Part 16 (1/2)

”Pestilence,” Drake said. ”He's not really my Uncle Bob. I made that up.”

Mel nodded. ”I didn't think he looked like a Bob.”

”Thank you! See? I thought maybe Alejandro ora””

”Not now, Pest.”

Mel looked at the two of them, then at the horse. ”So, what happens now?” she asked.

Drake's eyes widened. ”What, you mean you believe me?”

”I just saw a cat change into a... thing that wasn't a cat,” Mel said. ”And some kids I've known for ten years become killer robot hula-hoops. Right now, I'll believe pretty much anything you tell me.”

Drake found himself smiling. Mel didn't join in.

”So, it's happening?” she asked. ”He's really going to destroy the world, like you said?”

Drake nodded. ”It looks like it.”

”We need to move,” said Pestilence softly. ”The others will be waiting.”

”Uh, yeah,” Drake mumbled. ”Just a minute.”

”We made a deal, remember?” Mel said. ”This morning. We made a deal. I thought you were kidding, buta we made a deal. If he's trying to destroy the world, we stop him, remember?”

He nodded. ”I remember.”

”OK, then. Good,” she said. She leaned in and kissed him, just briefly, on the lips.

”What was that for?” he asked, when she pulled away.

”Luck,” Mel said. ”Something tells me you're going to need it.”

The shed looked different when Drake and Pest stepped inside. It took Drake a moment to realise why. The square table at which the hors.e.m.e.n usually sat had been pushed off to one side. Three of the chairs were stacked neatly on top of it. Famine's reinforced seat was half tucked underneath.

”High time you got here,” said War as they both entered. He bent down and caught hold of a circle of metal that was set into the floor. Had the table still been there, the handle would have been almost completely concealed.

War pulled and a wide hatch swung upwards, revealing a stairway leading down into a brightly lit chamber beneath the shed. ”Famine's already down there,” he said. ”Getting ready.”

”Getting ready?” said Drake. ”What do you mean, getting ready?”

”Well, he's hardly going to usher in the Apocalypse in a baggy grey tracksuit, is he?” War said. ”He's getting into uniform, like we all should've done ten minutes ago.”

”No, but listen, it's not the real Apocalypse,” Drake said. ”It's Dr Black, the old Death, he's the one doing it.”

War blinked. ”So?”

”So? What do you mean, so? So it's not the real Apocalypse.”

”Who's to say what is and isn't the Apocalypse? For all we know, this was always how it was going to end.” He gestured with his head for Drake to go down the steps. ”Now come on. s.h.i.+ft it.”

It wasn't a single room beneath the shed, as Drake had been expecting. It was a complex. The walls were painted in clinical white, and a dozen corridors led off in a dozen different directions. There were four doors set into the walls, each a different colour. One was white, one was red, one was black and the final one was a pale, sickly green. Black and white squares of vinyl covered the floor, and row after row of fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.

In the centre of this room were four leather couches, laid out in a square. A gla.s.s coffee table sat between them, with magazines stacked neatly on top. It looked like the waiting room of an expensive dentist.

Pestilence, then War, joined him at the foot of the steps. ”What is this place?” Drake asked.

”It's a... shared area, between the afterlives. We rent some s.p.a.ce from the management company,” War said dismissively. He turned to Pest. ”Go get ready.”

”Righty-ho,” Pestilence said. He smiled, but it sat uneasily on him. ”See you soon, then.”

War caught Drake by the scruff of the neck. ”You, with me,” he said, marching him towards the red door.

They pushed through into a locker room, with wooden benches lining three of the walls. There were just two lockers. They stood back to back in the centre of the room.

”That's yours, that's mine,” said War, indicating which was which.

”How come we're not all here?” Drake asked. ”We've all got our own changing rooms,” War explained. ”I moved your locker in here so we could have a little chat about what happens next.”

”What does happen next?”

”Get dressed,” War said. He opened his locker and pulled out a gleaming breastplate.

Almost in a trance, Drake opened his locker. The Robe of Sorrows was hung up inside. He unhooked it and lifted it out. The material felt like damp velvet beneath his fingers.

”Do I put it on?” he asked. His voice wobbled. His heart thudded in his chest. He didn't want to be going along with any of this, but every time he thought about resisting, the notion quickly slipped away.

”What do you think?” War snapped. He was wearing the breastplate over his usual leather armour now, and was pulling on a pair of thick leather gauntlets.

Drake's arms, moving almost entirely of their own accord, slipped the Robe of Sorrows over his head.

”It's too big,” he said.

A s.h.i.+ver ran down his spine as the black folds oozed and writhed across his skin. In moments, the robe was a perfect fit.

”Oh,” he said. ”No, it isn't.”

”Keep the hood down for now,” War told him. ”No point putting it up until the big moment.”

Drake nodded. He didn't want to put the hood up. He didn't want to wear the thing at all. ”You didn't answer my question,” he said. ”What happens next?”

War closed his locker door with a clang. His breastplate gleamed. His leather gauntlets creaked as he flexed his fingers in and out. ”I don't know,” he said. ”You tell me.”

”What? How should I know?”

”You said he was someone from your school. Did he tell you anything? Like what he was planning?”

”No,” Drake said. ”Just that it was going to be something spectacular.”

”Aye, that sounds like him,” War said. ”b.l.o.o.d.y show-off. Anything else?”