No one knows where the Four Horsemen came from, only that one day they appeared on their steeds, riding through cities and wildlands alike. And as they passed through town after town, human technology broke like waves upon the rocks.
No one knew what it meant. Especially when, all at once, the Four Horsemen disappeared just as suddenly as they had appeared.
Our electronics never recovered, but we began to rationalize the inexplicable events away: It was a solar flare. Terrorists. Synchronized EMP pulses. Forget that none of these explanations made any sense—they were more reasonable than some Biblical apocalypse, so we cringed and swallowed down those half-baked theories.
And then Pestilence reappeared.
I sit at our table for a long time after my teammates—former teammates—have left, running my fingers over the polished wood of my grandfather’s shotgun, getting used to the feel of it in my hands.
Other than re-acquainting myself with the weapon over the last two weeks when I shot the crap out of some tin cans, it’s been years since I handled a gun.
I’ve killed a sum total of one creature using this weapon (a pheasant whose death haunted my twelve-year-old dreams).
Going to have to use it again.
I get up, sparing another glance out the window. My bike and the trailer I jerry-rigged to the back of it sit across the way, my food, first aid kit and other supplies strapped to the back. Beyond my bike, the Canadian wilderness perches on the hills that border our city of Whistler. Who would’ve thought a horseman would come here, to this lonely corner of the world?
On a whim, I head over to the fridge and grab a beer—the world might be ending but fuck it if there’s no beer.
Popping the cap off, I cross over to the living room and click on the T.V.
Nothing.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I’m going to die a horrible, shit-sucking death, and the T.V. decides that today is the day it stops working.
I slam a palm down on the top of it.
Still nothing.
Muttering oaths my grandfather would be proud of, I kick the good-for-nothing T.V., more out of spite than anything else.
The screen sputters to life, and a grainy image of a newscaster appears, her face warped by the bands of color and contortions the T.V. makes.
“… appears to be moving through British Columbia … heading towards the Pacific Ocean …” It’s hard to make out the reporter’s words under the static-y white noise. “… Reports of the Messianic Fever following in his wake … ” Pestilence has only to ride through a city for it to be infected.
Researchers—those that remain dedicated to their work even after technology has fallen—still don’t know much about this plague, only that it’s shockingly contagious and the primary vector of transmission is horseman. But a name has been given for it all the same—the Messianic Fever, or simply the Fever. The name was cooked up by spooks, but that’s what the world has come to—spooks and saints and sinners.
Turning off the T.V., I grab my bag and gun and head out, whistling the Indiana Jones theme song. Perhaps if I pretend this is an adventure, and I’m the hero, it will make me think less about what I’m going to have to do to save my town and the rest of the world.
I spend most of the day and a good part of the evening setting up camp off of Highway 99, the road he’s likeliest to take. And dear God do I hope that the horseman will pass through while it’s still light out. I have shit aim in broad daylight; at night I’m likelier to shoot myself than I am him.
Seeing how my luck’s going today, there’s a chance, a good chance, I’ll fuck this up. Maybe Pestilence makes a detour, or decides to be clever and approach from another direction. Maybe he’ll pass by without my ever noticing.
Maybe maybe maybe.
Or maybe even wild, frightening things have a pinch of logic to them.
I grab my gun and extra ammunition, creep close to the highway, and I settle in for the wait.
He comes with the first snow of the season.
The entire world is quiet the next morning as the powdery white flakes blanket the landscape and turn the road pearlescent. More snow flutters down, and it all looks so ridiculously beautiful.
Out of nowhere, the birds take flight from the trees. I startle as I see them all high above me, their bodies dark against the overcast sky.
Then, from a dozen different locations, wolves begin to howl, the sound sending a primordial shiver down my spine. It’s like a warning call, and in its wake, the rest of the forest comes alive. Predators and prey alike flee past me. Raccoons, squirrels, hares, coyotes—they all rush by. I even see a mountain lion loping amongst them.
And then they’re gone.
I exhale a shaky breath.
He’s coming.
I crouch in the dim forest, shotgun clutched in my hands. I check the gun’s chamber. Remove and reload the cartridges just to make sure that they’re properly in place. Adjust and readjust my grip.
It’s as I’m double checking the ammunition in my pocket that the hair on the back of my neck rises. Ever so slowly, I lift my head, my gaze fixed on the abandoned highway.
I hear him before I see him. The muffled clomp of his steed’s hooves echoes in the chill morning, at first so quiet that I almost imagine it. But then it gets louder and louder, until he comes into view.
I waste precious seconds gaping at this … thing.
He’s sheathed in golden armor and mounted on a white steed. At his back is a bow and quiver. His blond hair is pressed down by a crown of gold, and his face—his face is angelic, proud.
He’s almost too much to look at. Too breathtaking, too noble, too ominous. I hadn’t expected that. I hadn’t expected to forget myself or my deadly task. I hadn’t expected to feel … moved by him. Not with all this fear and hate churning in my stomach.
But I am utterly overwhelmed by him, the first horseman of the apocalypse.
Pestilence the Conqueror.