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The drums of war pound in his head.
Boom boom ba-boom.
It’s bass heavy. Maybe it’s cannon fire that he’s hearing, echoes from a feud that took place centuries ago. He has no idea and frankly he doesn’t care enough to think it over. All wars sound the same after a while.
He takes a long sip of his beer.
Two stools down a fight breaks out. A bottle shatters against the counter and its owner holds up the jagged neck threateningly. Just as quickly as it began the feud blows over with the cocking of the bartender’s shotgun.
“Take it outside,” he advises.
The two patrons leave.
He takes another sip of his beer, pulling out his phone and flipping through his messages. He’s about to type out a quick text when the bell above the door tinkles again and the room feels suddenly colder. Rolling his eyes he flags down the bartender as someone takes a seat next to him.
“Roger,” the newcomer says.
“You’re late,” Roger replies, keeping his eyes on the bartender. “Another of the same, please.”
“I’ll have what he’s having,” the newcomer says, and then, “Is the kitchen still open?”
“We’re out,” the barkeep replies.
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“Figures,” the newcomer mutters under his breath. “Just the drink, then. I think you can put the shotgun down too now, darling.”
The barkeep looks down at the gun in his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it; casting Roger an uneasy look he putters off toward the other side of the bar.
Roger finishes his drink before speaking. “Where are the others?”
“They’re coming.”
“Freddie, they’re late.”
“Roger,” Freddie mocks sweetly. “They’re busy. Bad flu this year, you know.”
“There’s a bad flu every year.”
“Brian’s got hepatitis again.”
Roger rolls his eyes. “Please. That’s so 1954.”
“You can talk to him about how whooping cough is out of fashion too, as soon as you stop trying to start guerilla wars in the Middle East. I mean, really? What is this, Jamestown?”
“I wish. Who said anything about trying, anyway?” Roger asks, eyes wide. “They start themselves, you know. I haven’t been there since the Cold War. Which you missed out on, by the way.”
“I was busy.”
“Whereabouts?”
“China.”
“Ah.” The bartender gives them each a new drink and they clink their glasses together gloomily. “Should have showed up. It was all the rage. John loved it. Best war for him since…” he trails off, wracking his brain. “Actually, I think it was the best war for him since ever. He barely had to do a thing.”
“Well, you know how he loves that.”
“Mhmm. Bad flu, huh?”
“Yeah. That’s the word.”
The bell above the door tinkles again. The stool on Roger’s other side is suddenly occupied. “Gents,” Brian says, raising two fingers at the bartender. He slides Brian a pint, then sneezes, then frowns.
“Bad flu,” Roger supplies.
“That’s what they’re saying,” the bartender replies. “Nasty thing.”
“Sorry,” Brian says sincerely.
The bartender shakes his head, giving him an odd look before moving away. As soon as he’s gone Roger elbows Brian hard.
“Ow! What?” Brian squawks.
“You can’t keep apologizing!” Roger hisses.
“Why not? I feel bad!”
“So? It just looks weird! They don’t know it’s your fault!”
Brian huffs. “Leave me alone, okay? It makes me feel better. I can’t stop it but I can at least apologize.”
Roger frowns into his beer, sullen. “Where the hell is John, anyway?”
“Hell.”
“What?”
“He’s in Hell. Had some souls to deliver or something.”
“Now of all times?”
“Bad flu.”
Roger looks at him incredulously.
“What?” Brian asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to apologize?”
“Boys, please,” Freddie says smoothly. “Let’s save the bloodshed for the apocalypse, alright? I mean, seriously. First time we’re all together again since Rome and you want to spend that time fighting?”
“We could’ve been together earlier,” Roger replies snidely. “If you’d gotten off your high fucking black horse and come to hang out with us in ’65—”
“Really? Back to this again? I tell you, you want a fight and I’ll give you one, pretty boy.”
“Need a Snickers? You’re not yourself when you’re hungry.”
“Do you have one?” Freddie asks him seriously.
“Guys,” Brian says, looking up from his phone. “John’s outside.”
“Finally,” Freddie groans. “Ugg. Seriously, though. We should stop for some food. I saw a drive through. Do you think that’s open?”
“Probably just closed,” Roger replies.
“You think?”
“Bad flu,” Roger and Brian say in unison.
“Fuck.”
Roger drops a few notes on the table and they make their way outside. A white piece-of-shit car is waiting on the curb and Roger groans, walking up to the passenger side window and leaning toward the glass as he bangs on the roof with his open palm.
“You still driving this turd?” he shouts.
John leans over to roll the window down. It takes a minute. The crank is sticky. “What?” he asks.
“This piece of shit is still running?”
“I like it,” he says defensively. “Come on. Get in.”
“Why can’t we take my car?” Roger whines.
“Roger, dear,” Freddie says sweetly. “You drive a Ferrari. We won’t all fit. John’s got a family car.”
“A family car!” Roger repeats incredulously. “We’re carpooling to fucking Armageddon in a family car! Behold the white horse upon which rides Death, and lo! War called shotgun! Pestilence and Famine are crammed into the back because they wanted to save on gas money!”
“Actually, Pestilence is calling shotgun,” Brian says quickly, pushing past him to slide into the passenger seat.
“I’m going to kill all of you,” Roger mutters.
“You’ve all killed enough people today,” John gripes. “Freddie, I have been cleaning up your messes since this morning.”
“I thought it was the flu?” Freddie says innocently.
“People become susceptible to the flu when they’re malnourished. People get malnourished because apparently the modern equivalent of famine is putting zero nutrition in food and then expecting people to live off of it—”
“That’s not my fault!”
“I know that. I know.” He thunks his forehead against the steering wheel, breathing deeply for a long minute. “Let’s just get this over with," he says finally, sitting up.
“That’s the spirit,” Roger mutters. “We’ve only waited several millennia for this and now you want to just get it over with.”
“I’m gonna need so many drinks after this.”
“I’m gonna need a damned burger after this,” Freddie mutters.
“You shouldn’t eat meat,” Brian supplies.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“No, I just mean that it’s treated with so many antibiotics that it’s actually making human diseases more resistant. Penicillin doesn’t even work anymore. Horrible timing now that we’ve got this—”
“Bad flu,” everyone choruses.
They sit in silence for a long moment, the engine still sputtering as the car idles at the curb.
“Aren’t you guys tired of this?” Roger says finally.
John scoffs. “Tired of what, exactly?”
“You know. Working all the time. We never get a damn break.”
“Roger,” John says, squinting at him in the rear-view mirror. “I’m literally death. I don’t get breaks.”
“But you could,” Roger argues. “Isn’t that what the reapers are for? I mean, what exactly do you do?”
“Supervise the reapers.”
“So promote one of them to do the supervising and then take a holiday to Bali.”
John blinks as if that had never occurred to him.
“Seriously,” Roger whines. “I’m tired of this shit all the time. I want to take a break. Why do I have to keep making wars, huh? Humans are great at making wars. Half of the wars these days start on their own.”
“That’s true,” Brian replies. “I barely do anything these days. Did you know people have started deciding they don’t like vaccines anymore? I’m basically out of a job.”
They all look to Freddie, who looks back with wide eyes. “I stopped working in the eighties.”
They all stare.
“Just like that?” Roger asks.
Freddie shrugs. “Between microwaved and fast food it kind of seemed like my work was done. People kill themselves enough on that shit. I mean, I started three dozen famines one year and nobody even noticed. I figured there was no point.”
They’re all silent as they chew that over.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” John says slowly, “to maybe catch a boat somewhere. Take a little time off, I guess. I mean, this apocalypse thing is supposed to be our big moment but who’s to say they even need us to start it, right? They’re doing just fine on their own.”
“I’ve never had a pina colada,” Freddie confides. “Did you know that? Six thousand years on this world and I’ve never once had a pina colada by a pool.”
“Oh, fuck this,” Roger says. “We’re supposed to destroy everything without even getting to enjoy it? There are no benefits to this job, I tell you. None at all. I’m going to Bali with or without you guys at this point. I’ve earned it.”
The three other men in the car scramble to agree, talking over each other as they head in the direction of the nearest airport.
When the antichrist rises in the morning it’s with confusion; there’s zero pomp to greet him. The apocalypse is delayed indefinitely.