The black clouds rolled over the blue sky, like sultry lava. Sam watched them and scowled; he was no fan of clichés. He looked down at Digby, his dachshund. ‘That’s completely unoriginal,’ he told the dog, who gave him a sympathetic, slightly worried look. But then Digby always looked like that, so he could have been communicating his love of pink hippos for all Sam knew.
The weather continued to make its presence known, rumbling and growling and generally making a nuisance of itself. Sam glared at it and tutted as tiny dots became visible, coming from within the clouds to ride before the storm front. They looked distinctly like men on horse back.
Sam wasn’t overly surprised; the rivers of blood and clouds of flies had already plagued the people. They’d had all the precursors to the apocalypse so why not the four horsemen? It was just…well how did God think this would impress people if they already knew what was going to happen? It’s like knowing who the murderer is before you watch the program.
Sam peered at the approaching figures and counted. It didn’t take that long. ‘Only two horsemen?’ Sam waited, wondering how you ask this particular sort of person (if they were, indeed, people) why, according to the bible, they were two men short.
The two horsemen began to descend, straight towards Sam on a downwards slope. The horses didn’t seem bothered by the lack of things to connect their hooves with and continued on until they actually touched the ground.
‘Ho, peasant!’ called the first rider, a young man with a shock of red hair.
Sam put a finger to his chest. ‘Who, me?’
‘Yes, you, with the big ferret,’ the rider said, now close enough to talk normally, ‘we wish to know the way to the nearest city.’
Sam stared at them. ‘Why are there only two of you? And it’s a dog, not a ferret.’ He went for the direct approach, mostly because it was sensible, but also because he objected to being called a peasant.
The second rider, older than the first, shorter and deeper set, snorted. ‘That is no dog I know of. It seems impractically short.’
The two riders considered Digby who considered them right back. Both sides were not overly impressed.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ prompted Sam, feeling distinctly left out.
The two men looked at each other and the red-head sighed. ‘There were some problems. War’s leg was broken in a game of croquet. B-’
‘Croquet? How can you break a leg in croquet?’
‘You do not have rhinos in your version?’ The first rider waved away the question. ‘It doesn’t matter. Pestilence sends his regrets but says he has the flu.’
Sam stared at them. ‘Doesn’t either of you find that slightly odd?’
The two men looked at him, puzzled.
‘That the living embodiment of illness can get a cold?’ Sam prompted. ‘No?’ he asked when there was no response. ‘Ok, so which of you is Death?’
‘Neither,’ said the red haired rider. ‘Death became a hermit a few years back. And Famine died in a tragic accident.’
‘Tragic,’ his partner agreed.
‘How can Famine die? Technically he was never alive! He’s an idea with a face. He can’t die.’
The second rider shrugged. ‘Seemed dead enough to me. Fished him out of the river, we did.’
Sam blinked a few times and gamely carried on. ‘So who are you two if you aren’t any of ‘the four’?’
The red head smiled. ‘I’m Tax and this is my good friend Political Correctness.’
Sam blinked slowly. ‘Wow they really were scraping the barrel with you two weren’t they?’
Tax scowled. ‘Are you trying to insult us?’ He fingered his belt where Sam would have expected an axe or sword to reside. Instead there was a rolled up piece of paper and a bic biro.
‘Hmm?’ mumbled the thoroughly lost Sam, who was still trying to imagine exactly how Tax functioned. ‘Oh, no, not really. Just, well…there’s are a lot more scary things than political correctness and tax. Your more…annoying.’
Political Correctness folded his arms. ‘Now look here, we do our best you know. It’s not easy, being fair to everyone. And Tax has to fill in a lot of forms. It’s hard work.’
‘But not particularly suited for the coming of the apocalypse though, are they?’
PC shrugged. ‘Not really but there wasn’t anyone else they could spare. Anyway, we don’t have to explain ourselves to you! If you don’t tell us where the nearest city is, we’ll…do…things…to- Tax, what exactly can we do?’
Tax blinked. ‘I…uh…Nearest city, now, peasant, before I enforce the new ‘annoying person’ tax upon thy heathen head!’
Sam scowled. ‘Nearest city is…Essex, hundred or so miles that way,’ he said, waving a hand in the approximate direction, ‘and I hope you get rained on. Digby? Come on,’ he added, clicking his fingers to the dog.
The dachshund glared at the two horsemen, snorted, then waddled after his master as dignifiedly as he could.