Brave New Apocalypse by Aeryn Rudel

When Death walked into the End Times Tavern, Pestilence was waiting for him. The specter of disease raised one pale, bloated hand and waved her colleague over to a table with four chairs near the bar.

“You the first?” Death said and plopped into a leather chair, his bones rattling.

Pestilence nodded and took a sip of her drink, some awful-looking green thing. “Yeah, but you know how the other two are.”

Death waved the bartender over. “A corpse reviver, please.”

“A little on the nose, wouldn’t you say?” Pestilence said.

Death pointed a bony finger. “Says the harbinger of disease drinking something that looks like toxic waste.”

Pestilence laughed. It sounded like someone trying to choke up a wad of phlegm. “It’s a Midori Sour!”

“I’d rather have the toxic waste,” Death said and grinned. “So, how the hell have you been, Pesty?”

“Oh, you know. Overworked. Same as you.”

Death glanced around at the few human patrons. Many still wore masks. “That was good work.”

Pestilence shrugged. “It’s no Black Death, but you work with what you got.”

“God, I miss the 14th century,” Death said wistfully.

Pestilence held up her drink. “Glory days.”

“Glory days.” Death clinked his glass against hers.

“Would you look at these two sad sack motherfuckers right here?” A booming voice suddenly filled the bar, startling human and immortal harbinger alike. War strode toward the table, armor clinking, the sword on his hip glowing a dull red. He was huge, muscular, with a square face and a soldier’s close-cropped hair. “Barkeep! One Bloody Mary. Extra fuckin’ bloody.”

Death smiled up at his longtime colleague. “How are you, soldier-boy?”

“Can’t complain, my man,” War said and sat down. “I haven’t been this fucking busy since the forties.”

Pestilence made a pouting noise. “Well, lucky for you, medical science hasn’t developed a vaccine for war.”

“Thank fucking Christ for that,” War said and laughed.

“You see Hungry on your way in?” Death asked War.

“Nope. I thought he’d be skulking after one of you assholes, like he usually does.”

“Oh, I’m here, friends,” someone whispered.

Death started, rattling the teeth in his jaws and nearly spilling his drink. “Christ, Famine! You know I hate when you sneak up on us.”

The emaciated waif standing next to Death smiled, thin lips curling up in the gaunt disaster of his face. “Well, you know what they say. A hungry belly has no ears.”

Death patted the smooth sides of his skull. “Never had any to begin with.”

“Sit down, skinny,” War said, and pulled out a chair next to him. He raised a hand to summon the barkeep. “You drinking?”

“Does an army march on its stomach?” Famine smiled and climbed slowly into the chair. “Vodka martini. Extra, extra, extra olives.”

The bartender took Famine’s order. The human didn’t bat an eye at the four personifications of disaster seated at the table. He couldn’t see who and what they truly were, just as it had always been.

When Famine had his drink, Death held up his glass. “It’s good to be back together. Believe it or not, I’ve missed you degenerates.”

The other Riders of the Apocalypse clinked glasses, grinning and murmuring agreement. Then they sat for a moment, sipping their drinks, until War spoke up. “Okay, Big D, what the fuck is this all about? We’re all neck-deep in work, and as much as I enjoy seeing you sick fuckers, no one kills anybody while I’m sitting here being all civilized and shit.”

Death cleared his throat. “I know, I know, and I wouldn’t have brought us all together before the last days unless I had to.”

“Wait,” Famine whispered. “Is this an official summons?”

“I’m afraid so. From the big man himself.”

Pestilence’s rheumy eyes widened. “Goddamn.”

“Exactly,” Death agreed.

War straightened in his seat. “Okay, spill.”

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush, so I’ll just come out and say it. We’re getting a fifth member.”

“What?!” War slammed his fist on the table, spilling his drink. It looked like a puddle of blood.

“We’re the four Riders of the Apocalypse,” Famine said. “Not three, and sure as hell not five.”

“Yeah, I mean, who even is there to join?” Pestilence said. “We kind of have all the bases covered.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but there’s new player on the scene,” Death said.

“So where is this new player?” War asked with a glower. “Late for their first fucking meeting?”

“Right here!” a harsh, biting voice said from the bar. “Smile!” A stylish woman in expensive clothes spun around on a stool, iPhone in hand, and snapped a picture. She then got up and sauntered toward the table, as she did so, her form flickered. She went from stylish woman, to blue collared man, to wizened old lady, to scowling teenager.

“Look at all of you sitting there like a bunch of old fogies waiting for bingo numbers,” the shimmering specter said, grabbed a chair, and sat. The flickering stopped and the stylish woman was back. “Need to get this photo out right away.”

A chorus of dings sounded around the table, as everyone’s phones notified them of something new. War pulled out his, swiped it open, and looked at it. “What in the fuck is this?!” He held out his phone for the table to see.

It was a tweet, showing the photo the newcomer had just taken. Seated around a bar table was a soldier, an old man, a pale woman, and a thin child. The Tweet read: omg these people brought a child to a BAR disgusting. It already had a thousand comments.

Death sighed. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce the fifth Rider of the Apocalypse. Social Media.”