[Silenced Sonix]

-----------------------Part IV
“Derrick!… Derrick!… Derri…”
Over the raging wind, the howls and shrieks of his pursuers grew louder, chasing him over the plains, giving him speed as he ran. Around him, flat desert plains stretched for as far as the eye could see, the sand thin and red, dusty. He was running – both for his life, and away from it, its history, the memories. Ahead of him, barely visible on the horizon, the sun was setting, a small red rim still peeping out over a distant series of mountains, the darkness already encroaching on him over the sands, the last flaring remnants of light his only hope as he ran. His boots and clothes were already covered in a thin layer of reddish dust from his journey, a set of paced footprints tracing out behind him into the darkness, leading his pursuers ever onward, a constant reminder that they would catch him eventually. Behind him, the voices called out again, taunting, jeering, rising over the wind like banshee wails. He glanced back over his shoulder as he ran, saw his pursuers for the first time. They were four figures on horseback, charging over the sands like juggernauts at sea, the horses kicking up plumes of fine sand as they steered down on him, riding in a line abreast of each other. The riders were lying low across the horses’ necks, their capes billowing out behind them like grotesquely deformed bats, the horses snorting wildly, theirs eyes seeming to burn of their own accord. Derrick looked ahead again, tried to concentrate, tried to run faster, felt the numbness in his legs from the running, felt the fear behind his eyes and around his heart, could almost feel the horses of his pursuers breathing down his neck.
“Derrick! Come to us! Join us!” The voices tore at his sanity with icy fingers of glee, became a flock of dark bats that spun around his head, distracting him, sending him crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs as a rock that had appeared from no-where tripped him. He felt bones in his leg give, break, the snap of breaking bone ringing through the air as he rolled through the dust, tearing through the dusty sand like a comet of dusty red and black. There was a moment of silence as he was alone in his little world of pain, his leg seeming to scream like an opera singer on glass, the nerves jangling from every movement as he sat up, trying to shake the pain off as the riders circled around him, the horses trotting up small clouds of dust. Through a haze of pain, he watched the riders as they dismounted, tracked their progress as they boxed him in on all four sides, striding over the sands until they were within a few feet of them. The fear in his chest felt like exploding as he looked upon the riders, recognizing them as they came to a halt around him, silently watching him with eyes that burned and flared like small flames. Directly in front of him, a metallic behemoth stood, armored feet firmly planted in the sand, weapons and trophies of war hanging from its suit of armor, the helm filled with a smoky pit through which two red pinpoints of red glared down on him. A gauntleted hand held a massive broadsword, the edges serrated, stained with a dark brown substance. To his left, a skinny thing stood, hunched over, vaguely human in appearance, but grossly disproportioned. Its skin was tight and had a grayish tinge to it, stretching tightly over its ribs as it labored for breath, each rising and falling of its chest drawing a feeling of what seemed to be pain across its emaciated features. Around its stomach, the flesh had shrunk away, etching off two hipbones that poked at the air with vengeful angles of bone, its loins covered with a scrawny rag, its legs thin and covered in odd knobs. It too grasped a sword, a thin rapier that swished through the air with barely a sound as it swung in his claw-like grip. Vague words and terms surfaced in Derrick’s mind – the Four Horsemen, the Riders of Apocalypse. Death, Famine, Plague and War. Names began fitting to the figures – the metallic giant in front of him was War, the zombie-like creature to his right, Famine. To Derrick’s left and behind stood the remaining Horsemen, Plague and Death. Plague was a bloated, corpse-like figure, its belly swollen to abnormal sizes, putrid sores and boils covering the patches of filthy skin that poked from beneath the tattered rags it wore. A cloud of flies circled it constantly, and Derrick was horrified to see maggots crawling through the creature’s flesh, the stink of rotting meat reaching his nostrils as he lay in the sand, his leg still throbbing with pain. Plague had a rusted scimitar that it clutched in its one hand, fluids and slimy ichor oozing from its wrist and dripping down the length of the blade, dropping to the sand in stinking puddles of rot. Behind him, the last figure spoke up, and Derrick craned his neck around, suddenly desperate to look upon the face of Death, to see what lay beyond this life. The figure was looking away to where the sun was setting, a broad set of shoulders visible to Derrick from his position on the sand, a dark cloak covering the figure from head to toes. The other riders had taken their cloaks off when they had dismounted, but this one still wore his, a broad-baled scythe slung across its back on a worn leather strap.
“Derrick… finally we meet…” The figure was still watching the horizon, watching the last visible piece of sunlight as it crept ever downwards. It reached back with a gloved hand, slinging the scythe off its back with an ease that spoke of eons of practice, gripped it loosely as it watched the sun. Over the far-away mountains, the sun lingered for a brief moment, and then sunk away, fleeing the scene as if it too was terrified by the riders. The figure bowed its head down, seeming to nod to the disappearing sun, and then turned to face Derrick, its booted feet scuffing the dust into new patterns. Its cowl was pulled down low over its face, and the shadows lurked over its features, hiding it from Derrick’s gaze. As if on cue, the other figure began closing in on Derrick, stepping closer in perfect time.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Derrick. We’ve been waiting for a long time now.” The figure with the scythe spoke up, its feet stomping down on the sands, leaving boot-prints that seemed to be filled with a darkness of their own. It grasped the scythe more firmly, lifting it in preparation for a blow. Derrick tried scrambling backwards, felt War’s cold metallic boots against his back before he had gone more than a few paces. To his right, Famine closed in, shuffling over the sands with its rapier at the ready. Terrified, Derrick tried to head to his left, only to bump into Plague’s rotting form, a gob of ichor and thick, sticky blood splashing over his left hand from the tip of Plague’s scimitar.
“No!… No!… NO!” The last word exploded from Derrick’s mouth as he saw Death’s face as it raised its scythe for a blow to his head. It was his own face that leered back at him from within the shadowy depths, the lips curled into a disdainful sneer, the eyes cold and burning. It even wore the set of tinted glasses he normally wore, the lenses a misty gray from the sun’s last beams
“YES!” Death screamed, and brought the scythe down in a flash of darkness.

“Derrick! Derrick, wake up!” In the darkness of the motel room, Anton tried to wake his boss from the nightmare he was evidently going through, shaking the moaning figure by the shoulders, trying the get a response. Sweat ran down Derrick’s face in small rivulets, and his pillow was soaked from his angst, his legs starting to kick spasmodically. A moan escaped from his lips, was followed by another, louder scream that echoed through the night’s silence, raising hairs on Anton’s back
“NO!” In a blur of movement, Anton was down on the floor of the motel next to Derrick’s bed, Derrick’s heavy form crouching over him, his left hand holding Anton by the throat, the right clasping a handgun that had appeared from no-where and was forcibly pressed to Anton’s forehead. For a few tense moments, nothing moved – Derrick gasped air into his lungs, shuddering after each breath, trying to get his senses and fears back under control. Anton croaked from beneath him, tried to say something, choking on the air as Derrick let go of his neck, pulled the gun away from his head. Hands over his bruised throat, Anton sat up, tenderly massaging the skin, feeling the pain as he tried to swallow, tried to come up with something to say. On the edge of the bed, Derrick was sitting with his head bowed down in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes screwed shut. His lips were moving, making mumbling noises, the handgun forgotten on the bed-cover next to him. Anton got to his feet, one hand still protectively over his throat, and looked the figure in front of him over.
“Derrick, are you sure…” Anton tried, but Derrick was already getting up, moving towards the bathroom with a slow, heavy tread. At the doorway, he paused, looked back at Anton, opened his mouth to say something, shut his mouth again without saying anything. Standing next to the bed, Anton began feeling decidedly uneasy. It was not normal for their leader to act like this, not now, not now when they had just accomplished their greatest goal. He watched Derrick turn again, entering the bathroom, going to stand over the basin with hunched shoulders. From the bathroom, his voice floated back to Anton, oddly disjointed and hollow.
“What were you doing here at this time of the night?”
“I came to ask you… well, me and Konrad…” The issue he had wanted to discus with Derrick had disappeared from Anton’s head, and he simply couldn’t remember what had brought him to Derrick’s room.
“Was it important?” The voice rasped from the bathroom, and Anton looked down, feeling embarrassed.
“No, I don’t think. At least, I can’t remember what it was. I came in here and you…” He gestured at the bed, the covers thrown off in disarray, the handgun that still lay where Derrick had put it down.
“Would you mind, then?” The voice had regained some of its familiar ice, and Anton felt strangely relieved. As long as the boss’s voice still sent chills down your spine, everything was probably normal. The time to start worrying was when Derrick didn’t say anything and went quiet. Anton had noticed that people tended to die when that happened.
“Yeah, sure… See you tomorrow!” Anton stepped across the room, pulling the door open and stepping out into the corridor, closing the door behind him again. In the morning, he would try to get an explanation – right now, Derrick didn’t look all to right in his mind. Turning to walk back to his room that he shared with Konrad, Anton noticed a stickiness on his hands, brought them up to the light to see what it was. A layer of stinking fluids covered the palms of his hands, and as he felt around his neck, he could feel the same stickiness on the skin there, covering the bruise that had started to grow from where Derrick had almost crushed his neck. Lifting one hand to his nose, he took a sniff, screwing his face up in disgust as the stench of rotting meat and blood came through to him. Whatever it was, it stank like hell – he’d wash it off first thing when he got back to his room. First check up on the girls though – they were still sleeping from the shots they had received at the airport, and would probably start waking late tomorrow morning. Then the explaining would have to start – always fun, that part. Careful not to touch anything unnecessary with his hands, he moved down the corridor and disappeared through the door that led to the part of the motel where he and Konrad were staying. There was a whiff of outside air, and the lingering smell of rot dissolved, spreading away through the corridor, lingering in the carpet for a moment, and then disappearing for good.