The 13th Horseman

by Barry Hutchison

  He craned his neck, and looked down. The other horsemen were retreating, pulling back as the leg Drake was hanging from came stomping down towards them.

  “The kids!” Drake shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the creaking of the metal leg. The other schoolchildren and the police were all still flat on the ground. The souls were still streaking from within them before disappearing into the hand just fifteen or twenty metres away from Drake, but the foot was coming down, down, down and there was nothing Drake could do about it.

  He closed his eyes and pressed his face in against the metal, unable to watch what was about to happen next. He was supposed to be the personification of death itself, but he could not – would not – watch everyone die.

  There was a boom as the foot crunched down on to the ground, and a sudden jolt that almost sent Drake tumbling in the same direction. One of his hands slipped from the bolt and his legs were suddenly kicking against thin air.

  Despite all that, he had to look down. He had to know if all those people were dead or—

  “Alive,” he said, and the word came out as a breathless laugh. The foot had stepped cleanly over them, crushing the police cars instead. A few more souls were sucked from the sleeping teenagers, and Drake suddenly found himself wondering if he were wrong. If the life force was being torn from within them, then maybe they weren’t still alive after all.

  There was another groaning of metal and the other leg began to lift. The robot had started to walk. Drake looked up. The waist was just half a dozen metres away. He had to get past there before the right leg moved again.

  Gritting his teeth, Drake reached for the horizontal cable again, wrapped his fingers round it and pulled.

  “Mount up,” War commanded, swinging himself into the saddle of the red horse. “Keep close to that big bugger, but don’t get too near the barrier.”

  Pestilence climbed up on to his horse’s back and took hold of the reins, ignoring the animal’s stress-induced nosebleed. With a grunt, Famine slid on to the faux leather seat of his scooter and turned the key in the ignition.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he called.

  The robot’s left leg slammed down, making the ground tremble and quake. Along the street, half a dozen windows exploded. There were sirens and screaming in almost every direction now, as the town woke up to the fact that a massive robot was about to stomp it to bits.

  “Minimise civilian casualties,” War barked, sounding more and more like an army commander in the field. “Then, when Drake gets rid of that shield, we take that thing down.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll improvise,” War said. He flicked his reins and they gave a loud crack. “Horsemen,” he bellowed. “Let’s ride!”

  Drake had made it past the waist with seconds to spare. The left leg had now thudded down and the right one was raising. He could see the horsemen below, trying to drive back anyone stupid enough to get too close to the towering machine.

  He looked up. In comparison with the rest of its body, the robot’s legs were short and stubby. That meant he hadn’t even reached the halfway point yet.

  The next handhold swung out sharply as a circular door was thrown open. Clinging to it with both hands, Drake found himself dangling from the hatch as four metal spheres were launched from within it.

  He braced himself, expecting the balls to turn on him, but they rocketed away from the robot instead, swooshing past one another as they raced in the direction of the horsemen.

  “Look out!” Drake cried, but the others were too far away to hear him.

  Drake was hanging at the full stretch of his arms, his fingers already beginning to shake with the pressure of his weight and the insistent nagging of gravity. He looked across to the circular hole where the spheres had emerged. The hole formed the mouth of a dark tunnel, running deep into the machine’s innards.

  He looked up at the fifty or so metres he still had to climb. He looked across at the hole. The decision was easy.

  Swinging his legs up, he kicked for the edge of the hole. His heels slammed down into the mouth of the tunnel and he was able to shimmy his legs further into the darkness, as the hatch began to swing closed.

  He just managed to whip his fingers away from the edge before the hatch clanged shut, trapping him inside.

  “Made it,” he breathed, then he listened to his voice echoing over and over again into the distance. Each time it did, it sounded less and less convinced that he’d made the right decision.

  “Here goes,” he whispered, as he crawled along a dark, narrow passageway, searching for a way up into the robot’s head.

  “Get back! All of you, get back!” War bellowed. He was zigzagging along the road, waving his sword around, trying to drive away anyone who got too close to the marching robot.

  He turned the horse in the direction of a group of onlookers, twenty or thirty metres ahead. They were all pointing at something. Their outstretched fingers started high, then quickly lowered until they were pointing almost directly at War.

  The big man turned to see what they were looking at, just as a spinning metal sphere struck him. Thrown backwards, he smacked against the ground, before skidding clumsily across the tarmac.

  Growling, War got to his feet, his sword raised. He ran at the sphere, which was hanging in mid-air, not backing away.

  WHUMPF!

  Another of the spheres slammed into his side, sending him staggering. A cable shot from within the first sphere, a barbed hook at its tip burying itself deep into the back of War’s neck.

  An electrical current crackled along the wire and War’s back arched. Static sparks flickered across his beard as he sunk to his knees, his contracting muscles no longer able to keep him standing.

  Even over the electrical buzzing in his head, War heard the panicked scream of Pestilence, and the shocked cry of Famine as more of the spheres closed in to attack.

  PEST’S HORSE KICKED out with its back legs, slamming its hooves against a sphere. It spun like a snooker ball off a side cushion and clipped another of the balls. One of them was sent spiralling up into the air, while the other clattered against the ground, throwing out a spray of angry sparks.

  “Famine, War’s down!” Pest yelped. “Help him!”

  “Bit busy,” Famine grunted. He was careening round in circles, his scooter tilting on to two wheels as he tried to outrun another of the robotic orbs.

  “Yah!” cried Pest, and his horse raced towards the fallen War. Two of the spheres raced to intercept him, and he dismounted mid-gallop, letting the horse continue on. The spheres didn’t react quickly enough. They continued to chase the horse, leaving Pestilence free to pick up War’s fallen sword.

  “Flippin’ Nora, what’s that made of?” he winced, as he tried to raise the weapon off the ground. His knees almost buckled as he lifted it with both arms. “Right,” he said, using all his strength to raise the blade above his head. He took aim at the sphere that had immobilised War. “Have some of this!”

  Pest tried to bring the sword swinging down, but he couldn’t summon the energy. His eyes opened wide with surprise as he began to topple backwards, pulled by the weapon’s weight.

  The sword clanked against the pavement as Pest landed in a heap on the ground. Frantically, he tried to get to his feet, but the two spheres that had been chasing the horse had now realised their mistake.

  Whirling saw-blades emerged from within both balls as they spun towards him, closer and closer, the saws’ teeth chewing hungrily at the air.

  Screaming, Pest kicked backwards across the tarmac, his face fixed in a mask of terror. He raised his hands, the shreds of melted rubber still clinging to his fingers.

  “Virus thing, virus thing!” he wailed, trying to repeat his earlier trick. But he had no idea how he’d done it then, and no ones or zeroes were flying from his fingertips now.

  With a whine of their blades, both spheres picked up speed and lunged at the fallen horseman. A blur of black collided with one of the s
pheres, sending it bouncing along the road.

  “Gotcha!” Famine cried, skidding his scooter round in a one-eighty degree spin. The sphere’s blade retracted, allowing it to roll across the concrete. It hurtled after the scooter, picking up speed with every bouncing roll.

  Famine jumped from the moving scooter. Jumping was not something he did often, but, despite the size of him, it was something he did rather well. He sailed through the air, like a wrestler off the top turnbuckle, his arms and legs splayed wide.

  His full weight came down on top of the sphere, and kept going until it hit the ground. He lay there, wobbling gently for a few seconds, before he rolled on to his back. A thin oblong sheet of metal remained on the ground where he had landed.

  “Get away, get away, get away!”

  Famine tried to sit up, but his stomach got in the way. He could only lift his head, could only watch as the spinning blade of the other sphere closed in on Pestilence.

  “Pest!” he bellowed. “Look out!”

  That, Pest thought, was probably the most pointless thing Famine had ever said, but there was no time to tell him that. There was no time for anything but closing his eyes and holding his hands in front of his face. He hoped he cut open easily. He could imagine nothing worse than the blade having to hack repeatedly at his flesh and sinew as it tried to slice its way through him, but it would be just his bloody luck.

  The sphere shattered like a conker as another of the balls smashed down hard against it. Pest looked up to find War standing on trembling legs, sparks dancing along his beard.

  The barbed hook was still attached to the back of his neck, but War had managed to grab hold of the wire that tethered him to the sphere. He roared with pain as he swung the ball round in a wide circle above his head, making it whum-whum-whum as it looped round and round.

  And then, with a vaguely comical twang, the cable snapped. The sphere arced through the air before bouncing off the barrier surrounding the approaching robot.

  “Shield’s still there,” War announced. He tore the hook from his neck and stretched his cramped muscles. Then, smoothing down his beard, he retrieved his sword.

  The sounds of screaming were getting more distant as people saw sense and started legging it to safety. That was one problem taken care of. Unfortunately, there were plenty more problems where that came from.

  Five more spheres hung in the air around them, spinning silently. Doors slid open on the surfaces of each of the balls, as weapons emerged from within them. A buzz-saw. A gun barrel. Something that looked a lot like an industrial drill.

  With one hand, War heaved Famine back up on to his feet. The three of them stood there, back to back as the spheres hovered slowly closer.

  “Horsemen,” War said in a voice that boomed like the sounds of battle. “Let’s bust some balls.”

  Drake ran up stairs and climbed ladders where he could, scaled the walls where there was no other way up. Finally, another ladder led him to a hatch in the ceiling. The hatch lifted up and over, and daylight flooded in. Clambering through, he emerged on to the robot’s shoulder.

  The right arm stretched down below him like a giant slide. He peered past it, down to the distant ground where Horsemen-shaped ants battled tiny silver marbles.

  A robotic foot thumped down, sending a shockwave through the entire metal structure. Drake wobbled unsteadily for a moment, then found his footing.

  The robot’s head loomed just above him. He could see the mouth shape, formed by the rows of windows. The two other windows, situated a storey or so above the mouth, looked more like eyes than ever.

  The side door, through which Drake and the other horsemen had entered earlier, was sealed over once again with a fresh metal skin. That left only one way to get inside the robot’s head.

  Drake’s eyes went along the row of windows, stopping at the middle where the glass and a chunk of the wall had been smashed away. It looked, he thought, like a missing tooth. Had he stopped to think about it, he would also have realised that it looked like something else.

  It looked like a trap.

  But he didn’t stop, and he didn’t think about it. Instead he scrambled up the chrome giant’s neck, took hold of one of the narrow metal window ledges, and pulled himself up.

  War’s sword whummed loudly, and a sphere became a number of expensive component parts on the pavement. He spun, following the blade’s momentum, and sliced through a gun barrel that had been pointing at Famine’s back.

  “Have it!” War roared, driving a headbutt into the centre of the ball and cracking the metal shell. Famine’s pudgy fingers forced their way in through the gap. His hands pulled in opposite directions, widening the crack just enough for his head to fit through. Opening his mouth wide, Famine lunged and began chomping hungrily on the wires and circuitry within the sphere.

  A moment later, he released his grip and the broken ball hit the ground. Famine burped loudly, then licked his lips.

  “Tastes like chicken,” he announced, as the three remaining balls circled round for another attack run.

  Drake swung in through the broken window, slipped on the floor, and landed flat on his back. Luckily, the room was empty, so no one was around to see his embarrassing entrance.

  Or so he thought.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Frosties boy.”

  “Enjoy your trip, knob ’ead?”

  Drake looked up at three spotty scowls. He sprang to his feet and raised his hands, ready for a fight.

  “You don’t want to mess with me,” Drake warned them. He drew himself up to his full height. It wasn’t much, but to the tiny bullies he imagined himself looking like a giant. “I’m Death, you know?”

  “Yeah, we know,” Bingo said with a snort.

  “Oooh, scary,” laughed Dim.

  “Yeah,” added Spud. “Oooh, scary!”

  “That was them being, what do you call it? Sarcastic,” Bingo pointed out. “We’re not scared of no Death.” His spotty cheeks rose as his mouth twisted into an impossibly wide grin. “We’s already dead, ain’t we?”

  “Yeah, we’re as dead as the emu,” Dim sniggered.

  Drake felt a pang of something. Pity, maybe. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “What for?” Bingo snorted. “Our old bodies is dead, but we’ve got new bodies now, thanks to Mr Franks and Dr Black.”

  “Yeah, I saw what you can do,” Drake said.

  Bingo’s eyes blazed red. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” The three figures took a synchronised step forward. The room was filled with the sounds of machinery moving. Drake could see some kind of transformation starting to take place, but he could see something else too. Something behind the three boys.

  Something that looked, just a little, like a cat.

  Drake rolled sideways just as Toxie launched himself at the cyber-bullies. Caught in mid-transformation, they were knocked off balance. There was a panicked cry of “My mum’s going to kill me!” and then they were gone, through the hole in the wall, and plunging down towards the ground far below.

  Drake heard three brief distant tremors, and he knew the bullies wouldn’t be bothering him again.

  Toxie, who was looking more and more like a cat by the minute, turned to Drake, sniffed lazily, and said, “Woof.”

  “Good dog,” Drake said. Toxie wagged his tail happily, then sauntered out on to the windowsill and began climbing expertly down the robot’s front.

  Drake was halfway to the door when the old TV set that stood on a trolley over by the whiteboard, came on with a click.

  “That was a stroke of luck,” Mr Franks said. “I didn’t think they’d stop you, but I thought they’d hold you up longer than that. Still, as you’ll have noticed by now, I’m not there. I’m upstairs on the roof, and I’ve got your girlfriend with me. Look.”

  The camera panned round, and Drake saw a shock of red hair. Mel was tied by the wrists and ankles to a pole that was hanging precariously over the edge of the roof. She was facing do
wnwards, her hands behind her, her eyes open wide with terror.

  Mr Franks’ face suddenly filled the screen again in extreme close-up. “I’d rather you didn’t come up, but I know you’re going to, so why waste my breath?” He winked brightly. “So, see you soon, I guess. I’ll try not to drop the redhead, but, well, I’m not going to promise anything, so if I were you – which I sort of was, when you think about it – I’d move fast.”

  The sound faded.

  The screen went blank.

  And Drake moved fast.

  DRAKE HAD PLANNED to sneak up on to the roof, but Mr Franks was sitting in a deckchair, watching the hatch expectantly. He smiled broadly when Drake’s head popped through it.

  “There he is!” Mr Franks beamed. “There’s the man of the hour. Up you come, join the fun.”

  He jumped up as Drake stepped out on to the top of the robot’s head. “Take a seat,” Mr Franks said, gesturing at the deckchair the way a gameshow host’s glamorous assistant might gesture at today’s star prize.

  “No, thanks,” Drake said.

  Mr Franks put his hands on his hips and nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. What was I thinking? Sitting down?”

  With a sudden jerk he grabbed the back of the folding chair and hurled it over the edge of the roof. “Boring people sit down, and we’re not boring people, are we, Drake? Huh? Am I right?” He looked Drake up and down. “Nice outfit, by the way. Black suits you.”

  “Mel, are you OK?” Drake asked. He didn’t take his eyes off Mr Franks.

  “She can’t answer you,” Mr Franks said. He indicated the gag across her mouth. “She can talk, your girlfriend, can’t she? She just would not shut up. It was either gag her, or cut her tongue out.”

  “It’s going to be OK. I’m here to rescue you.”

  “Aww, you hear that? He’s here to rescue you.” Mr Franks wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “That – if you don’t mind me saying? – that’s beautiful.” He pointed at Drake and mimed shooting him with his finger. “You’re a real ladykiller.”