Modern Flash Fiction

I never expected to see the four horsemen of the apocalypse in a gated community. I wonder who gave them the code. They slowly came into view, the rumbling of the ground pronouncing their entrance. They didn’t ride horses like Revelation told me they would. They rode Harleys. Engines sputtering and purring like looming thunder before a storm. Their tires pattered over the speed bumps with a great sound like a heartbeat.

The first who came was Conquest, with eyes like a blazing wildfire in the driest of forests. His long, dark hair blew in the cold wind. He wore a white ribbed tank-top, light jeans, and faded boots. Strapped around his back was a double barrel shotgun, rusty, like it hadn’t been fired in centuries. He rode with a passionate fury, never once looking back at his companions choking on his dust.

Behind him was War, whose skin was the tint of roses, yet I’m sure without the sweet scent. He wore a dark helmet and motorcycle goggles that made his eyes look like a serpent’s. Inside his oversized leather jacket, sat two 44 magnums laying at rest on his broad hips. Unlike Conquest’s shotgun, these pistols were red hot steel, and had not seen a day off.

Creeping slowly after the first two riders was Pestilence, whose body was wilted and deformed. His complexion was a pale, sickly green, made more apparent by his torn and tattered clothing. Swarming above his head were flies, ravens, and vultures as if seeking his decrepit flesh. His dead eyes were glossed over, somehow making his expressionless face look even more inanimate.

In a state of still shock I awaited Death to turn the corner next. But to my surprise, Death never came. The others were looking for him. They were still a ways down the road when they stopped and began knocking on doors. I saw neighbors flip their welcome mats upside down, as if the riders would see it as an invitation. People drove off in search of a safe place to hide. I knew there was no point in running.

Only seconds after returning inside the safety of my home there was a knock at the door. The tapping was light, but it echoed inside my bones. I accepted my fate and opened the door, turning the knob like a dial on a radio. The man I saw standing there was ghastly white, dressed in a pitch black trench coat. It was Death. He looked desperate and afraid. I wanted to yell that it wasn’t his time to be here yet, but against my better judgement, I let him in.

I asked him if he wanted something to drink. He said water was fine. His eyes were black as tar, but there was something kind within them. He laid down on my couch peacefully, closed his eyes, and he spoke in a soft voice.

“The others take life for granted. They kill and destroy aimlessly. I know they will find me soon, and I won’t be able to stop them,” Death almost whispered. I didn’t say anything back. I didn’t know what to say. He fell asleep on the couch, and I sat watching him.

I held the life and death of the world in my hands. But Death had mercy on me, so I will let him stay as my guest as long as it takes.

Joshua Patterson is a creative writing student from Georgia. His work has been published in the Oyster River Pages, and has been nominated for the “Best American Short Stories” anthology.