The Last Horseman of the Apocalypse

by KG

Methos, sleeping peacefully until that moment, leapt from his bed -- his hair tousled and his boxer shorts riding down on his narrow hips -- and fumbled for the sword that should have been right by his side. Unable to locate either the weapon or the intruder in the inky blackness of his room, Methos opted to use his second favorite tactic after disappearing...stalling for time.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong guy..." Methos began in his most innocent tone of voice.

"Don't give me any of your crap Methos; it won't work on me," the voice interrupted, echoing in the tiny room.

"Who exactly are you?" asked Methos, a hint of annoyance starting to show in his voice. He didn't appreciate being awakened in the middle of the night and Methos intended to make his late night visitor, whoever it was, regret the mistake.

"I'm God," the voice replied.

"God?" Methos chuckled in spite of himself. "And just which god would that be?"

"Which God?" the voice repeated, amazed. "Which God!"

As the echoes of the voice's latest outburst faded from the room, Methos noticed something. There seemed to be a small light coming from about where his TV should have been. Had he fallen asleep with the television on again, he wondered? Had he just been having a conversation with some late night showing of the Ten Commandments?

As he continued to stare at the light it began to grow in size and did indeed take on the form of a burning bush. Unfortunately it wasn't coming from his TV, but was floating some two to three feet above it. As the blaze became more intense Methos actually began to feel its heat, and he huddled against his bed pillows to avoid the flames.

"Which God?" the voice bellowed again as the intensity of the flames continued to grow. "The God! The Lord God! Creator of Heaven and Earth! God Almighty!"

"THAT'S WHICH GOD!" God finally roared nearly deafening Methos. Then as the flames extinguished themselves and the room returned to a more normal temperature God added a little sadly, "How quickly they forget."

<Well...5000 years is a lot to remember,> Methos thought to himself. However he wasn't in the habit of making such revealing comments in front of strangers, even supposedly omniscient ones. Instead, encouraged by the slightly more gentle tone of the last statement, Methos wondered out loud, "God is love, 1 John 4:16, right?"

"Just think of me as the Old Testament God," God replied.

Methos, hugged his pillow a little more closely, but decided that absolutely nothing could make this situation worse, so he might as well find out what 'God' wanted.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Methos asked trying keep the trembling of his body from making its way into his voice.

"Well I didn't just drop by to chat," God quipped. "Unfortunately I have another meeting, so I'm going to have to get back to you..." And with that, God was gone.

Methos, exhausted by this late night exchange, collapsed back onto his disheveled bed. He vowed to himself that he would stay awake, that he should in fact get up and search his small apartment for his uninvited visitor. But his eyelids were heavy and seemed to close of their own accord. Soon Methos was fast asleep, and the only sounds in the darkened bedroom were those of his snores.

Sunlight streamed in through the open window shades as Methos slowly woke from a restless sleep, his legs tangled in the bed sheets and his body drenched in sweat. As he became more fully conscious, the events of last night returned and Methos clutched his sword which was reassuringly right beside the bed where he had left it the night before.

Sword in hand, Methos rose and searched first his bedroom and then his apartment for signs of an intruder. Returning to his bedroom he studied the TV and the wall carefully for burns or scorch marks. Finding nothing, Methos had to laugh at himself.

Methos had heard of hundreds of gods in his long lifetime and managed to outlive all of them. The idea that god, The God, would actually visit him, a 5000 year old immortal with a dubious past, was laughable. <Just another nightmare,> Methos told himself as he put the dream out of his mind and set about getting ready for his day.

Methos settled himself at a table in the Ancient History department of the Seacouver Public Library. The stresses of the past few weeks -- Kronos finding him, having to deal with Cassandra, and MacLeod's mistrust -- had taken their toll on him and he had decided that a nice calming research project was in order. In fact he was planning a rather ponderous book on his latest topic of study. The working title was "Ancient Mythological Influences on Biblical Literature."

<Of course,> Methos thought to himself. <That's where last night's dream came from.> Methos began to reconsider his research plans. Perhaps this wasn't the best subject for him to be studying right now; something lighter was probably in order. He'd always had an interest in romance novels. <How would "The Archetypal Male in 20th Century Romance Literature" work as a title?> Methos wondered to himself.

"As I said last night Methos, I'm really pissed at you," God whispered over Methos' shoulder.

Methos, shocked into recklessness by the sound of his real name, leapt from his chair, knocking it over and attracting the attention of several dozen students and librarians just in time to see him draw his sword.

"Put that thing away," God said causing Methos to spin around wildly, sword flailing, as he looked for the source of the voice.

Unable to locate the person who was talking to him, but spotting the security guards headed his way, Methos' instincts for self preservation finally reasserted themselves. He sheathed his sword and slipped into the Ancient Cookbook section. No one would ever find him there. The library staff probably didn't even know they had an Ancient Cookbook section.

"Now where were we," God said.

Again Methos whirled around trying to spot the person who was talking to him. He shoved several books from the stacks on either side of him, searching for the mysterious speaker in a nearby aisle. He saw no one.

"Will you please stop this, Methos," God suggested. "It's me, God. Don't make me flood the library to prove it to you."

"What do you want?" Methos, who was tired of whatever game was being played with him, demanded.

"What I want is for you to tell me how I'm supposed to put on a proper Apocalypse without War, Famine and Pestilence!" God commanded.

Unable to think of a clever comeback to that particular request, Methos simply stared open mouthed into the empty space of the Ancient Cookbook section from which the disembodied voice of God was emanating. As he stared, a hint of a memory, thousands of years old, began to nag at him -- something Kronos had told him about a higher purpose behind the existence of the Four Horsemen. It had been one of the reasons Methos had been willing to join -- that and the promise of all the beer he could drink.

<Could it really be true?> Methos wondered. He had always assumed the mention of four horsemen in The Bible was purely symbolic, although perhaps based on stories of The Four Horsemen's exploits spread by the few souls who managed to survive. But could Zechariah and Revelation actually describe God's plan which Kronos, Methos, Silas and Caspian had been intended to carry out?

Methos, finally convinced that he was talking to God (either that or he was insane, in which case, what difference did it really make anyway), might have asked the question out loud. However God wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to Methos anymore. God was on a roll.

"No Seven Seals," God continued. "And without the Seven Seals...no plague of locusts, no earthquakes, no seas turning to blood!" God hollered. "Practically the whole book of Revelation is now scrap paper, thanks to you and your holier than thou friend MacLeod," God complained. "Just tell me how I'm supposed to maintain a faithful flock when I can't even follow through on a simple thing like Armageddon!" God concluded, nearly hysterical by this time.

"Well I...uh...apologize for spoiling your plans," Methos, awed by his realization, stammered. "But what exactly do you want me to do about it?"

God for once was speechless. What _was_ Methos supposed to do about it?

"I'll get back to you," God said and then was gone.

God sat in heaven on a golden throne, celestial music playing in the background, long white hair and robes flowing in the breeze, painting her fingernails. She was trying out a new color today, Pearly Gates or something like that. But God couldn't concentrate on her manicure, this horsemen problem weighed heavily on her mind.

God supposed that if she could only have one horseman left it might as well be Death. But without Famine, Pestilence and especially War, Death could be kind of mundane. Not to mention the fact that ever since he had started hanging around Duncan MacLeod he'd been developing a rather unfortunate sense of morality. MacLeod...Now there was an annoying, self-righteous, son of a...If God hadn't been God, she might have been tempted to say something unladylike about him. Hadn't he ever read Matthew 7:1? Judge not, lest God kick your butt?!?!?

Now that God thought about it, MacLeod was just as responsible as Methos was, if not more so, for the untimely demise of three of the horsemen. MacLeod...he was such a thorn in God's side. It was about time he learned his lesson.

God smiled to herself.

"Oh Methos," God called, "I've just had an idea..."

Methos burst into the dojo, breathless after having run all the way from a taping of The Wheel of History where God had just contacted him in the middle of the bonus round causing him to lose out on ten thousand dollars worth of fabulous prizes. He immediately felt the presence of another immortal and even though he was expecting to see MacLeod, Methos was still relieved to see him emerge from the office.

"What are you doing here Methos?" MacLeod asked a little coolly. MacLeod had been civil to Methos since their recent adventure in Bordeaux, but their old level of friendship had not quite returned. MacLeod was still wary of whatever plots the older immortal might be hatching.

"MacLeod...need your help," Methos gasped out while trying to catch his breath. "Nightmare...in the library...burning bush...God spoke...really pissed off...no more War...epoxy....pocca...Apocalypse...new plan... brothers!"

"Methos, stop babbling," MacLeod scowled, exasperated by trying to understand the gibberish coming from Methos' mouth. "What in God's name are you trying to say?"

"Exactly," God said.

"Exactly what Methos," MacLeod demanded.

"He's trying to speak in my name, but it sounds more like speaking in tongues doesn't it," God joked.

"How are you doing that Methos?" MacLeod asked, frowning as he noticed for the first time that Methos' lips weren't moving when he was speaking.

"Methos isn't speaking to you, its God," God replied.

"God," MacLeod snorted. "You've gone too far this time Methos!" And with that MacLeod turned and strode back into the dojo's office, slamming the door.

Methos sighed. He should have known MacLeod would require some sort of a sign before agreeing to the plan. And God seemed to be in a particularly perverse mood these days. Methos though he would prefer not to be around if God decided to rain hail and fire down inside the dojo.

"Do you mind if I step outside," Methos asked.

"No problem," God replied, smiling. "Just be at Joe's at midnight tonight. MacLeod will be there if I have anything to say about it." God paused ominously. "And I do."

Methos turned and pushed his way past the dojo's swinging doors and then out onto the street. Before the outer door could close behind him, something buzzed through it and past Methos' face, startling him. He swatted it to the ground, then bent to examine it. It was some kind of insect, similar to a grasshopper, but not quite the same. A locust Methos realized. <The Lord certainly does work in mysterious ways,> Methos thought to himself, and as much as he tried, he couldn't contain a slight chuckle as he rose and sauntered down the dojo's steps.

Joe was just finishing up his second set of the evening when he noticed MacLeod enter the bar. The musician in him kept right on singing although the Watcher couldn't help noticing that MacLeod was dressed in an unusual suit and tie beneath his overcoat and was even wearing a hat. His ensemble was completed by a dark pair of sunglasses even though it was night. Joe hoped that MacLeod would fill him in on whatever was going on so that he could update the chronicles appropriately.

MacLeod headed straight for the bar and ordered a scotch from Mike, the bartender. Mike set the glass of amber liquid down on the bar and MacLeod emptied its entire contents in a single swallow. He coughed a little as the alcohol burned its way down his throat and motioned for Mike to pour him a refill. After the events of this afternoon, MacLeod was in need of a stiff drink or two or maybe more -- just enough to dull the memories, but not so much that he'd risk failing God.

Out of the corner of his eye MacLeod thought he saw something vaguely locust-like in shape crawling between the neatly aligned bottles of bourbon. Waves of fear and revulsion washed over him, but before he could reach a state of full-fledged panic, he was fortunately interrupted by the sensation of another immortal approaching. MacLeod turned just in time to see Methos enter the bar.

Joe also noticed the second immortal arrive. Oddly enough Methos was also dressed in a dark suit and tie. Mac in a suit was not all that unusual a sight, but Joe had never in his life seen a man look less comfortable in his clothes than Methos did at that moment. Of course the hats didn't improve the look much for either of them. And the dark glasses were positively ridiculous at this hour.

Joe continued to study the two immortals from his vantage point on the stage as they exchanged a few words at the bar. They each shed their overcoats, entrusting them to Mike, and began to make their way through the crowd. Seeing them together like that in those outfits, Joe thought they looked remarkably like...The Blues Brothers???

"Joe," God whispered in Joe's ear. Joe only faltered slightly on the words of his song at the sound of the ethereal voice.

"Keep those chronicles nice and accurate," God suggested. "I'm thinking of a Book of Joe for the next edition."

Before Joe had a chance to wonder what in God's name was happening, MacLeod and Methos interrupted his performance permanently.

"What's going on here," Joe demanded as Mac and Methos made their way onto the stage.

"I'm sorry about this Joe," Methos said as he shouldered his way into the spotlight and took the microphone from Joe's hand, "but...we're on a mission from God."

Satan and his minions looked up at the scene unfolding in Joe's Bar.

"The Blues Brothers of the Apocalypse?" one demon questioned, barely able to keep the grin from his face.

"Doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of men," suggested Beelzebub causing the group to burst into laughter.

Satan however did not smile at his demon's jokes. They were truly malevolent, but Satan had foreseen their downfall and his own as soon as those two men had taken the stage. Armageddon would surely happen with only a few minor changes from God's prophecy, providing Satan with a thousand years of bondage with which to consider his sins.

"What's the problem?" Beelzebub asked noticing his master's displeasure.

"I'm afraid The Apocalypse is back on," Satan replied.

"Why? Because of a couple of immortals about to make their musical debut?" Beelzebub questioned.

Satan drew a deep breath and studied his assembled followers. Finally he delivered the dire news...

"You haven't heard them sing yet."

Acknowledgements: A million thanks to my beta readers, Bonnie "What are the characters feeling?" Wingrove and Cindy Larimer who has the unique ability to find all those stray words that serve no purpose and yet tend to litter my first draft. Thanks!