres wide by three long, with a door taking up most of one of the narrow ends. The walls were a smooth, dark timber that appeared to be immune to the early morning sunlight. Shadows hung over the planks like camouflage netting. Contrasting with the cheerful brightness of the clearing, though, the effect was exactly the opposite of camouflage: the shed stood out like a big square sore thumb. With a little red roof. A cool breeze blew at Drake’s back as he stepped away from the lawn mower and further into the clearing. Turning, he looked back at the house. He had an unobstructed view of his bedroom window from here, which meant he should’ve been able to see this place from up there too. And yet, he hadn’t. He hadn’t noticed the neatly cropped circle. He hadn’t spotted the shed. All he’d seen was grass and weeds and hours of thankless hard work. “There’s an explanation,” he told himself quietly. “No idea what it is, but there’s an explanation. There’s always an explanation.” Drake believed most things could be explained. He knew ghosts were tricks of the light, and UFOs were usually helicopters, or balloons, or far too much alcohol. He knew there was an explanation for this too. And he knew where he’d find it. He hadn’t noticed the birds tweeting or the bees buzzing, so Drake didn’t notice both fall silent as he approached the shed door. Nor did he hear the breeze hold its breath, or see the flower heads twist slowly in his direction as he turned the handle, eased the door open, and quietly stepped inside. (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) DRAKE STOOD IN the doorway, still gripping the handle, a scream trapped in a bubble at the back of his throat. He had expected the shed to be empty. He had, as it transpired, been wrong. A monstrous figure of a man sat on a folding deckchair directly in front of Drake, his broad, muscular frame making the chair look ridiculously small by comparison. Even sitting down, the man was a clear two feet taller than Drake, with a wild, flame-red beard that covered the bottom half of his face and reached almost all the way down to the floor. His hair was the same colour as his beard, thinning on top, but long at the back and sides. It hung down over his bronzed shoulders, finally stopping around halfway down his back. A scar ran from the top of his forehead to his cheek, passing through a milky white eye along the way. In one enormous fist he clutched a small red cylinder. It rattled noisily as he shook it back and forth. The clatter seemed deafening in the otherwise soundless shed. There was a telephone mounted on the wall behind the man, thick with dust. It was an old-fashioned-looking thing, the type that had a dial instead of buttons. Only this phone didn’t even have the dial part. It looked like a phone designed solely for receiving calls, and not making them. The man didn’t look up when Drake entered, just kept rattling the container in his hand, his eyes fixed on the table before him. It was only as Drake spotted the table that he noticed the other men sitting round it. Afterwards, he would ask himself how he could possibly have missed them. Or one of them, at least. The... thing sitting across from the first man appeared, at best, vaguely human. Or rather, he looked exactly like a small group of humans would look, were they blended together into a puree, then fed to another particularly hungry human. Rolls of flab hung off him like tinsel from a Christmas tree. They drooped from his chins and from his neck. They hung down over the elasticated waistband of his grey jogging trousers. They bulged beneath his matching grey top and spilled out through splits in the reinforced seams. The whole gelatinous mound of blubber wobbled as the man turned to look at the new arrival. He looked Drake up and down, then crammed an entire chocolate bar into his cavernous mouth. Sideways. There was a wet smacking sound as the fat man’s purple tongue licked hungrily across his lips, and then he spoke. “You must be the new fella,” he said, in a voice like a turkey’s gobble. “Thought you’d be taller.” “And I bet he thought you’d be less revolting,” snapped the third figure, whom Drake hadn’t even looked at thus far. He turned to look at him now, and was relieved to discover he appeared almost completely normal, aside from the white paper mask he wore over his nose and mouth, and the latex rubber gloves on each hand. Reaching into the top pocket of his pristine white coat, the third man pulled out a pair of glasses. His eyes seemed to double in size as he positioned the spectacles on his nose. “Oooh, he’s right, though,” the man said, looking Drake up and down. “You are a shorty. Still, you know what they say. Size isn’t everything!” The man snorted out a laugh. “No, but seriously. Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. Fine. You’re perfect just as you are. Gorgeous.” “You sitting down then?” asked the human blancmange. He was munching on another chocolate bar, not even bothering to remove the wrapper first. Drake’s gaze shifted across each of the men in turn. The only sound in the shed was the slow, rhythmic rattling of the container in the bearded man’s hand. “Um... um...” Drake stammered. “Sit... sit down?” “Well, you might as well!” chirped the third man, removing his glasses and slipping them back in his pocket. “I mean, let’s face it, you are going to be stuck here for ever, after all!” The door gave a loud thud as it swung closed. The three occupants of the shed listened to the boy’s screams as he raced from the clearing and back towards the house. “Oh dear,” said the third man. “Was it something I said, d’you think?” It was the man in the deckchair’s turn to speak. He spoke with a broad Scottish brogue, his voice louder than the others’, despite the muffling effect of his beard. “Oh, don’t you worry. He’ll be back.” “You sure?” “Aye. I’m sure.” Without another word, he opened his hand, letting a small square object tumble on to the tabletop. All three men peered down at the markings etched on to the object’s surface, and considered their significance. “A four!” gurgled the fat man triumphantly. “War’s got a four!” “Aye, all right,” sighed the one known as War. “Down the snake you go!” “I can see that, thank you, Famine. No need to rub it in.” “Right then, Pestilence, my old son, your shot,” said Famine to the man in the white coat. He rubbed his sweaty hands together excitedly. “And pass me them chicken legs, will you? I am bloody starving!” “Mum! Mum! There’s nutters in the garden!” Drake scrambled through the grass towards the house, leaving the clearing, the shed and the three strange men behind. The weeds and bracken whipped and scratched at him, but they didn’t slow him down. In no time, he’d made it through the jungle, barged open the front door, and bolted inside. His mum was in the kitchen, rummaging around in her handbag and patting down her pockets. She was dressed for work – black nylon trousers with faded knees, off-white T-shirt and pale blue tabard. She worked three cleaning jobs, spread out across the day so she was out more often than she was home. Now that they’d moved, she had longer to travel to get to work, so she was out even more than she used to be. “Keys,” she said. “Have you seen my keys?” “Nutters,” Drake panted, pressing his back against the door to keep it closed. “Three nutters. In the shed.” “What shed? We haven’t got a shed.” Drake nodded, still getting his breath back. “We do,” he said. “It’s at the bottom of the garden. Didn’t see it at first, but then I found it, and there are three men inside, and they might be dangerous, and—” “Who’s dangerous? What are you on about?” his mum asked. She was still hunting for her keys, only half-listening. “The three men,” he said again, less frantically this time. “In the shed.” “We don’t have a shed,” Mum said, before her face brightened as she lifted a tea towel off the table. “There they are – no wonder I couldn’t find them.” She slipped the keys into the front pocket of her tabard. “Right, sorry,” she said, finally giving him her full attention. “What’s all this about a shed?” For ten minutes they had hunted through the grass, sticking close together as they searched for the shed. They had found nothing, aside from the lawn mower. It stood silent and still in a particularly dense patch of foliage. The clearing Drake had pushed the thing into was nowhere to be seen, and nor was the shed. Over the course of the ten minutes, Drake’s mum had become increasingly irritated. Finally, she’d told him off for wasting her time, and stomped back towards the house, muttering about missing her bus. Drake followed his mum back into the house. He wanted to argue, but he knew there was no point. He had been sent to a child psychologist after the incident with the frogs, and if he kept going on about the shed, Drake had a feeling he’d be back there by the end of the week. He’d already begun the process of convincing himself the whole frog thing had never actually happened. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could do the same with the shed. Mum looked at her watch. “Right, I’m going to head for this next bus.” “Will you be home after school?” “What’s today? Monday? Yeah, I’ll be here for a bit, then I’m out again. Unless I get held up, but there’s stuff to eat in the freezer.” Drake scraped together one more spoonful of cereal, and took a final glance out through the window at the back garden. Still no shed. “Right,” he said at last. “Go and get ready,” she said, kissing him on the top of the head on her way to the door. “You do not want to be late for your first day at school.” (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) “WELL THEN, MR FINN,” droned Dr Black, his mouth pulled into a mirthless grin. “Perhaps you would care to fascinate and bedazzle us all by sharing something about yourself?” The old teacher’s leather seat creaked softly as he bent his skeletal frame forward and leaned his elbows on the neat desk. “Aside from your apparent inability to arrive at my class on time,” he added, “which we are all now only too aware of.” Dr Black was the most angular person Drake had ever seen. Every part of him seemed to taper to a sharp edge, from his pointed chin to the cheekbones that jutted like tiny pyramids from the craggy desert of his face. He wore a dark, neatly pressed suit that looked a size too big for his spindly body. His fingers, which he was steepling together in front of him, resembled chicken bones with fingernails drawn on the ends. Drake turned from Dr Black’s gaze and swallowed nervously. His new classmates sat like a battalion before him, row after regimented row of unfamiliar faces watching him expectantly. He felt his mouth go dry as his mind frantically scrambled to dig up just one interesting fact to share. All he needed to do was come up with a piece of trivia about himself that was so interesting they’d all be clamouring to become his friend. The only problem was that right now he was having difficulty remembering his own name. He could tell them about the shed this morning. But no, that would make him sound insane. What could he tell them, then? Drake felt a tickle as a bead of sweat formed just above his nose. It meandered all the way down to the tip, before dripping silently on to the scuffed floor. “Mr Finn?” “I had Frosties for breakfast,” Drake babbled. He bit down on his bottom lip immediately, trying too late to stop the words spilling out of his mouth. His eyes flitted between the six or seven stunned expressions in the front row, and for a few long moments the world seemed to stand perfectly still. Three boys, shorter than all the others, began sniggering at the back of the class. Drake leaped into the air as the teacher slammed his hands down hard on his desk and roared “BE QUIET!” No one else sniggered after that. “Well,” said Dr Black, composing himself. “That was… enlightening.” He unfolded upright and gave Drake a firm tap on the back of the head. “Now, if you could endeavour to contain your sugar high long enough to take a seat, the rest of you turn to page two hundred and forty-seven and we’ll find out what the history books have to say about my old pal, Attila the Hun.” Drake sidestepped through a narrow corridor left between two rows of desks until he came to the only empty seat in the classroom. He hurriedly sat down, desperate to blend in and no longer be the centre of attention. Almost at once, a skinny girl with big eyes and short hair leaned across from the next desk over and flashed him a smile. “Hi,” she whispered. “Um, hi,” he whispered back. “You shouldn’t eat Frosties,” she told him. “Do you have any idea what goes into those things?” “Sugar and cornflakes?” Drake guessed. This seemed to take the wind right out of the girl’s sails. “Right. Exactly,” she agreed. “And they exploit tigers,” she added, rallying somewhat. “Yeah, but… cartoon tigers, though,” offered Drake weakly. “Still tigers, though, innit?” the girl continued. “Er… I suppose so,” Drake shrugged. He noticed a brief flicker of a smile pass across the girl’s face. “Are you winding me up?” he asked. “Might be,” the girl admitted, and the smile widened further. “Right. Who are you, by the way?” Drake whispered. “Mel Monday,” beamed Mel, holding out her hand for Drake to shake. “I’m your new best friend.” It was around four hours later when Drake found himself hurrying through a twisting labyrinth of corridors, desperately hunting for the boys’ toilets. He’d spent the first fifteen minutes of the lunchtime break searching, and he almost yelped with delight when he finally spotted the familiar black outline of a man that signalled the end of his search. He was hopping from foot to foot as he pushed through the door and into the overpowering, yet strangely comforting odour of the toilets. Drake’s fingers fumbled with his trousers, finding it difficult to undo the safety pin that had held them up ever since his button broke off last term. The trousers were a size too small now, which only served to make the pain in his stomach ten times worse. With a triumphant cry, he finally managed to get them undone. Drake let out a loud sigh of satisfaction as a morning’s worth of pent-up terror sloshed past the lemon fragrance cubes and down the drainage hole of the stainless steel urinal wall. He was barely halfway through when something hit him heavily on the back. He stumbled forward, spraying his trouser legs with urine. Powerless to stop mid-flow Drake twisted his neck and looked down into the greasy, gargoyle-like faces of the trio of shorter boys who’d been sniggering at him in Dr Black’s class that morning. They scowled back up at him. “You shouldn’t have come here,” said the raspy-voiced leader of the group, his eyes little more than narrow slits in his pock-marked cheeks. “These are our toilets. No knob ’eads allowed!” (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) HE SLITHERS THROUGH the walls between worlds, crossing dimensions in the blink of an eye. How many planes of reality has he traversed? One thousand? Five? He has no idea, nor any desire to know. He knows where he is going, and he knows, in time, he will get there. That is enough. The entirety of time and space surrounds him in all directions. He pays it no heed. Only one location matters. Only one destination is his goal. Shed, he thinks, though he does not yet understand the word’s meaning. I am summoned to the shed. (#u26dc0804-1c20-507d-88c4-71c488084bd1) TODAY, DRAKE WAS coming to realise, was not his day. First the three weirdos and their disappearing shed, now this. The boy scowled. “Like Frosties, then, do you?” “Yeah, they’re all right.” “I bet you do. I bet you love ’em.” Drake hesitated. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Shut up, knob ’ead !” barked another of the bullies. “Yeah, shut it, Frostiesboy,” warned the third, smiling inwardly at his own comedy genius. A near-silence followed. Drake’s bladder continued to empty. “Right, this is taking too long,” the little group’s little leader snarled. “Get him, lads!” He stepped aside to allow his two henchmen a clear run at Drake. Neither of them raced into action. “I dunno, Bingo,” said the larger of the two. “Don’t you think we should wait? You know, until he’s finished?” “What?” “I’d prefer it if you did,” said Drake, glancing over his shoulder at the three tiny tyrants. “Shut up, no one asked you!” snapped Bingo. “Go on,” he barked, pushing his cohorts forward. “Get into him!” “Spud’s right, I don’t want pee on me,” said Dim, the third member of the gang. His dirty face frowned below a mass of greasy ginger hair. “My mum goes through the roof when I get pee on me.” “Right. OK. Fine,” Bingo sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “Wait until he’s finished, then get him. Happy?” Spud and Dim seemed satisfied with this compromise. All four boys stood in silence, the only sound in the room the splashing of Drake’s slowly draining bladder. Bingo muttered under his breath as he impatiently tapped his foot on the tiled floor. “Can we hurry this up?” he spat. “We haven’t got all day.” “Sorry,” offered Drake, his gaze now fixed on the matter at hand. “I’m going as fast as I can, but I’ve been holding it in for a while. Maybe you could come back later?” he suggested hopefully. “Nice try. Just get a move on.” Despite his calm exterior, Drake was fighting back a full-scale panic attack. He hated violence, but he knew that as soon as he’d dripped his last drip into the urinal, he was almost certainly going to find himself on the receiving end of some. They didn’t look like they could be reasoned with. He couldn’t run away, and he didn’t think an outburst of tears was going to win any sympathy with this lot. There was nothing else for it. He could see only one way out of his predicament. Only one way to avoid a full-scale pummelling from half-scale bullies. It wasn’t going to be dignified. It wouldn’t be pretty. But it was the only option left. Swallowing hard, Drake spun one hundred and eighty degrees and let rip. “My mum’s going to kill me!” screamed Dim, as the first yellow splashes hit his white polo shirt. The other bullies had the sense to keep their mouths tightly closed as they staggered back into a toilet cubicle, their arms crossed in front of them to protect them from the spray. “You’re dead!” Bingo screeched, slamming the stall door closed. “You’re so dead!” His ammunition drained, Drake hurriedly did up his trousers and dashed for the door. Dim moved to grab him, then slid on the slippery floor and splashed down into the puddle at his feet. Drake’s fingers had barely wrapped round the metal door handle when he heard the cubicle fly open behind him. “Come back here!” Bingo bellowed, his spotty face a mask of pure rage. “I’m gonna kill you!” Drake stumbled out into the corridor, and failed to notice his safety pin pinging open. He powered forward, so focused on escaping that he also failed to notice his trousers slipping down round his ankles. He staggered forward for a few frantic paces until, with a clunk and a thud, his head and upper body hit the ground, one after the other. He was lying there, his cheek against the floor, the seat of his boxer shorts pointing towards the ceiling, when a pair of polished black shoes stepped into his field of view. “Get back here, you knob ’ead!” demanded Bingo, as he and his gang burst from the toilets. “I’ll make you wish you’d never been—” The bullies skidded to a halt mid-sentence, their eyes fixed on the figure before them. “Mr Bing,” droned Dr Black. “I should have known.” Drake rolled on to his back, bucking and twisting as he pulled his trousers up. He could see right up Dr Black’s nose from where he was. For a moment he thought he could see a tiny blinking light inside the teacher’s left nostril. Then he realised that wherever he looked right now he was seeing tiny blinking lights. The knock to the head must have taken more out of him than he’d thought. “On this occasion,” said Dr Black, lowering his gaze in Drake’s direction, “I’m electing to believe you are solely the victim of this little encounter, and not the perpetrator. Should it happen again I will not be so certain. Understood?” Drake nodded quickly. “Good,” the teacher said. He returned his gaze to the three bullies cowering before him. “You boys,” he scowled. “My classroom. Now.” “Hey, Chief, where you been?” asked Mel, appearing behind Drake as if by magic. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” “Toilet,” said Drake, hurriedly refastening the safety pin to his waistband. “OK, so maybe I didn’t look everywhere,” Mel admitted. “You going for lunch?” “Nah, not going to bother,” Drake replied, as casually as he could manage. He’d love to be going for lunch, but his free school meals card hadn’t been sorted out yet, and he’d forgotten to ask his mum for cash that morning. “Very wise,” said Mel. “I’m not even sure the stuff they serve in there is technically food.” They walked on in silence past three or four more classrooms. Drake considered telling Mel about the disappearing shed, but he had no idea how to bring the subject up without sounding like a maniac, so he didn’t bother. Dr Black’s door was swinging closed as they strolled by. Drake caught a glimpse of Bingo, Dim and Spud being led through another door at the back of the room, then the classroom door shut all the way over, blocking them from view. Drake wondered what was going to happen to them as he and Mel made for the stairs. When they reached the ground floor, Mel stopped in her tracks. “Euw,” she winced, holding her nose. “What’s that smell?” Drake’s mind raced. How could he tell her he had half a pint of urine all over his trousers? She’d laugh at him, or maybe never speak to him again. He’d only known her for a few hours, but for some reason he found that last possibility particularly disturbing. He was about to make up some excuse when a sour stench filled his nostrils and made his head go light. “That’s disgusting!” he gasped, pulling the neck of his polo shirt up over his mouth and nose. “What is that?” He suddenly became aware of movement on the floor behind him. Drake turned and looked down. A messy ball of hair and legs looked back up at him, its scruffy head tilted quizzically to one side. Flies buzzed round its flea-bitten ears, no doubt attracted by the overpowering stench that surrounded the animal’s body like a cloud of toxic gas. It was a cat. An unpleasant one. “Hey, look, what a little cutie!” exclaimed Mel, apparently ignoring the evidence being presented by her own two eyes. “A cutie?” Drake said. “It looks like a big scabby rat.” The cat bared a dozen rotting teeth and let out a growl. The deep, rumbling sound didn’t fit the animal, and Drake found himself glancing around to see if a big dog was standing nearby, throwing its voice. “I think you hurt his feelings,” Mel scolded. Holding her breath she reached down and felt round the cat’s neck. Below the matted fur she found a collar. Attached to the collar was a small metal tag shaped like a fish. “Toxie,” she read. “His name’s Toxie.” “How appropriate,” said Drake, his shirt still pulled up over his face. “Now let’s go before we catch rabies or something.” “See ya, smelly,” Mel said, standing up and saluting the animal. “You be good now.” Toxie padded round in a circle and watched Drake and Mel continue along the corridor. His green eyes remained fixed on them until they had disappeared through a set of double doors. “Woof,” he said at last, then he stretched, sniffed the air, and sloped off out into the afternoon sun. (#ulink_f69cef5f-2c13-5818-8e8a-b5927b2e5ffe) “WELL?” ASKED MUM, bobbing eagerly into the kitchen. She was wearing a different coloured tabard now – green, instead of blue. “How did it go?” “OK,” Drake said with a shrug. “Got lost a few times, but it was OK.” “Come across any magic sheds?” Drake pinned his smile in place. Better to let his mum go on believing he’d made the encounter up than to be sent back to therapy. “No interesting ones.” Mum laughed. “Make any friends?” She lifted her jacket from the back of a chair and draped it over her arm. “Yeah, one.” “Well done! He got a name?” Drake felt his cheeks flush red. He knew what was coming next. “She,” he said. “Her name’s Mel.” “She? Good grief, that was fast work!” Mum laughed. She threw her arms round Drake and pulled him in close. “First day there and he gets himself a girlfriend!” “She’s not my girlfriend,” Drake insisted when his mum let him go again. “She’s just... Actually, she’s a bit... odd.” “Odd’s good!” Mum beamed. “Is she pretty?” “Mum!” “Sorry,” she laughed. “Now, listen, I have to get going. I’m on until half-nine, but the way these buses are it’ll be after ten before I get home, so get yourself something from the freezer.” “Will do,” he said. “In fact, do you know what?” Mum began. She fished in her bag until she found her purse, then handed him over a tightly folded ten-pound note. “Get yourself a pizza or something.” Drake’s eyes went as wide as two six-inch-deep pans. His stomach rumbled at the mention of the word. Those Frosties were just a hazy memory. “Pizza? Can we afford that?” “It’s my boy’s first day at his new school,” smiled Mum. “We can’t let something like that pass without celebration. The phone’s still not on yet, so you’ll have to go out for it.” “Not a problem,” said Drake, tightening his grip round the money. “Can I go now?” “You can go whenever you like,” Mum said. “I’m just getting ready and I’m off, so I’ll be out when you get back.” “OK. Thanks, Mum. See you later.” “See you later,” Mum said. She kissed him on the cheek, and then he was out of the kitchen, through the hall, and pulling open the front door. As he stepped outside, his foot caught on something on the front step. He tripped, stumbled and fell with a clatter on to the path. Holding the money tight, he rolled on to his back and lifted his head until he could see what he’d fallen over. His eyes met the eyes of a small, mangy cat. Toxie sat on the step, wagging his tail in a very un-cat-like way. “Oh, great,” sighed Drake, “it’s you.” Jumping up, Drake pulled the front door closed to stop the cat wandering inside and stinking the place out. He stared down at the cat. The cat stared up at him. “Right, come on, get out,” Drake said, pointing to the front gate. “You can’t stay in here.” The cat didn’t move. “Out!” Drake barked, striding along the path and throwing the gate wide open. “Go chase a mouse or something!” He looked down at the cat’s stubby legs and fragile body. “Or an ant, or whatever it is you little guys chase.” Toxie sniffed, crossed his front paws on the ground, and rested his head on them. His eyes peered up through a matted fringe of browny-black hair. Every line of his body suggested he had no intention of going anywhere. “Right, then,” Drake sighed. He took two large paces forward, then bent down and scooped the cat up. He held it at arm’s length, his face turned away. The stench was almost unbearable. “I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced my— Hey!” With a sudden jerk of its head, the cat’s rotten teeth clamped round the ten-pound note in Drake’s hand. The animal’s frail body twisted in Drake’s grip, and then it was on the ground, the money still held in its mouth. “Give that back!” Drake cried, as the cat scampered off round the side of the house. Drake gave chase, squeezing past the bins and the cardboard boxes that filled the little alley leading from the front garden to the back. With a rustle, the cat vanished into the long grass at the rear of the house. Drake plunged in after it. There was no way he was letting that cat run away with his pizza money. He pushed through the tangle of weeds and bracken, calling out as he ran. “Get back here. Get back here now!” Drake was halfway along the garden when the instinct to give chase abruptly faded. He swished to a stop in a particularly dense patch of jungle. What was he doing? He’d come running into the garden alone. Running into the area where he’d seen the shed and the three strange men in it. He’d been so focused on catching the cat and getting his money back that he’d forgotten all about it. He listened for the cat, but heard nothing. It had probably already left the garden. His money would be long gone. Slowly, so as not to draw any more attention to himself, Drake turned round and made a move back towards his house. The weeds opened like a theatre curtain as he shoved his way through. A chill breeze danced across his skin as he stepped into a neatly kept clearing. Toxie sat on the closely cropped lawn, his tail thumping happily on the grass, the ten-pound note still held in his mouth. Behind the cat, the shed creaked ominously in the wind. (#ulink_526c19a3-013d-5372-9de0-8634c1a3bea5) 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!” (#ulink_2c07a84e-4bb3-536c-ae98-ae12b136af98) “SETTLE DOWN GUYS, settle down.” It was first period. Science. The teacher, Mr Franks, swaggered into the classroom, one hand shoved casually in his trouser pocket. In the other hand he carried a sheet of paper that he studied as he crossed to his desk. He half sat, half leaned on the table, facing the assembled class, still reading the note. “Stop mucking about with that gas tap, Kara,” he muttered, without looking up. “They’re not for playing with.” Near the back of the class, Drake gazed absent-mindedly out of the window. The events at the shed yesterday evening were replaying over and over in his mind. He should have told his mum about the men again. She could have called the police and had all three of them arrested. Then again, if she hadn’t believed him, he’d be back at the child psychologist, and she’d be worried sick. Besides, she seemed so tired when she’d finally arrived home. He’d slipped off to bed without saying anything soon after that. And, he only now realised, he never did get that pizza. He’d just have to stay out of the garden for a while, that was all. For ever, if possible. Life was complicated enough without a freak show trying to recruit him as their ringmaster. Getting lost in the grass so many times had been weird, though. He was still convinced there was a perfectly rational explanation for it all. He just couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. Still, it was bound to come to him eventually. “Right, listen up, everyone,” said Mr Franks. The low murmur of the class died down, as all eyes turned to the teacher. “Billy Sharp, Michael Ash and James Bing didn’t return home from school yesterday. The police are searching for them, but as of this morning I’m sorry to say they still haven’t been found.” A low wave of chatter swelled across the room, sweeping from pupil to pupil as they turned to each other and began to guess what could have happened to their missing schoolmates. “Can anyone remember seeing any of them after lunchtime yesterday?” Mr Franks continued. “If so, it’s very important you let me know now.” His gaze washed over the class. “Anyone?” Drake watched the other pupils with interest. He had no idea who the three missing kids were, so he couldn’t be of any help, but he hoped someone would know something. Their parents had to be worried sick. “OK, then,” said Mr Franks. “If any of you do remember anything, then let me or one of the other teachers know. Right away. I can’t stress that enough.” He sat the paper down on his desk, then stood up straight. His eyes locked on to Drake and his mouth curved into a friendly smile. “You must be Drake,” he said. “Um... yeah,” Drake confirmed. “Good to meet you. I’m Mr Franks, but everyone here knows my first name. Doesn’t bother me. It’s Darren, OK? Write that down if you want, so you remember. D-A-double-R-E-N. I’m not into that whole teacher-pupil thing. I like to think that we’re all friends here, just sharing knowledge. That’s all. We’ve all got knowledge and we’re just sharing it around. Sound good?” Drake nodded. “Um... OK.” “I thought it might,” said the teacher, smiling broadly. “I’m quite new here too, so I know it can be a bit daunting.” He looked around at the class. “But we’re a pretty good bunch, I think. We won’t see you stuck. If you need anything, just give me a shout.” “Thanks,” Drake said. “No bother,” Mr Franks replied. He had just started to say “Right, let’s crack on,” when a knock at the door interrupted him. “Come in.” The door opened slowly and a younger girl scurried a few paces into the class, then stopped, like a rabbit caught in headlights. Without a word, she thrust a note in Mr Franks’s direction. “Thank you,” he said, taking it from her and reading it over. “You can go back to class,” he told her, and she retreated gratefully into the corridor. “Looks like you’re already in demand, Drake,” he said. Drake blinked. “Um... what?” “Dr Black wants to see you,” the teacher said. “He does? Why?” “Doesn’t say,” Mr Franks replied. He looked down at the note again, in case he’d missed something. “Just says he wants to see you in his classroom as soon as possible.” Drake realised every eye in the room was trained on him. A summoning to Dr Black’s classroom, he guessed, was not something that happened every day. A few rows away, he saw Mel looking back at him. She smiled encouragingly. For some reason, this made him even more nervous. The legs of his chair scraped noisily in the sudden silence as he stood up. “You’d better hurry,” Mr Franks said, as Drake made for the door. “It’s not a good idea to keep him waiting.” Drake’s footfalls echoed eerily along the empty corridor. He turned over and over in his hands the photocopied map of the school that Mr Franks had given him, trying to figure out where in the twisting black and white labyrinth he was supposed to be. But he was coming to the conclusion that the map was a complete waste of time. He folded it neatly in half, stuck it in his back pocket, and went off in search of anything that might look familiar. Why did the history teacher want to see him? That was the thought that occupied him as he wandered through the bewildering maze of corridors and passageways. Was he in trouble? He hadn’t done anything, so he didn’t think so. Unless those three bullies had said something about him peeing on them, of course. He walked on, up a flight of stairs that he vaguely remembered from yesterday. He felt himself becoming more anxious with every step. It had to be about the incident in the toilets. Why else would Dr Black call for him. Self-defence, that would be his argument. It was a desperate, last-ditch attempt at avoiding a beating, and he wouldn’t, of course, even contemplate urinating on anyone again. He stopped outside a gloss-painted door and read the little brass disc screwed into the wood. D9. This was the place. Self-defence, he reminded himself, as he knocked once, then reached for the door handle. Dr Black would understand. He was probably a reasonable enough man, deep down. Drake drew in a breath, assured himself there was nothing to worry about, then pushed open the door. He paused with the door half open and stared in wonder. A sphere, about the size of a large beach ball, lay on the floor. Its surface shone like polished chrome. Drake saw a distorted reflection of himself as he leaned in closer to get a better look. SNIKT! Two blades extended suddenly from hidden compartments within the ball. Drake leaped back, as the sphere rose into the air, and the blades began to spin. Drake’s blood pitter-pattered on the scuffed vinyl floor in perfect time with his frantic footsteps. He sprinted along a corridor, trying desperately to escape the ball and its blades as they sliced through the air somewhere behind him. He wiped his sleeve across a deep, bloody scratch on his cheek as he skidded round a corner and two-at-a-timed down a flight of stairs. The ball could easily outpace him on the straights, but it had to slow down for the bends, he’d quickly discovered. If he could find enough corners he could put some real distance between him and it. “Help!” he tried for the fourth or fifth time. “Someone help me, please!” Once again, no one answered his plea. It was almost as if the school had been emptied of everything but the armoured sphere and himself. Drake stumbled to a stop outside a classroom. Twisting the dull metal handle he shoved against the door with his shoulder, throwing it wide open. Staggering inside, he slammed the door shut again behind him, then turned to find something to block it with. A strangled yelp of shock escaped his lips. Instead of a classroom, he found himself in a corridor. Not just any corridor, either. His trail of blood spots led directly up to the door he had just closed. Somehow he’d ended up back in the same corridor he’d just tried to escape from. How was that possible? His mind raced back to the garden yesterday afternoon. A reality loop, they’d called it. And now it was happening again. They were trying to kill him. Those nutjobs were trying to kill him! The next corridor swung into view as he flung himself round another corner. Drake felt his heart crash down to his toes. Ahead of him, the walls stretched out into infinity. He could hear the ball of death whizzing closer and closer, its spinning blades already stained with his blood. Pointlessly he powered forward, painfully aware that there was no way he could outrun the thing on a straight like this. Within seconds the blades were biting at his back, their sharp teeth chewing up the fabric of his uniform. He cried out in shock as the first blade scraped against his exposed skin. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground. Death, he knew, would be on him soon. A shadow fell over him. He heard the soft creak of leather and the gruff growl of a Scottish accent. “Stay down.” A sword flashed in a wide, horizontal arc across the corridor. With a screech of tearing metal, the blade passed through the ball, mid-flight. War crouched down, shielding Drake from the brief, blinding explosion. Shards of metal rained down around them, peppering the floor and walls. When the debris had stopped falling, War stood up, his sword still held at the ready. The floating ball was no longer floating. Nor was it a ball. A tangled mound of wreckage lay on the floor, smouldering gently. War gave it a cautious poke with the tip of his sword. “What... what was that thing?” Drake asked, using the wall to pull himself to his feet. War’s eyes narrowed. “Techno-magic mumbo jumbo,” he muttered. “What, like—?” “Exactly like that,” War nodded. He looked along the corridor in both directions. “And exactly like them.” Drake made a noise that was embarrassingly like a whimper. Two more floating balls blocked each end of the corridor. Their blades spun to a high-pitched hum as they began to hover closer. “Hold on,” War commanded, scooping Drake up and depositing him on his back. Drake caught hold of the giant’s armoured shoulders and clung on for dear life. “We’re leaving.” “How?” Drake asked, his gaze flitting between the two spinning spheres. “There’s no way out.” War’s muscles tensed. He sprang towards the corridor wall, raising a leg. Plaster and brick exploded outwards as he kicked. “Aye, there is,” he replied. The whine from the floating balls increased in pitch as they raced towards the hole in the wall. “Right then, sunshine,” War warned, “whatever you do, don’t let go.” (#ulink_9256ac5c-1ce3-5c5a-9f40-5a11a54a7c5a) DRAKE DUCKED, KEEPING his head behind War’s as they crashed through the hole in the wall and out into the car park. War took two big paces, then jumped, clearing a waist-high wall with ease. The ground quaked when he touched down on the other side, and Drake had to kick frantically until he found a foothold on the giant’s back. War scanned the car park, his eyes flitting from vehicle to vehicle. Behind them, the floating spheres came in single file through the gap. Drake craned his neck to see them. They were back to moving slowly, creeping cautiously across the tarmac, weaving between the parked cars. Their blades spun, but they were hanging back, as if aware of the danger War posed. “They’re getting closer,” Drake warned. “Shouldn’t we be running? What are you doing?” “Trying to remember where I parked,” War muttered. His gaze swept across the rows of vehicles. “What? You mean... you’ve got a car?” War shrugged. The sharp movement almost made Drake lose his grip. “Not exactly,” he said. He ran up the bonnet of the closest car and thudded on to the roof. The metal dented where his feet slammed down, and an alarm began to wail in complaint. The school minibus was parked right next to the car. War raised his arms and placed his palms flat against the minibus roof. With a grunt of effort, he pulled them both up on to it. “Aha!” he said, looking down. “There you are.” Drake heaved himself high enough to look over War’s shoulder. A horse stood on the other side of the minibus. But a horse like none Drake had ever seen. It was bigger than a normal horse, but that was only to be expected. War, after all, was bigger than a normal man. Much, much bigger. The horse’s skin was a bright, brilliant red, that shone like a ruby in the mid-morning sun. Its mane and tail were shades of orange and yellow. They danced like fire when the horse turned towards the minibus roof. A worn leather saddle was slung across the horse’s wide expanse of back. War leaped from the roof and landed expertly astride the saddle. The horse gave a loud snort, but otherwise didn’t react to the sudden weight on its back. The spheres did react, though. They swooshed forward, suddenly appearing at either end of the minibus, their blades spinning into overdrive. “Yah!” War roared, giving the horse’s reins a flick. It sprang into action, clearing the next parked car from a standing start. The car behind it wasn’t so lucky. Its roof caved in, shattering the windows and spraying glass in all directions. The impact was too much for Drake. His grip slipped, and he found himself sliding down War’s back. War shifted his weight forward, making room for Drake to land on the saddle. “I told you not to let go,” War said. “Well... sorry.” “Don’t do it again.” War’s shoulder armour was held on by two thick leather straps. Drake caught hold of them just as the horse bounded forward again. It cleared the whole row of cars this time, landing on the road. The road surface cracked beneath its hooves, but there was no stopping it now. With another leap it cleared the low wall that surrounded the car park, and they were out on the open road, leaving the school behind. Another alarm squealed. Drake looked back to see the spheres slicing through the air after them, their blades tearing through everything in their path. Four cars, five, fell apart like broken toys. The wall became bricks, the bricks became dust, and the balls of death were after them once again. The horse galloped along the road, Drake’s teeth rattling in his head with each thunderous footstep. The ground whizzed by, a speeding blur of grey. Up ahead, a car’s rear lights flashed red as its brakes began to squeal. Drake caught a glimpse of the driver’s wide eyes in the rear-view mirror, before the horse was leaping again, soaring over the car then resuming its run on the other side. “That... that was incredible,” Drake said. “That? That was nothing,” War told him. His beard was being blown backwards over his shoulder. Drake had to lean to the left to avoid swallowing the thing. As he shifted in the saddle, he saw the traffic lights looming ahead. They were on red. A steady stream of traffic flowed across the street just beyond them. War flicked the reins. “Watch this!” Drake could see the faces of every passenger on the bus. They wore matching expressions of amazement as they watched the horse hurl itself into the sky. Its hooves skitted across the flat metal roof, showering the street with sparks. And then it was plunging back towards the ground, and Drake could feel his stomach being tossed up somewhere around his ears. The landing bounced him out of the saddle. He opened his mouth to scream, before War’s hand wrapped round his ankle and pulled him back down. “Thanks,” he croaked. “No bother.” The spheres sliced through the moving traffic, their blades puncturing the tyres and chewing the metal of every vehicle they passed. Horns blared, people screamed, more alarms joined in the chorus, but it was all just background noise to the clattering of the horse’s hooves. Drake turned in the saddle. “They’re still coming!” he cried, though his voice was almost lost to the wind. War nodded. “Aye.” “What do we do?” A hesitation. “Can you ride?” “What... you mean ride a horse?” “Naw, a bike,” War spat. “Aye, a horse.” Drake shook his head. “No.” “Well, that’s just bloody marvellous,” War muttered. “A horseman that cannae ride a horse.” “What? I can’t hear you, it’s too noisy!” “Doesn’t matter,” War said more loudly. “Can you hold a rope?” Brakes screeched behind them, followed by the crunch of metal colliding with other metal. “What kind of question’s that? Of course I can hold a rope.” War’s hand reached back over his shoulder and plucked the boy from the saddle. Drake barely had time to realise what was happening before he was plonked down again. He recoiled in the force of the sudden wind. He was in front of War now, the big man’s body no longer shielding him. A rein was pressed into Drake’s hands. He heard the shhnnk of a sword being drawn from a sheath. “Good,” War intoned. “Hold that, and for God’s sake don’t—” The end of the sentence was lost as War rolled sideways off the horse’s back. He hit the ground shoulder-first, rolled on the tarmac, then sprang to his feet, his broadsword raised and ready. Drake felt himself sliding in the saddle and clutched the reins tightly to his chest. “Don’t what?” he cried. “Don’t what?” But War was too far away to hear. He stood his ground before the spinning orbs, eyes flitting from one to the other. They crisscrossed along the street, moving over, around and occasionally through the now stationary traffic. “Ye want some?” the giant growled, twirling his sword round in his right hand. “Come get some.” The blades screamed through the air. One of the spheres raced ahead, closing in for the kill. War planted his size nineteens, put his weight on his front leg, and swung. The first ball exploded before the sword could connect. A hail of razor-sharp metal barbs burst forth. They rattled against War’s armour and dug into the few exposed patches of his leathery skin. He gave a low grunt as the hooks tore into his flesh, but followed through with his swing. The sword whistled through the space the first orb should’ve been occupying, then arced round in a full circle. He spun on the spot, bringing the blade back round, directly into the path of the second sphere. The ball dipped sharply, dodging the sword and clattering against the ground beside War. He brought up a foot, slammed it down with a ker-ack, but the sphere was past him. It bounced twice, like a basketball, then spluttered back into the air. With blades whirring, it streaked off after the horse, and the boy on the horse’s back. “Aw,” grimaced War. He pulled the first of the hooks from his arm and watched the ball rocketing away. “Bugger.” Drake bounced violently in the saddle, his knuckles white on the reins, his face fixed in a mask of terror. The horse’s breath snorted in and out through its wide, flared nostrils, slow and steady, as if even this frenzied pace was taking no effort to maintain. “Slow down!” he wailed. “Whoa! Stop! Whatever it is you do!” Drake hadn’t seen War’s encounter with the armoured spheres, but that didn’t matter. They were a distant memory now, a distant threat. The threat of falling off and splattering like an egg against the ground – that one was much more pressing. The horse thundered on, muscles moving beneath its ruby flanks, its mane blazing like an inferno. They were almost at the end of the street now, surely moving far too fast to take the ninety-degree bend that was racing up to meet them. A row of shops lined the road dead ahead. Drake could see himself reflected in the glass fronts, four identical versions of himself on four identical horses, all about to be caught up in the same identical crash. “Look. Building!” Drake cried, leaning down and shouting directly into the horse’s ear. The ear flicked, as if swatting away a fly, but the horse’s gallop didn’t falter. “Come on,” he begged. He bounced backwards in the saddle and gave a sharp yank on the reins. “We need to—” With a whinny, the horse leaped into the air. Drake gripped with his legs and wrapped the reins round his wrist and braced himself for another jarring impact. It never came. “Stop,” Drake whimpered, as the ground fell away and the horse’s hooves began to clatter across the wide-open sky. A long way back along the street, War plucked the last of the barbs from his skin as he watched his horse take to the air. Even there, a hundred or more metres away, he could hear the boy’s panicked screams. War shook his head. “I told him,” he sighed, sliding his sword back into its sheath. “What did I tell him? For God’s sake, don’t pull back on the reins.” (#ulink_74fdfdef-02fc-51f1-99c2-698792fc11f9) Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down. The words repeated in Drake’s head like a mantra. Looking down would be stupid. Looking down would be insane. Drake looked down. Aaaaaah,screamed his brain. Aaaaaaaaaaah! The town spread out below him like a map. The streets, the cars, the houses – they were all tiny, and getting tinier by the second as the horse climbed steadily higher. The rushing of the headwind stole Drake’s breath away. The horse’s hooves clip-clopped noisily on thin air. Somewhere, far off to their left, a passenger on a passing aeroplane watched the horse running across the sky, took a long, hard look at his complimentary drink, then slowly sat it down on the fold-away tray. And behind them, unnoticed, a spinning ball of techno-magic mumbo jumbo tore across the sky. “D-down,” Drake whimpered. “Down, boy.” The horse tossed its head back and shook its fiery mane. It banked steeply upwards, until it was almost running vertically. Drake screamed as he slid backwards off the saddle. The reins, still wrapped round his wrists, jerked tight and he found himself dangling helplessly, his legs bicycling in mid-air. With a snort, the horse turned sharply right and began to race towards the distant ground. Drake was flicked upwards, before gravity thudded him back down into the saddle. He felt the upsurge of wind and heard the high-pitched whine of the sphere as it soared past him, tumbling end over end. The ball curved like a boomerang, punched through a fluffy white cloud, then rejoined the chase. Up here, with nothing to get in its way, the ball was fast. It began to close the gap almost at once. Even over the roaring of the wind, Drake could hear the whirring of the blades. He remembered the sting of the cut on his cheek. Then he imagined it a thousand times worse. He clenched his legs round the horse’s broad back and ducked down low in the saddle. “Yah!” he cried, flicking the reins just as War had done. “Ya-aaaaaaaaaaah!” The world went blurry round the edges. For the second time in sixty seconds, Drake was saved by the reins round his wrist as he was thrown backwards off the saddle. Still the horse galloped faster, until it was dragging Drake along, his legs stretched out behind him. “Not yah,” he cried. “I’ve changed my mind. Not yah! Not yah! ” The animal gave a long, loud whinny. It sounded, Drake thought, suspiciously like a laugh. The roar of gunfire erupted behind them. The horse banked sharply to the right and something whistled past Drake’s head. Several somethings. He glanced back and caught a glimpse of a gun barrel poking out from within the sphere. “Yes yah. Definitely yah!” Drake cried. “Yah, yah, yah!” Fire spat from the barrel of the gun. The horse went into freefall and Drake felt the bullets streak by just above him. He looked down to find the ground racing up. He’d barely begun to scream when the horse levelled off, clattering him back down into the saddle. They were racing just a few metres above an open field now, kilometres outside the town. A road ran alongside them a kilometre or so to the left. Down on the right, a narrow river meandered towards an old stone bridge. Twisting in the seat, Drake searched the sky. The ball was nowhere to be seen. “Where did it go? Did you see it?” he cried. He hesitated, then added, “Why am I asking a horse? I mean, it’s not like you can understand what I’m saying.” Another pause. “You can’t understand what I’m saying, can you?” The horse shook its head. “Good,” said Drake. “That would’ve just been too weir— Look out ! ” The sphere rose up from behind the bridge, spraying bullets in a wide horizontal arc. The horse neighed loudly, startled by the gunfire. Stumbling, it plunged into the river. The coldness of the water made Drake gasp. It swirled in through his open mouth, filling his throat and his belly. He felt the reins pull away, heard the frantic splashing of the horse. And then he was floating. And then he was sinking. And then, he was drowning. The darkness eased behind Drake’s eyelids, like shadows fleeing the coming of dawn. Something warm and wet pressed against his mouth. And his cheeks. And his forehead. It pulled back as he sat up and spewed dirty river water on to the grass. “Knew it,” said Famine. His head was directly above Drake’s, his rubbery lips folded into a wide smile. “Kiss of life. Never fails.” Drake turned his head and spewed again. Not water, this time. “What... what happened?” he asked, when he had finished retching. “Where’s the ball thing?” “Over there.” Pestilence’s head appeared from behind Famine’s bulk. He pointed to a scorched patch of ground nearby. “And over there. And there. And there’s a bit down there, by those trees. War headbutted it. It was really quite impressive.” “You’re lucky we found you when we did.” War was standing a short distance away, running his hand over his horse’s flank. “And you’re lucky Famine’s got his first-aid certificate.” “Have you been eating Frosties?” Famine asked. His tongue rummaged around inside his mouth. “You have, haven’t you? That’s definitely Frosties. And milk. Semi-skimmed.” Drake’s hand went to his own mouth. “I think I’m going to puke again.” War clapped his horse on the back and turned to Drake. His face was beard, scowl and very little else in between. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he said. “‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘don’t pull back on the reins.’” “No, you didn’t,” Drake snapped. His pulse was racing, adrenalin pumping the blood through his veins. “You said ‘For God’s sake don’t...’ and then you jumped off. How was I to know the horse would start flying?” “Don’t be so stupid. It didn’t fly,” War said with a grunt. “Horses don’t fly. They gallop.” “Well, it galloped across the sky!” Drake replied. He pulled himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “Horses don’t do that.” “Well, that depends on the horse!” War roared, bending until he was almost nose to nose with Drake. “Now, you’re going to come back to the shed, and you’re going to start your training.” “No, I’m not!” War’s face went the colour of his beard. He opened his mouth to shout, but Pestilence slipped between them and quickly guided Drake away. “If I might interrupt,” he said, smiling thinly. “I think what my irate colleague is trying to say is that we’d very much appreciate it if you’d perhaps come back to the shed and listen to what we have to say.” He held up his hands. They were still hidden beneath white rubber gloves. “Just hear us out, that’s all.” Drake remained silent for a long time. Pestilence watched him, eyebrows waggling encouragingly. “Here,” Drake said at last. “Tell me here.” Pestilence glanced at the others, as if looking for some cue. None came, so he shrugged, then carried on. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have existed since the dawn of time itself,” he began. “We are servants of the Almighty, created for one purpose and one purpose only.” “To usher in the end of the world,” blurted Famine. “Oooh, shut up, you!” Pestilence gasped, his hands going to his hips. “I’m supposed to do that bit! You never let me do that bit!” “Just get on with it,” said War. Pestilence shook his head. “That’s my favourite bit,” he muttered. “Anyway. Yes. We were created to usher in the end of the world.” He looked pointedly at Famine before continuing. “It’s a pretty important job, really. I mean, it’s probably – what – sixth most important job in all creation?” “’Bout sixth,” Famine confirmed. “’Bout sixth, yeah.” “It’s about the sixth most important job in all creation,” Pestilence said. “And it’s great. I mean, it’s an honour to be picked and everything, it’s just...” Drake waited for the rest of the sentence. It didn’t seem to be forthcoming. “It’s just what?” “God, it’s dull,” Pestilence groaned. “I mean, we’ve been kicking about for thousands of years, us three, just hanging around, you know? Waiting on the phone call. Thousands of years and nothing. Not even a false alarm.” “So? What’s that got to do with me?” “Death got fed up of waiting,” Famine said. Drake could tell from the fat man’s voice that he was munching on something. He couldn’t bring himself to look and see what it was. “He decided he was going to bring on Armageddon himself and cleared off. Short of it is, we’re down to three. And with him planning on destroying the world, the powers that be decided we needed a replacement, sharpish.” “You,” said Pestilence. “Me? Why me?” Pestilence shrugged his slender shoulders. “No idea. We don’t know the why-fors, we just know you’re our fourth horseman.” “Fifth horseman, surely?” Drake corrected. “The last guy was the fourth.” Pestilence shot the others a nervous glance. Famine kept his own gaze on the ground. Even War looked slightly uncomfortable, but it was he who eventually broke the silence. “Actually, he was more like the twelfth.” “Twelfth?” Drake said. “I don’t understand.” “We’ve had... a number of Deaths,” War admitted. “Nine, actually. Not counting you.” “Nine? Why? What happened to them?” Famine crammed his food into his mouth and began counting on his fingers. “Mad, mad, suicide, mad, quit, mad, goldfish, suicide, mad,” he said. “Wait,” said Drake, replaying the list in his head. “Goldfish?” “Admin error,” explained Pestilence, rolling his eyes. “Do not even go there. You should’ve seen him trying to ride the horse.” “So, counting us three, there have been twelve horsemen before you,” War continued. “Making you the thirteenth.” “Unlucky for some!” Pestilence trilled. He caught War’s expression. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Not helping.” “No, I’m not the thirteenth.” Drake shook his head emphatically. “I’m not doing it.” “But it’s a good job,” said Pest encouragingly. “It’s a great job!” “A great job? They all killed themselves or went mad!” Drake cried. “That hardly screams ‘job satisfaction’, does it?” “Well, no,” admitted Pestilence. He held up a little red button with ‘I AM 4’ printed on it in jolly yellow lettering. “But you get a badge, look.” “Death Five didn’t go mad or kill himself,” Famine reminded him. “He quit.” “Right, well I’ll do that, then,” Drake said. “I quit. There.” War’s voice was a low growl. “You can’t quit. You haven’t accepted the job yet.” “So, if I take the job, I can quit? Simple as that?” “Aye. Simple as that.” Drake took a deep breath. “Then I accept. I’ll take the job.” Pestilence clapped his hands. “Yay!” “And now I quit.” Drake turned and began to march off, towards where he hoped the town might possibly lie. “Good luck finding a replacement.” “Where d’you think you’re going?” War demanded. The tone of his voice stopped Drake in his tracks. “Home,” he answered. “I told you, I quit.” “Fair enough,” War said. “But you have to work your notice.” Drake met the giant’s gaze and held it. “What?” he asked flatly. “Three months’ notice,” War said. “Ninety days. It’s in the terms and conditions.” “But...” Drake’s mouth flapped open and closed. “You didn’t tell me that!” “Didn’t I? Must’ve slipped my mind.” Over by the bridge, War’s horse gave a snort. For the first time, Drake noticed a small shed standing just beyond it. It looked remarkably similar to the shed in his garden, but Drake decided he wasn’t going to think about that right now. He had enough on his plate as it was. “You don’t want to go breaking the terms and conditions,” War told him. “That’s really not a good idea.” “Why?” Drake asked. He’d been running on pure adrenalin since his escapades on the horse, but the effects were wearing off now, and he could feel his whole body trembling. “What happens if I do?” War’s face darkened. “You’ll be cast into the fiery pits of Hell for a thousandmillennia, forced to endure torture and suffering far beyond anything your tiny little mind could ever bring itself to imagine.” “And,” added Pestilence apologetically, “we’d have to take the badge back.” War folded his arms across his impossibly broad chest. “So, Drake Finn,” he said, “what’s it to be?” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/barry-hutchison/afterworlds-the-13th-horseman/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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