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 thousand millennia, 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?”
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