* DISCLAIMER * This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction involving characters created and owned by Marvel Comics Group. This story contains plenty of very very EXPLICIT VIOLENCE, gratuitious action without any plot whatsoever and some RELIGIOUS THEMES. If any of these bother you, please do not read the story. * WRITTEN BY * Samy Merchi * ARCHIVED AT * http://mash.yok.utu.fi/corona.html * STARRING * SAMUEL ZACHERY GUTHRIE and THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF APOCALYPSE in ******* * WAR * ******* * CONTINUITY * This story takes place * in my Shadows of the Future timeline http://mash.yok.utu.fi/corona/sotf.html * in year 16 (three years in the future) * in September, the summer's starting to be over * about two months after APOCALYPSO *** *************** * CHAPTER ONE * *************** *** September. The summer's starting to be over and the fall is setting in, but being that this is New York and there are hardly any trees around, just about the only thing one can figure that out from is that there aren't any more sweltering hot days dotting the week. Instead, there's the occasional cold wind blowing thru the streets, twisting amongst the concrete buildings and helping erode the deteriorating exteriors. Clinton, Manhattan's west side. Nobody but NOBODY calls it 'Clinton', though. To everyone, from those who have lived in the area for eighty years and worked in the railyards as young men, to those who have just moved in with their middle-class computer geek families from Puerto Rico, this little neighborhood is a Hell's Kitchen. And it has its very own Guardian Devil. *** "I'll give you the Pete Rose for...the Cal Ripkin and Will Smith?" "No way, it took me like, ages to find a Ripkin! I can give you a Billy Martin though." "EVERYONE has a Billy Martin. I have at least three of those. I don't need another one." "You can use them to trade." "Can not. See?" "Well, if you took it, then you could." "I don't want it." "Fine, how about one of my Jose Consecos?" "Mmmm..." "C'mon, I'll give you Conseco and Smith for the Rose. Okay?" "This is soooo stupid." "HEY!" Lance and Eight Ball snapped, glancing over to a strawberry blonde girl, in her early teens like the two boys. "This is SO not stupid, Darla", the latter pointed out, handing two cards over to Lance and taking one back. "EVERYONE follows baseball." "Yeah, but not everybody spends hours arguing about which card to trade for which", Darla argued, crossing her arms over her chest and looking stubborn as she stood beside the fire hydrant, her skateboard underneath her arm. "It's fun!" Lance smiled innocently as he stuffed his stack of cards into his pocket and hopped onto his skateboard, starting to balance on it. "Maybe you should get into it too so you wouldn't feel like an outsider." "I don't feel like an outsider", Darla said with a slightly pouty expression, and put her skateboard down, stepping onto it. "She doesn't have the money", Eight Ball said matter-of-factly. "Mommy and daddy spend all her family's money on booze and pot. Go fig." Darla glared briefly at Eight Ball, opening her mouth to say something. That's when the ground shook, tremors running thru the sidewalk and windows of buildings nearby quivering slightly as the sound of an explosion tore in, maybe from a block or two away. Only a few moments later, noise began, and it took the three teenagers a few seconds to realize it was the sound of masses of people screaming. The ground shuddered again, like that sensation of shivers going down your spine, like the streets themselves were getting that very feeling. More explosions, louder than before, blasted thru the streets, roaring over the screams of people and obscuring them momentarily. "Sounds like there's a WAR going on somewhere!" Lance gasped and looked to his friends. Eight Ball hopped onto his skateboard. "Let's go!" *** He stood on a rooftop, motionless like a statue, and with a sculpted body to match, covered in a skintight red costume, double 'D's on the chest, two small one-inch horns protruding from the forehead covered by a red cowl. Lips, tight and serious, were pressed together in silent evaluation. Below, in the streets, explosions raged. People screamed. Hypersensitive ears a dozen stories above it all could hear the whimpers in peoples' throats as they lay on the sidewalk in agony, or on the edge of a crater blasted into the asphalt as their life bled out. This was the work of four men. Four men, three of them on steeds of some kind, resembling horses. The one without a steed hovered above it all, arms crossed over his chest, and with a steady heartbeat that indicated he wasn't even disturbed in the least by all the devastation and death. Another one leaped from his steed while it was gliding above the streets, and landed near the sidewalk. He grabbed a car parked in front of the Schnapps' diner, and his muscles flexing with just the barest exertion, his pulse not even straining, tossed it across the street. Three more heartbeats stop in a sickening wet crunch spreading the smell of blood all over the streets. Three more screams that were extinguished in a moment of violence. Three lives that were ended even though the woman was in the middle of a prayer she never got to finish. A third 'horseman' flies over it all in his steed. Sharp bony protrusions much like spears erupt occasionally from his body, blasting outwards and impaling people who were trying to get up from the ground, or trying to run away -- or, every now and then, just dead corpses as well. One hits a six-year-old child in the eye and she starts wailing like this was the apocalypse. Maybe this is. He can't stand it. Toned, graceful body leaps from the rooftop. Swift, sure fingers pull out a billy club from its holster on the thigh. Muscles flex, he tucks himself into a roll, spinning in the air to gain momentum as he plummets downwards towards the streets. He straightens himself out, just in time. "UNGH!" the third horseman gasps out as the unyielding heel of a foot smashes against the back of his head. The edges of his vision go black for a moment, but not so much so as to miss the red shape from the corner of his eye. From his side, bony spears erupt out and rocket towards the annoyance faster than a speeding bullet. Twist, flex, flip and bend. The red devil dodges to the side in midair, bone spears streaking past him and impaling a car down on the street, killing the labrador puppy abandoned inside. He plummets lower, grabs the top of a lamppost, spins around it a few times to reduce his momentum, then lets himself drop to the street, the balls of his feet gracefully touching down to the sidewalk and receiving his weight just as a fourth horseman lands his steed a bit further down the street and dismounts, the few people who are still standing in that area starting to fall like reaped corn, their pulses stopping, their skins drying up, their bodies becoming desiccated husks. Trajectories and force calculated in an instant with intelligence, and most importantly, experience. Arm pulls back, then swings forward. Billy club whistles thru the air, smashes against the back of the fourth horseman's head. Arm pointed towards him. The devil moves like lightning, leaping into the air as sidewalk explodes underneath him. Shockwave throws him backwards in the air, he uses the momentum to his advantage, letting it blast him towards the wall of the diner, flipping around in the air to hit the wall feet first. Knees flex as he falls down against the wall, receiving the impact, then straightening again and releasing the stored energy by throwing the red acrobat forward at almost the same speed as he touched down onto the wall. Hand snaps out, snatches the billy club out of the air just as it returns, having ricocheted off the back of the horseman's head, from a streetlamp, and an abandoned steed. The carnage stops for a moment. He feels the eyes of the four horsemen on him. He hears the whimpers of the injured and dying. He smells the blood in the air, the gasoline leaking to the streets from devastated cars. His lips pull back, revealing gritted teeth. "Why?" he just growls. The steedless horseman descends downwards slightly, a low rumble emanating from his imposing presence, arms no longer crossed over his chest but hanging beside him, pulse still steady and strong. "Because", the horseman says sharply, "it's the Way. The *strong* will *survive*. The *weak* have ta be *culled*. And it's the *duty* of the *forever-walkers* ta fulfill that destiny as the *Four Horsemen of Apocalypse*." "*Pestilence*", the horseman continued, and the pulse of the still-steeded horseman quickened a minute bit, "who was once known as Absalom." Then, a slight pause. "*Famine*", and the horseman who had been hit with the billy club took a step forward, "who was once known as Gideon." Another pause. "*Death*", and the horseman who had thrown the car raised his chin ever-so-slightly, "who was once known as Crule." Then, the steedless horseman landed, and his lips pulled back, revealing teeth in a wide, wicked grin as he stared at the red devil before him. "I'll take great pleasure in personally cullin' ya for dressin' up like ya do, mockin' the Lord an' the glorious day o' the Apocalypse." Finally, his arms undid from around his chest, and he pointed his right arm, hand held in a tight fist, once more towards the devil. "Ah'm Samuel. Ah'm *War*." Eyes narrowed behind a red mask. "I'm Daredevil. I'm in trouble." **********************************************************************