On fleek

The house looked pleasant from the outside: there was a paved path across a neatly mown green lawn and the white picket fences were bolstered by medium-height green shrubs.  A couple of tall, leafy trees cast shade over the white patio furniture, but they were far enough away from the house that it was unlikely that their roots were doing terrible, invisible things to the plumbing.  The house itself was a piece of classic Americana: it was made primarily out of wood and about as resistant to storm damage as a cardboard box.  It sprawled: the main house had four wings coming off it in seemingly random directions, some of which had two, three or five stories, and others of which slummed it with only one.  The roof was shingled and cellar-doors hinted that the house had below-ground floors as well.  There was a veranda at the front, a porch down one side, a deck at the back and barbed wire on the fourth side, though that might have been an oversight.  A small name plaque just above the doorbell read "Dunnukin".
There were also nearly one hundred and eighty people camped outside, spread across the road and occupying the front gardens of the rest of the houses in the street.

"What, I say what, and I mean, what, in the name of all tarnation is going on here?" The tall, portly man in the military uniform sounded like Foghorn Leghorn.  He was smoking a cigar, which smelled like a damp bonfire in December, and he was staring at a young woman sat in a high-backed chair.  She had an iPad in her hands, and was tapping at the screen with a look of concentration on her face.
"Interviews," she said.
"I say what now?"
"Do you?"  She looked up, uncurious, and then went back to the screen.
"All of these people want interviewing?" Foghorn Leghorn gestured vaguely at the windows.
"No silly, those are the journalists.  They want to conduct interviews.  With the gentleman of the house, should he be at home."
"And if he be'ent?"
Now she looked up with interest.  She had a face like a porcelain doll: skin the colour of fresh milk, eyes a dazzling blue and lips reddened with just a caress of lipstick.
"Be'ent?  Not aint?"
"Aint if you like it, I say.  What now, though, what now and why do all these folks want an interview with a man who mightn't even be at home?"
"To find out if he is who he says he isn't?"
"What what?"
"To find out if he be who he says he be'ent? Is that clearer?"
"Young lady, you're not so young as you can't be bent over my knee and slippered!"
"You so much as lay a finger on me and I'll hashtag-meToo you all over my blog," she said, just a tinge of pink blushing her cheeks.  "You can go and pay for that kind of thing like any decent pervert."
"Lords of creation, you're a minx, madam, what!"

"Is this really fair?" asked Death.  He was sitting in a motorcycle side-car wearing a leather jacket he'd borrowed from James Dean.  Riding the actual motorcycle was War.
"They're everywhere," said War.  "It's not about fair anymore, it's about attrition.  And I know all about that.  That turned out to be me too, even though I thought it was Pestilence."
"Did you?"
"Turns out he does malnutrition instead," said War.  "Too many words these days, that's the problem."
"So you set Psychological Warfare on the journalists?  That still seems... unfair," said Death.  "Couldn't you just have asked one of the kids for help?"
"Pestilence is looking after Famine," said War.  He sighed.  "Famine's been overtaken by himself I think.  He's barely coherent these days, I met him at a state fair a few months back and couldn't understand a word he was saying.  If Pest can bring him back to himself, that would be good."
Death gazed off into the distance for a long moment, and War shivered.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said.  "It's not nice being reminded that you come for all of us."
"Famine's a long way from my reach," said Death thoughtfully.  "Though he's enriching my sphere of influence all the time."
"Keeping you busy?"
"Tasteless," said Death.
"You can talk.  You don't have journalists wanting to idolise you whenever you set foot outside of your house."
"Move house?"
War shrugged.  "And go where?  It's not like it's hard to find me.  Even here: I thought I could avoid conflict and three days after I moved in the Residents' Association had started a pitched battle with the Neighbourhood Watch.   It was like the Somme all over again.  Even down to the trenches."
"I like the trenches.  They add to the ambience I think."
"You just like skulking in the shadows."

Paucity

"QTNA, amirite, fam?"
"Fam," said Pestilence, his gaunt white face bright in the sodium streetlight as the car passed momentarily beneath it, "what the hell is QTNA?"
"Questions That Need Answering," said Famine.  He sounded happy but his face was drawn and his eyes suggested tears.  "All the ones on fleek, right, like, the ones that are sleek right, the ones that arise in the night, amirite?"
Pestilence turned the heater in the car on and shivered.  Technically he never felt the cold, but he had the sensation that this was one of those nights, the ones when the old gods woke up and took a turn around the property to see where things were being neglected.  Some sensitives described it as the feeling of a storm over the horizon but headed your way, others described it as a bone-chilling, bed-wetting terror that pressed down like a pillow over your face at midnight.
"What," he said slowly, precisely, "is wrong with you Fam?  You're practically incomprehensible these days."
"QTNA, amirite, fam?" said Famine miserably.  "Take a left here, bro."
On the left was a sheer drop, fifty metres down to a concrete carpark behind a big box retailer, but Pestilence flicked on the indicator and took the turn as smoothly as a racing driver.  The car behind him slowed at first, the driver unable to understand the indicator, then fishtailed as the driver stamped on his brakes and lost control watching the car in front of him drive off the road.  Red taillights disappeared downwards and the driver wrenched his door open and ran to the edge of the road, unwilling to believe that he'd just seen a suicide.
Below him were the floodlights illuminating the carpark, and a complete absence of wreckage.

Pestilence's car hummed softly as it drove through the air.  Around them the world had changed, becoming more shadowy and less substantial, and they might be driving on a cobweb bridge spun by the world's largest spider.
"Better than the horses," said Pestilence after a while.  "Don't get me wrong, I liked them, but they're harder to ride, and they get all temperamental and jittery when something big's happening.  None of that with these machines."
"Yeah," said Famine.  He drawled, sounding Texan.  Then he yawned.  "Jesus, bro, how long have we been away?"
An aurora rippled across the sky in front of them reflecting off the polished black bonnet of the car.  Pale greens and blues swapped large bands of themselves around like a rubik's cube preparing to be solved.
"Five years," said Pestilence.  "It didn't feel like it.  I couldn't have told you that back in the World.  I'd have thought it was only a few days."
"Too long," said Famine.  "Too much belief in us these days."
"Deeper than belief," said Pestilence.  "We're victims of our own success, you know?  People know deep down that we're real and that we walk amongst them.  They're proud of it, in some odd way.  You know they're worried that I'm going to win against their antibiotics?  I attended a conference on it.  Everyone knew I was real, everyone knew in their hearts that I was going to win, all they could do was hold me back for a few days.  I could have proclaimed myself King in that hall, and they'd have raised a temple to me."
"Same," said Famine.  "They all think they're pretty much one harvest away from being guests at my table.  It's like two thousand years ago again, only they're somehow starving because they're too afraid to eat."
"Why are you all incomprehensible though, Fam?"
"Hah."  Famine's laugh was practically a sneer.  "Paucity of vocabulary, mate.  There's a famine of language going on, and it's caught up with me.  Empty words, empty phrases, sounds parroted by the sublebrities of the day and mimicked across social media.  I can read all the dictionaries you want, I can sit and discourse for hours with the erudite and intellectual, but at the level of the lowest common denominator it's on fleek, amirite?  Fam?"
"You're a mystery to me, Fam fam," said Pestilence.  "Am I doing it right?"
"QTNA, mate," said Famine.  "What happened to the other two?"
"War's got groupies," said Pestilence.  "I think he's hiding from them.  And us, for that matter, I don't think he's handling the fame so well."
"And the big boy?"
Pestilence drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the aurora dance for a few seconds.
"Last I heard," he said, with reluctance clearly audible, "he'd invented the Selfiecide."
Fam laughed, a hearty belly laugh that seemed wrong coming from someone thin enough to think emaciated was a compliment.  "You've got to hand it to him," he said. "He moves with the times."
"You'd think he'd be busy enough."  Pestilence sounded disapproving, his voice tight and prissy.
"He's only getting busier," said Famine.  "Like us all though, amirite?"
Pestilence looked over at Famine, wondering if there was irony there, and then peered through the windscreen.  "Ah," he said. "We're heading back in.  It was nice talking to you, Fam."
"I can still hear you, bro," said Famine quietly.  "It's just that it's a bit of an echo chamber at the moment.  You can still spill the serious tea with me, you know, bro?  I've got the screenshots."
Despite himself Pestilence giggled, and the car transitioned from the unreal back to the real, entered the World on a dusty, empty highway.  A little distance away the red light of a diner's neon sign flickered a welcome, and somewhere far away in a lost direction forces that might be gods paused to observe that there were Horsemen out there still, untouchable by any of them.