#gohe

“Who exactly summons them?”

“Not my department.”

************************

The department that did, in fact, summon the horsepersons was not Gabriel’s department, which was the Department of Earthly Affairs.  Summoning the horsepersons, overseeing the signs of the end times, the rains of fish, and all that unpleasant business was a job that nobody really wanted.  It was thought of as something Hell was supposed to do, but Heaven had to take responsibility for it, roll up their sleeves, and make sure it was done properly.  It was shunted off onto whichever angels were unlucky enough to be assigned to the Department of Armageddon, which Gabriel had actually fought tooth and nail to leave.

The Department of Armageddon’s entire purpose was to prepare for the end times: to meticulously plan it out and ensure it went off smoothly.  As these things tend to go, the least desirable job got pushed off onto whomever was lowest on the command chain, or at least the one too polite or too much of a pushover to refuse the job.  And nobody really wanted to interact with the horsepersons.  The DoA was filled with poor souls who had been toughing out a job they’d hated for six-thousand years. It would take a toll on anyone.

The reader can probably imagine that Aziraphale is less popular with the Department of Armageddon than any other angels, who unfortunately already find him quite annoying.

But this story is not about Aziraphale.  It’s not even about Ambriel, the angel responsible for summoning the horsepersons.

No, this story is about the horsepersons, who lined up for Armageddon in the year of 1991 with great fervor and excitement, giddily straddling their motorcycles, finally able to run wild.  The way that one had fizzled out was quite a disappointment to them all.

Adam had banished them for a bit, and that had been no fun, but it’s impossible to do away with Famine, War, and Pollution as long as humans exist.  So they eventually reformed, springing from the minds of men and being unleashed back onto the world.

Somewhere in Europe, freshly spilled blood steamed and boiled, and War rose up, with blood smeared over her naked body like a newborn baby.  In Asia, in a field covered by vultures feasting on the carcass of an emaciated cow, Famine sat up, looking around disoriented and missing his fancy suits.  On the West Coast of the United States, Pollution washed ashore,  having drifted for a while after being spawned from the Great Pacific garbage patch. They picked seaweed out of their hair and took a few moments to orient themselves.  The last thing they remembered was staring down Adam Young.  And as they realised what had happened, they thought the exact same thing their two companions were thinking at that exact moment:

Aw, man!

*********************************

In August 1992, the brave soul known simply as ‘the deliveryman’ had been contracted once again.  The request was again from someone named Ambriel, by whom he had been contracted at this precise time last year, and for the exact same reason:  To make four deliveries in various parts of the world to varyingly strange customers.

He didn’t really want to go, but it was his job, so there he was braving the quite literally riotous streets of a war-torn country scouring the chaos for a particular woman.

War had gone back to doing her reporter schtick, but it was starting to bore her.  She was interviewing an American soldier as he prattled on and on, pretending to write it down*, thinking about what her next possible career could be.  Probably somewhere in the American Military-Industrial complex, she thought.

*******

*She was currently drawing a sketch of him decapitated on the battlefield.

*******

This is how the deliveryman found her.  He doubled over panting from the exertion of running up to her, but managed to wheeze out, “Package for you, Miss.”

War turned to him, an intensely puzzled look on her face.  “What?”

“Package for you.”

War turned her back on the soldier.  “You again?  Aren’t you the same….  You have another package for me?”

He held it out.  It was suspiciously sword-shaped.

“But... “  She took the package and unwrapped it.  It was indeed a sword, long and shiny polished metal glittering in the harsh sun.  “But this means Armageddon is near.  Again?”

The deliveryman held out the signature pad hopefully.

She looked at him.

“I need you to sign for it, miss.”

“But we just did this.”

“This, ma’am?”

“Receiving our artifacts.  Riding to Armageddon.  The whole nine yards.”

“I do recall delivering this same sword to you last year.  Afraid I don’t know anything about it, though.  I’m just the deliveryman.”

“Are we doing it all again?”

“Afraid I don’t know, ma’am.  I just need you to sign for it, please.”

War held the sword out in both her hands, seeing her reflection in its length.  “That was one year ago today,” she realised.  “A year was all they decided to wait?  It took six-thousand to get ready the first time.”

Hope fading, the deliveryman stretched his arms out to full length to get the pen and pad as close to her as possible.  “Just need a signature, miss.”

War relented and took the pen, ripping the paper under the force of her signature.  The deliveryman looked a bit put off and shuffled away, unenthusiastic about his next delivery, which would require him to pick along an extremely dirty industrial oil field.

The soldier waited around to hopefully continue bragging about how brave he was, but War ignored him.  She simply continued to stare at the sword.  All she said was:

“Huh.”

***************************************

“Here we all are, gathered together at last.”

Famine was the one to made this proclamation.  He said this to both War and Pollution, who were uncertainly standing around their motorcycles.  This time they had been summoned directly to the barren field of Armageddon, which was, as it had been at this time last year, distressingly empty.

“Just saw you last year,” said Pollution.  “Not quite ‘at last’ anymore, is it?.”

Famine gave them a dirty look.  “Yes, well, it’s what we said last year.  Seems only right to say it again.”

“They’re trying to make Armageddon happen again on the anniversary of it failing,” said War.  “Is that what’s up?”

“It is significant, isn’t it?” said Pollution.  “I was thinking about having some sort of celebration anyway.  One year and all that.  Seems like we should commemorate it somehow.”

“That’s stupid,” said Famine.  Famine usually hated commemorating things because anniversaries and celebrations always seemed to involve good food and drink.  Eat, drink, and be miserable was usually how it went for him.

“Anyway,” said War, “what are we waiting for?  The Big Guy’s not here yet, but shouldn’t there be, I don’t know, some sort of preliminaries going on?  Wasn’t there all sorts of wacky stuff going on last year, storm in the sky, showers of fish and all that?”

A figure could be seen spiraling downwards from the sky, wings spread wide.  Pollution shielded their face with their hand and stared up past the sun.  “Who’s’at?”

The figure revealed itself to be an angel, a jaunty figure with a halo struggling to keep up with his erratic motion, floating just behind his head as he ran full-speed towards them.

“And who might you be?” said Famine.

The angel huffed and puffed.  “The name’s--the name is Ambriel.”  He caught his breath and looked around at the gathering.  “Where is Death?”

As if on cue, Death appeared with a small pop of expanding air.  I HAVE NEVER HAD TO KILL THE SAME HUMAN TWICE, said Death.  AND I DO NOT ENJOY THE EXPERIENCE.  NEITHER DID HE.  WHATEVER YOU ARE PAYING THE DELIVERYMAN, YOU NEED TO PAY HIM MORE.

“Pay?” said Ambriel.  “Oh, that’s right.”  He snapped his fingers, and the deliveryman’s bank account balance was suddenly a few digits larger, for all the good it would do a dead man.

“So your name’s Ambriel,” said War.  “But who are you?”

“I’m the one responsible for making sure the horsepersons are present at Armageddon!” he crowed.

Famine craned his neck towards the empty, blue, peaceful, quiet, decidedly-not-Armageddon sky.  Pollution kicked a rock through the soft grass.  War scratched her head.

WE ARE HERE, said Death.

“But where’s Armageddon?” said War.  “We don’t start it.  That’s the antichrist.”

“Ah,” said Ambriel, sweating.  “Yes, well, we’re still working on that.  It was supposed to happen a year ago, you see…”

“Yes, you summoned us on the anniversary,” said Pollution.  “Are we going to do it again?”

“Turn the seas to blood?” said War, shaking her fists.

“Unleash ourselves upon the planet until nothing’s left but bones and bare rock?” said Famine, a sparkle in his eye.

“Bury humanity in the consequences of its own actions?” said Pollution giddily.

Ambriel grimaced as the three of them crowded in on him, pumping their fists in excitement.

THE FINAL REAPING, said Death.

“Yes,” said Ambriel.  “Um, yes, for sure, about that…”

The excitement on their faces began to fade.

“Well, you see, I’d thought everything would be ready to go by now.  The timeline they gave me for re-setting the Armageddon fittings was one year!  It should be well underway by now, but…”

War and Famine looked at each other disappointedly.  “But what?” said Pollution.

“But they’re not done with the paperwork yet,” said Ambriel, crumpling.  “There’s been delays and delays and delays.  Our field agent won’t cooperate.  Hell won’t cooperate.  The other departments won’t cooperate.  It’s a bloody mess!”

“That sounds like your problem,” said War.  “What do you want us to do about it?”

Ambriel wrung his hands.  “Well, I...I don’t know.”

War pouted.  “All right, well, this was a bust, then.”  She spun on her heel and marched across the field.  “Call me when there’s some action for me, then, love.”

“Wait!” cried Ambriel.  “Don’t leave!”

“I’ll be down by the river,” said Pollution.  “It’s been looking a bit too clean for my taste.  Too many local community day cleanups, if you ask me.”

Ambriel nervously stuttered as Pollution sauntered away in the opposite direction.  Then he looked at Famine.  “I suppose you’re going to leave me, too?”

Famine checked his very expensive watch.  “Well, my flight back to America doesn’t leave until five o’clock, so I might hang around a bit and see if you can kick off Armageddon in the next two hours.”

*************************************

August 25, 1993

Pollution was the first one to show up this time, bearing a wine bottle and a little party hat affixed in their pale hair.  They’d worn the crown this whole time, so their head was starting to get a little crowded on top.

War had kept her sword.  It was slung casually over her shoulder as she picked her way across the empty field where Armageddon ostensibly was supposed to take place.  Only Famine had returned his artifact to Ambriel, because he thought modern electronic balances were much more efficient and chic than traditional balancing scales anyway, and he stood waiting to meet her empty-handed.

“Back again,” said War.  “I just got a letter in the mail this time, no deliveryman.  You?”

“The same,” said Famine.  “They’re lucky I got it.  Our mail gets filtered pretty thoroughly before it lands on my desk.  Pretty rude too, I had to drop everything to run on over...I thin heaven should start reimbursing me for the travel costs.”

Death popped into existence beside Pollution.  Ambriel was holding onto his arm, looking frightened.

THERE, YOU SEE? said Death.  NO NEED TO KILL ANYONE TO GET A MESSAGE TO ME.  WE CAN SKIP THAT AND HEAD RIGHT ON OVER TO ARMAGEDDON TOGETHER.

“Right,” said Ambriel.  “Sorry.”  He straightened his tunic and marched out in front of the semicircle of horsepersons.  “Welcome to Armageddon!” he loudly announced.  “It begins now!”

“I don’t see any signs of the end times--” Pollution began.

“Yet!” Ambriel thundered.  “They shall begin any moment!”

Pollution popped open the wine bottle.  “Yay.”

Ambriel, his hands still raised dramatically, began to sweat.

“The paperwork still isn’t done, is it?” said War.

“The paperwork still isn’t done,” said Ambriel, shoulders sagging.

“Then why did you call us here?” said Famine.  “Look, I’m a busy man.  I run a corporate empire, you know!”

“I thought it would be done!” said Ambriel, wringing his hands.  “We’re just…  We’re waiting on our field agent, Aziraphale.  He hasn’t turned in his forms yet, and he won’t answer my messages.”

“Should we go find this Aziraphale guy and teach him a lesson?” said War.

“A lesson about punctuality in filling out paperwork?” said Pollution.  “Are you sure you’re the best one to teach him that lesson?”

“All right, all right,” said Famine.  “Look, Ambriel, is there anything we can do to move things along?  This is the third time in a row--”

“The second anniversary,” Pollution interrupted.

“--Right, thanks, White--the third time we’ve done our ride and gone to Armageddon.  It’s starting to get a bit anticlimactic.”

“That’s his job, not ours,” said War.  “Pfft.  Black, what’s next?  You want to tempt sinners to Hell?  Reap souls after death?  Who else’s job do you want to do?”

Famine grew red.  “I’m just saying--”

“Well, whatever,” said War, slinging her sword back into the sheath strapped across her back.  She hooked her arm around Famine’s head and gave him a noogie.  “We can kill some time while Ambriel finishes preparing for Armageddon.”

HMMM, said Death.  YES...SINCE IT SEEMS LIKE TIME IS THE ONLY THING WE’LL BE KILLING.

******************************

August 25, 1994

Famine kept his scales this time.  Their home for the next year was the corner of his desk in his office on top of 666 Fifth Avenue, right next to his extremely slim computer.

Famine played with the chain, strangely delicate and cold, when an email popped up on his computer.

To the Black horseperson of the apocalypse:

Please meet us at the appropriate place at the appropriate time.  The end is nigh.  The four horsemen shall ride and the world shall end in fire and blood..

Famine started to type a response.  But before he could, his computer dinged with a reply: all to the previous email, from [email protected]:

Can I bring a plus one this time?

A few days and a few thousand miles later, Famine trekked over the dry ground of Armageddon with his scales in hand.  Pollution and War were already standing in the middle of the field, the exact same place Ambriel had appeared the last three years.

War had a demoness hanging off her arm.

“Ah, Black!” said War.  “Just in time.  I was just in the process of introducing my girlfriend, Ashtarte.”

“Call me Ash,” said Ashtarte.  A smile, too broad and with too many teeth that were too sharp, spread Cheshire cat-like across her features.  She wore a punk mesh top, red boots, and had a little pair of horns and forked tail, like she was trying to impersonate a Halloween costume of a demon.

“Uh, okay, Ash,” said Famine.

“The Black horseperson of the apocalypse!” said Ash.  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.  Big fan of your work!”

“Big fan?” said Famine.  He straightened his tie.  “Thanks very much.”

“We met over cocktails in a little bar in Saudia Arabia,” said War.  “Making fun of the same reporters.”

Ash held up her hand in a “V” pose.

“None of us have ever really, uh…” said Famine.

“Had a girlfriend?” said War.  “You don’t know that.”

Famine fidgeted.  “So you have had a girlfriend?”

“Er, well, no, not really,” said War.  She hefted Ash onto her shoulder and flexed her bicep; the smaller woman fit snugly into her shoulder.  “But you should try it sometime!  Armageddon keeps getting delayed, so we might as well enjoy our time here, right?”

“But what’s the appeal?”

“I think he doesn’t understand it,” said Pollution, “because he can’t even imagine how to get a girlfriend.”

Death appeared stormily, his biker boots thumping against the ground a bit too hard.  AND WHERE IS OUR SUMMONER?

“Not here yet,” said Pollution, fiddling with the wine bottle they held.  “But why don’t we have some drinks first?  Enjoy our time here, right?”

They summoned a card table from somewhere, and Pollution pulled up a seat and patted the one next to them in the hope of coaxing Death to sit down.  Famine ambivalently sat down next to War, who had Ash on her lap.

WE’RE NOT HAVING A PARTY, said Death.  WE’RE HERE FOR BUSINESS REASONS.

“Sit down, big guy,” said Famine.  “Nothing wrong with loosening up a little.”

Death remained motionless for a few moments, tense with annoyance.  Then, his biker leathers crinkling, he lowered himself into a seat.  BUT I WON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DRINK.

“Aw,” said Pollution, popping the cork off the bottle.  “Do you not like it?”

Death’s helmet visor reflected Pollution’s face impassively back at them as they poured drinks.

“Have you never drunk alcohol before?” said War.

Death didn’t answer.

“You haven’t, have you?” said Famine.  “Do you want to try some?”

Death lifted his helmet off his head, setting it on his lap.  Then he removed one leather glove, revealing his bony hand.  The white stalk snaked out and curled around a glass, bringing it to his skeletal grin.  The wine dribbled through his jaw and onto his leather jacket.

Famine grimaced.  Pollution thought his jacket looked better with stains on it, but didn’t say so.  They passed the next half hour in jovial conversation, the wine warming their bodies and lifting their spirits.  Ash withdrew a deck of cards from her pocket, which entertained them as they laughed and joked.

They were all quite drunk by the time Ambriel arrived.  He sprinted over at top speed, careening into the table.  “What are you all doing?”

“We’re having a drink!” said Ash, waving her glass in the air and sloshing wine.

“Wh—”  Ambriel took a second to look very confused at the appearance of a fifth horseperson, then shook it off and decided it didn’t matter.  “Whatever!  Get up, put this stuff away!  Armageddon is starting!”

“For real this time?” said Pollution.

A second angel could be seen descending from Heaven.  “Yes, for real this time!” Ambriel exploded.  “The archangel Michael is on his way!  Now get ready!”

War rolled her eyes and folded up the table.  Pollution disappointedly retrieved the half-empty wine bottle, sipping from it as they walked over to Ambriel.

Michael touched down, his impressive dusky wingspan battering them with dusty clouds.  “Ambriel, I was told the armies of Hell are gathering here, yes?”

“Yes!” said Ambriel.  “The antichrist is coming.  He’s on his way now.”

“He’s…”  Michael looked over the the horsepersons.  Famine shrugged.    War examined her nails.  Pollution continued to sip from their bottle.  Death very stormily crossed his arms.

“He’s supposed to already be here,” said Michael.  “I don’t see any of the signs of Armageddon…”

“I gave the antichrist Adam Young a very stern lecture about his role, and demanded he come to Armageddon,” said Ambriel.  “And he said he was coming.”

Pollution cocked their head.  “He said he was coming?”

“Yes.  His exact words were, ‘Okay, Boomer.’”

Pollution choked, wine shooting out their nose.

***************************

August 25, 1998

“Can we meet at your restaurant next time?”

Famine turned to Pollution, the only other figure with him at the yet again empty field of Armageddon.  “What?”

“The next time this happens, can we meet at one of your restaurants?”

Famine sighed.  The first few times this had happened, he’d argued that they didn’t know there was going to be a ‘next time,’ but by now, the anniversary of the Apocalypse usually heralded them gathering to stand around for a while and not much else.  “I doubt Ambriel would go for that.  We’re supposed to be in this spot.”

Pollution shifted from foot to foot.  “But the Newtrition corp has expanded, right?  It has branches around here now.  It wouldn’t be that far.”

“You don’t want to eat at my restaurant,” said Famine, trying to hide his shock that Pollution was so familiar with his franchise.  He hadn’t thought any of the other horsepersons had cared about his silly little business.  Although it was nice that someone was paying attention.  “Why not?” said Pollution.  “It seems nice.  It produces lots of waste paper.  And styrofoam cartons.  Love those things.”

“It doesn’t serve actual food,” said Famine.  “Just a bunch of nonsense.  It has no nutritional value.”

“Well,” said Pollution.  “We don’t actually need to eat, do we?  Back in the forties, I went a good decade without eating.  Too busy with the mills in Pittsburgh to stop and eat.”

Famine opened his mouth to deliver a snappy retort, only to find he didn’t have one.

“‘Course that was before I took the crown from Pestilence, so I was just a minor horseperson then. Well, my point is, it’s not like we’ll be affected by malnutrition.  As long as it tastes good, right?”

Famine lit a cigarette.  “If you want to look at it that way, I suppose.”

The rumble of a motorcycle filled the air, and War pulled up with Ash perched on the back of her bike.

“We can’t meet at my restaurant,” said Famine.  “That’s inappropriate.”  He wasn’t sure why the idea made him so uncomfortable, and he turned to greet War.  “Red.”

“Black,” said War, dismounting.  She put her bike helmet on the saddle as Ash fell off behind her.  “Hey, you don’t have to call me ‘Red,’ you know.”

Famine stopped.  “What?”

“I have a name.”

Famine bristled.  “Whatever.  Where’s that stupid little twig of an angel this time?”

“Geez, who pissed in your cereal,” said Ash, dusting herself off.

“I’m just getting a little tired of this!” said Famine.  “I have to fly over from America every year in August only to be told to go right back home!”

Pollution opened a bag of crisps, savoring the grease.  They looked disappointedly into the bag.  “Black.”

“What?”

“Don’t ruin my crisps!”

“I’m not ruining your—”  Famine suddenly realised he was ruining the crisps, because he was so damn frustrated by how inefficient Heaven and Armageddon and this whole thing was.  He was used to running things like a well-oiled machine, and this….

“Black, stop ruining the poor kid’s crisps,” said War.

“You’ve never appreciated my work,” Famine snapped.

Ambriel chose this moment to appear.  “All right, everyone!” he said.  “This time I’ve really—”

“Black, I was very much looking forward to my crisps!” Pollution said.

“You all only notice how hard I work when it affects you!” said Famine.  “I’m the only one putting real effortinto building an empire—”

“You’re the only one?” said Pollution.

Scared, Ambriel hid behind his clipboard, unsure of how to wrangle them.

Famine suddenly realised that War was gleefully egging on the fight between him and Pollution with her horseperson powers.  “Red!”

The tension in the air immediately dissipated, and War slunk back, looking chastised.  

His head more clear now, Famine smoothed out his tie.  The booted footsteps of Death reverberated in the air before he made his appearance.  AND HOW MANY ANNIVERSARIES IS THIS NOW?  I’VE LOST COUNT.

“You’re late,” said Ambriel snootily.

Death turned to him.  Even though he had no face to speak of, and still had his helmet on, everyone could clearly imagine the expression he would make.

“Seven,” said Pollution through a mouthful of crisps.

A second angel descended from the sky, this one unhurried, dragging its proverbial feet.

AND DO I HAVE ANYTHING TO BE LATE FOR THIS TIME? said Death.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Ambriel.  “Because I have with me the field agent who was responsible for delaying Armageddon last time.  So now he’s going to kick it off.”

A chubby angel with oodles of curly hair touched down, looking around guiltily.  “Er, hello...I’m Aziraphale.”

“Oh, you looked nicer in a dress,” said Pollution.

“All right,” said Ambriel.  “Let’s go, then.  Go on.”

Aziraphale shuffled his feet.

“Don’t we need the antichrist?” volunteered Famine.

“The antichrist is unavailable,” said Ambriel icily.  “We’ll have to make do without him.”

“Unavailable?!” exclaimed War.

“He means Adam Young doesn’t want Armageddon to happen,” said Aziraphale, who then shut up right quick at an elbow jab from Ambriel.

“You can make it happen without the antichrist?” said Pollution, crunching through a mouthful of crisps.  “Thought was the whole point of him.  So how does it work?”

“Ahem,” said Ambriel.  “That is none of your concern.  Just worry about your own part.  Now, let’s begin.”

Ambriel stepped forward to direct the horsepersons.  War kept looking up at the sky, noticing Armageddon didn’t seem to be happening.  Pollution licked their fingers, other hand firmly stuck in their crisps packet.

“And now Aziraphale will--Aziraphale?”  

While Ambriel had had his back turned, Aziraphale had scuttled off, wings drawn wide and flapping erratically like a prey animal running from a fox.  “Ahhh!  Get back here!”

Ambriel went off chasing him.  War stood where she was, sword poised, and watched him go.  “Um…”

Pollution finished their packet of crisps and dropped it on the ground, wiping their hands on their shirt.  “Is he coming back?”

They stayed there for about half an hour waiting for Ambriel, and decided he wasn’t coming back.  Ash sweet-talked War into hitting the bars after that.  They managed to convince everyone but Death to come along, too.

*************************

August 25, 2001

“Hey, why does it take an apocalypse for us to get together?” said War.

Pollution picked idly at the tablecloth on the little picnic table they had summoned.  They were trying to decide if ketchup or mustard would make better stains on it.  “Hmm?”

War straddled the bench, picking at the picnic basket.  “I mean, I know not everyone likes to spend time with their coworkers outside of work, but there’s nothing stopping us from getting together outside of Armageddon, right?”

Pollution stopped.  “Hmm?”

“She’s saying she wants to spend more time with you guys,” said Ash.

“We can do that?!” Pollution said.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” said War.

Pollution’s eyes sparkled.

“Come sit down and enjoy this little basket you put together,” said Ash.  “It looks lovely.”

The weather was fabulous, once again with no signs of the inclement weather heralding Armageddon, and a delicious breeze tugged at them and whipping waves through the dry summer grass.  Pollution fished out some plastic utensils and set them out on the table.

Ash took a sandwich from the basket.  It definitely had worms of some sort in it, but being from Hell, she was used to such things.

“Where’s Famine, anyway?” said Pollution, setting a pile of napkins on the table and watching them immediately blow away in the wind.

“Oh, he’s coming!” said War.  “And he said he was bringing a plus one this year.”

“A plus one?”

“Sounds like he’s got a girlfriend too.  Or boyfriend.  Or what-have-you.”

Pollution scratched their head.  “Wonder who it could be.”

With a rustle of grass, Death stood beside them.

“Come sit down!” said War.  “We’ve been waiting for you!”

Death looked at them contemplatively.  I DIDN’T RECEIVE A SUMMONS THIS YEAR.

“Huh,” said Pollution, letting their sandwich wrapper fall to the ground.  “I just realised, neither did I.”

“Yeah,” said War, waving her hand dismissively.  “But after doing this annually for ten years, I think we get the point, right?”

Death stood like a silent sentinel.  Death was rarely the type to display any emotion at all, but to War and Pollution, it looked like he was fighting to not indulge in some unconventional display of sentiment.

A smile spread across War’s face.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

I JUST WANTED TO SEE IF I WAS NEEDED THIS YEAR, said Death.

“Well, Armageddon is probably delayed again,” said War.  “So you’re not, really.  You’re free to leave.”

Death stood still.

“Come sit down,” said Ash, patting the bench.  “You’re always so serious.”

Death clomped over and swung his enormous legs over the wooden bench.

“Heard Famine’s got himself a new squeeze,” gossiped War.

OH, said Death.  YES…

The grass in the field next to them dried up, swirling brittle pieces making a small tornado, and with a mournful nicker, a skeletal horse materialized.  Its emaciated frame was oozing with dripping wounds and festering decay.  Atop its back was a figure in a white robe with a long, beaked mask.

Famine pulled up on his motorcycle.  “Fellas, good to see you again!”

“It’s been a very long time,” said the newcomer, although no, he wasn’t new at all…

“You brought Pestilence!” Pollution yelled.  “He’s not a horseperson anymore!  I replaced him!”

“Tsk tsk, you young punk,” said Pestilence, dismounting.  “No respect at all.”

Pollution glared.

“He’s not here as a horseperson,” said Famine.  “He’s my plus one.”

“That’s cheating!” said Pollution.

Pestilence winked, which was absolutely infuriating.

Pollution crossed their arms as Famine and Pestilence took their seats.  “This looks delightful,” said Pestilence, taking a crisp from a bowl.

Pollution grumbled.  Famine was a little disgruntled that they had set up a nice meal, but he muttered an echo of Pestilence’s praise.

“It’s just weird,” said Pollution.  “It’s like you’re dating my dad.”

“I’m not your Dad,” said Pestilence.  “We barely met before you kicked me out.”

“I think you just don’t like Pestilence,” said Famine.

Pollution bristled.  “Maybe.”

Famine shrugged.  Somewhere in the world, the minor horseperson of Awkward Interpersonal Issues felt their power surge.

“It’s because they’re afraid I’ll wrangle the job of horseperson #3 from them,” said Pestilence.  “The anti-vax moms in the United States are making them nervous.”

Pollution’s cheeks went red.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” said Pestilence.  “I don’t want to be one of the Main Four anymore.  It’s quite dull.  The humans’ attitude towards smallpox ruined the fun for me.  Some of my best work, all down the drain.  Feff.”  He sipped some cola.  “But you seem to be doing a splendid job.  I hear nowadays everyone’s mad about straws, of all things.”

Pollution perked up.  The atmosphere at the table was much lighter after that.

“Isn’t Ambriel going to show up?” said War.  “Usually right about now is when he comes down, babbling about how Armageddon is really going to happen this time, and how we need to get ready.”

Pestilence scratched his head.  “Ambriel?  He’s the one who had to come tell me they were swapping me out for Pollution.  He still works in the Department of Armageddon?  Poor sod always got the worst jobs pushed onto him.”

Ambriel did, in fact, show up eventually.  He had none of his usual bravado.  He dragged his sandaled feet through the dirt and flopped down to join them at the picnic table.  The four of them shared a look, then looked back at Ambriel.  “Hey, kid, what’s wrong?” said Famine.

“Useless,” said Ambriel.  “It’s all useless.  Nothing I do ever works.  No matter how hard I try, Heaven can’t get its crap together to make Armageddon happen.  Oh, pardon my language.”

“Hey, cheer up,” said Pollution.  “The first time we tried, the four of us got beaten by little kids with sticks and rocks.  That’s way more humiliating than anything you’ve had to go through.”

Famine glared at Pollution.  Pollution unwrapped a lolly, enjoying the crinkling of the wrapper.

Ambriel thunked his head on the table, groaning.  “No use, it’s no use!”

“Well, we’re all having a lovely time anyway!” said Ash.  “August 25 is my favorite day of the year now!”

“It’s supposed to be Armageddon,” moaned Ambriel.  “It’s not supposed to be a celebration.”

War stabbed a little cocktail weiner with her Bowie knife.  “We’ve been known to celebrate in unconventional ways.”

***************************

Present day

“1845.”

“No, that was you?”

Pollution sucked on their choco-whippy milkshake, eyes bouncing from War to Pestilence.

“Yep,” said Pestilence, leaning back, looking very pleased with himself.

“I thought for sure that was Famine,” said War.

“I wish,” said Famine.  “I had been working in Ireland for a few years at that point, but hadn’t had much success.”

“Phytophthora infestans,” said Pestilence.  “One of my favorites.

“He refuses to lend it to me,” said Famine.  “Greedy bastard.”

“Not your jurisdiction.”

They all shared a hearty laugh.

“Oh, Pollution,” said War, snapping her fingers.  “I just remembered.  That science project we were talking about the other day, the bacteria that humans were cultivating to break down plastic.”

Pollution’s face screwed up in displeasure.

“I was working on trying to divert some of the NHS’s funding into more bioweapon applications.  Maybe if you do me a little favor in return, I can get their funding pulled?”

Pollution nodded happily, sucking through their straw.

“Hey, here he comes!” said War, throwing up her hand.

Death strode over, standing at the edge of the table.

“Sit down,” said Ash, patting the seat.  “We’re having a lovely time.”

I HAVE… said Death.  If it were possible, he seemed embarrassed.

“What?” said Pollution.

I HAVE ALSO BROUGHT A PLUS ONE.

“What, a boyfriend?” said Pestilence.

NOT LIKE THAT…. said Death.  He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small bundle of fur, which blinked and mewled.

Ash had stars in her eyes, putting her hands on her head as though to keep her brain from exploding out.  “Is that a kitten?”

I FOUND IT OUTSIDE.

“It’s so cute!” said Pollution.

I HAD NEVER NOTICED THEM BEFORE, said Death.  THEY ARE...NICE.

“Well, nothing wrong with enjoying the pleasures of the world,” said Famine.  “Since it seems like we’ll be here for a while.”

Death sat down, putting the cat on the table.  The minimum wage employees scrambling to make the food didn’t have the time to notice or care.

“We were just discussing some of the other anniversaries we have besides August 25,” said War.  “Turns out we have quite a lot of them!  We should share.”

Death was silent.

“February 14,” said War.  “The start of the first War in Mesopotamia.  That was my favorite one.  I find the date so deliciously funny with what they’ve done with it now.”

“September 27,” said Pollution.  “When the first mass-produced automobile left the factory.”

“What about you?” siad Famine.  

“Black’s right,” said Pollution.  “You must have one.”

Death hummed for a minute.  Then:  NOVEMBER 16.  THE DAY THE FIRST MAN DIED.

“And kicked all this off,” said Famine.  “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked their glasses against each other’s.

“Hey,” said Famine.  “You guys have been calling me ‘Black,’ this whole time, and while I guess it’s technically what I am…. Well, I picked a name.  A more human name.  You could use it, if you like.”

“Would you like that?” said Pollution.

“I think so.  It’s Sable.”

“Raven Sable,” said War.  “That’s right.  I like it.”

“What about you?” said Sable.  “Don’t you have one?”

“Oh, yeah!” said War.  “Wouldn’t that just be great!  Call me Carmine.”

“It’s such a good name!” said Ash joyfully.

Carmine beamed.  She’d never known this would feel good, but it did.

Pollution shyly tapped their fingers on the table.  “Chalk, please.”

All eyes turned towards Death.

“Well?” said Chalk.  “Only if you want to.”

AZRAEL.

“It’s perfect,” said Ash.

Sable snapped his fingers.  “Guys, hold on a second, I just remembered something.”

“Hm?” said Chalk.

“August 25.  Armageddon.”

“So?” said Carmine.  “That never happens anyway.”

“Well, we were so excited to meet we forgot we were supposed to go to Armageddon first.”

Carmine choked on the pickle she had been eating.  “Oh yeah,” said Ash, very slowly.  “I guess that’s fine, though.  But, oh dear…  Did anyone tell Ambriel?”

Azrael grinned, moreso than a regular skeletal grin.  I’M SURE HE’S DOING JUST FINE.

“I’ve got it!  I’ve finally got it!”

Ambriel, almost tripping over his robes, waved his papers in the air as he sprinted towards Armageddon.  “I finally have all the departments in accord, the stars have aligned, the paperwork is signed, the—”

Ambriel stopped and beheld the field of Armageddon, butterflies floating by and flowers bouncing merrily, very conspicuously empty and peaceful and not trodden by the harbingers of Armageddon.

“Oh, dear…”