Death was the first to wake up. Blearily, they looked around, taking in the disaster that had once been one of Las Vegas’ finest high roller casino suites, each new detail received with increasing horror and chagrin. The flatscreen television, pinned to the wall with a giant red sword like an unfortunate butterfly; the minibar hanging open and utterly ransacked; chairs stacked into an obscene shape; no less than six pillaged room service carts scattered throughout the room; a set of silver scales, ancient when the world was young, being used to compare the weights of several unrealistically large sex toys. Two of Death’s three coworkers—War and Pestilence—sprawled on the bed in a shameless tangle of limbs, barely covered by the sheets. From this angle, Death could just make out the matching diamond rings each wore on their left hands.
With a sense of unfathomable horror, Death slipped into the bathroom to splash some water on their face and get some perspective, and found Famine asleep in the hot tub, curled around Death’s scythe like it was a teddy bear. “What,” croaked Death, “the fuck did we do last night?”
“This is it,” said Gabriel to the assembled Riders in his Heavenly office. “This is the big one. The final showdown. The actual by-God Apocalypse. I know it’s been a long time coming, and there’ve been a few false alarms along the way… Lord knows the Twentieth Century alone had its share of shakeups. But after centuries of negotiation, both Heaven and Hell are ready to move on to the next cycle of the Divine Experiment. So cancel any appointments, wrap up any freelancing gigs in progress, and be ready to ride tomorrow morning.”
That was how it started, Death remembered. The long-overdue, much-anticipated call to arms. Ages of training and waiting, and the Four were finally being set free to fulfill their ultimate purpose. By all rights, they should have rested and prepared. Instead…
“I’m talking a party,” insisted Pestilence. “An epic blowout to usher in the end of the world as we know it. I think we deserve it. I know I do after the past few years. Orchestrating a once in a century pandemic was hard.”
“Like I’ve had a single day off in centuries?” shot back War hotly. “I can’t wait to retire when this is all over.”
And that was that. One night in Vegas before the end of the world.
Death yanked their scythe out from Famine’s grip, none too gently. “Wake up!” they ordered. And when Famine groaned and rolled over, Death used the blunt end of the scythe to prod them even harder.
It took a little while, but soon Death had their three colleagues awake, if not alert, and gathered in the suite’s devastated living room. Death waved their phone at the three. “Six hundred and fifty-six missed calls, voicemails, text messages and DMs, all from Gabriel. He stopped being polite after the first thirty. You know what it all boils down to though?” Death slipped into their full Aspect just to get the point across. We missed the fucking Apocalypse. It was a pronouncement, a feeling beyond simple words.
The others reeled back, Pestilence holding their head in pain. “Do you know how much that hurts when you’ve got a hangover?” they griped. “Anyone got some aspirin?”
Meanwhile, Famine was rummaging through the room service carts. “I’m freakin’ starving… can we order some breakfast?”
Death sighed. “I’m serious. We blew it. We had one job, and we didn’t even show up.”
“Well, if it was so important, why didn’t someone come and get us?” asked War, belligerently.
Death narrowed their gaze at War. “You know damned well why. This was your idea…”
“Vegas!” insisted War. “Perfect place to go wild. It’s neutral territory, after all. What happens in Vegas… and all that.” The suggestion made sense. There’d always been a neutral territory on Earth, a place where Heaven and Hell couldn’t directly influence, where mortals chose their own fates for better or worse. A place where anything went and both sides were prohibited from interfering. A city where even the Riders, as historically independent contractors, would be completely off the radar.
War looked properly embarrassed as the memory came flooding back. “Oh.” Perhaps unconsciously, their hand reached over to interlink with Pestilence’s, and the two shared a brief, tender, surprised look. Death regarded them with an arched expression of mild dismay if not disapproval. After millennia, a workplace romance finally coming to a head was unsurprising, even if the timing was unfortunate.
Famine walked back over, munching on a handful of bacon. Seeing Death’s expression, they offered a couple of slices. “Guess I went a little overboard last night.”
“We all did,” Death admitted, though last night was still coming in flashes more than full memories.
The club packed with celebrities and entertainers; karaoke with showgirls; the wedding at one of the chapels on the Strip, with a half dozen Elvises—Elvii???—in attendance; winning obscene amounts of money in the casinos and giving it all away while War stood on a roulette wheel screaming about the end of the world being nigh until they were carted outside by security; Death describing Hell in intimate detail to a busload of devout Christians—why were they in Vegas? Seriously… Winding up in the suite, buzzed and exhausted and thoughtful in that way you get at a certain point of the night.
“I’m not sure I really want to do this anymore,” War confessed. “I’m tired of conflict. I want to build things. Lasting things. Construction, not destruction. I’d like to help people.”
Around the room they went, discussing their secret dreams. Pestilence, a farmer, growing crops and seeing people flourish. Famine, a pastry chef, taking pride in their creations. Death, who took the longest of anyone before admitting, “An artist. I want to paint something beautiful. Like sunsets and beaches. Just… things which make me happy.”
As the Four looked at each other, late night confessions and revelations all coming back, there was a knock at the door. A heavy pounding, like the end of the world. Once, twice, three times. A golden glow seeped around the door’s edges. And Death wondered… what would happen if they simply didn’t answer?
Michael M. Jones lives in southwest Virginia with too many books, just enough cats, and a wife who does all the driving, especially up strange mountain roads. He's a professional book reviewer for Publishers Weekly, the editor of anthologies such as Scheherazade's Facade and Schoolbooks & Sorcery, and his stories have appeared in venues such as Hexagon, Metastellar, and Stupefying Stories Showcase. He has a shiny new Masters in Children's Literature from Hollins University. For more, visit him at www.michaelmjones.com.