Charlie Hicks – Author

Chapter 1

There are many places in the world where one might reasonably expect to find the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

A battlefield, for instance.
A plague‑ridden city.
A motorway service station at 2 a.m.

But on the particular Tuesday when the world’s doom was officially scheduled, the Horsemen were instead sitting in a rural Somerset pub called The Tuckers Graveyard, arguing over cider.

The Tuckers Graveyard was the sort of pub that had existed since the invention of roofs, and possibly before. It leaned slightly to the left, smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wet dogs, and served a cider so potent that it had been banned in three counties and one small principality.

This cider was called Bumble Rumble.

It was brewed in a shed behind the pub by a man named Colin, who had once used it to strip paint off a tractor. The tractor had never been the same since, and neither had Colin.

War slammed his empty tankard on the table hard enough to make the cutlery jump.

“Another!” he bellowed, which caused three locals to flinch and one to reconsider his life choices entirely.

Death, who was sipping his cider with the caution of someone who had seen what it did to souls, shook his head.
“We should pace ourselves. Last time Pestilence had two, he started a small medieval outbreak in the toilets.”

“It cleared up,” Pestilence muttered defensively.

“Yes,” Death said, “after I intervened personally.”

Famine, who was sipping his cider like a man trying to negotiate with it, added, “Besides, we’re supposed to be discussing the apocalypse schedule.”

War waved a dismissive hand.
“Plenty of time for that. It’s not til next month.”

Death opened his mouth to reply, but at that exact moment Pestilence attempted to open a fresh bottle of Bumble Rumble.

This was a mistake.

The cork shot out of the bottle with the force of a ballistic missile, punched a hole through the ceiling, and continued its ascent with the enthusiasm of a creature fleeing for its life.

Thirty thousand feet above Somerset, a passing dragon — a large, scaly, and rather sleepy specimen named Trevor — was minding his own business, thinking about roast sheep.

The cork hit him squarely between the eyes.

Trevor had just enough time to think, oh, not again, before losing consciousness and plummeting earthward like a scaly meteor.

Back in the pub garden, a tremendous crash shook the picnic tables.

War blinked.
“Did anyone order dragon?”

Death peered out the window.
“Oh dear. That’s going to complicate the insurance.”

Trevor lay sprawled across the garden, snoring smoke rings and flattening a decorative wooden wheelbarrow. A small sign beside him, now bent, read:

BEER GARDEN — NO FLYING CREATURES AFTER 9PM

The locals barely reacted. This was Somerset. Dragons were considered only slightly more disruptive than tractors.

Pestilence looked at the shattered bottle in his hand.
“Should we… apologise?”

“No,” Death said firmly. “We finish our drinks, we pretend nothing happened, and we leave before someone asks us to help move him.”

War raised his tankard.
“To holidays!”

The others clinked their glasses.

And that was when the sky cracked open like a badly handled crème brûlée and a booming celestial voice declared:

“ATTENTION: THE APOCALYPSE IS SCHEDULED FOR THURSDAY. PLEASE PREPARE ACCORDINGLY.”

The Horsemen stared upward.

War groaned.
“Oh, for— we haven’t even booked the hotel yet.”

Death rubbed his temples.
“I swear, if this ruins Benidorm…”

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were not, contrary to popular belief, constantly galloping across burning horizons and smiting things. That was only on Mondays.

The rest of the week, they were overworked civil servants of cosmic calamity, drowning in paperwork, existential dread, and the occasional complaint letter from mortals who felt their plagues were “a bit much.”

So, when the celestial announcement declared that the apocalypse was officially scheduled for Thursday, the Horsemen reacted in the only reasonable way:

They decided to go on holiday.

“Benidorm,” War declared, stabbing a finger at a glossy travel brochure. “Sun. Sand. Cocktails. Chaos. Perfect.”

Death peered over his skeletal spectacles.
“I don’t tan.”

“No one tans,” Pestilence said. “They crisp.”

Famine nodded solemnly. “I could do with a crisp.”

Death sighed. “We can’t just leave. The apocalypse is coming.”

War grinned. “Exactly. It’s coming. Not here yet. We’ve got time.”

Death considered this. He had been working nonstop since the dawn of existence. He hadn’t had a proper break since the Black Death, and that hardly counted because he’d been on call the entire time.

“Fine,” he said. “But we must leave Agro in safe hands.”

All four Horsemen turned to look at the pug.

Agro was sitting on a barstool, snorting into a bowl of pork scratchings. His face was the expression of a creature who believed the universe existed solely to provide him snacks.

Death lifted him gently.
“Agro, my dear boy, you’re going to stay with the unicorns.”

Agro snorted in a way that suggested he found this arrangement beneath him.

War slapped the table. “Right! Holiday time!”

Pestilence sneezed, which caused a nearby fern to wilt.
Famine folded the travel brochure into a neat square.
Death tucked Agro’s favourite snacks into a small skull shaped bag.

They stepped outside the pub, where Trevor the dragon was still unconscious in the beer garden, occasionally twitching in a dream about sheep.

War looked at him. “Should we… do something about that?”

Death shook his head. “We’re on holiday.” And with that, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse climbed onto their spectral steeds, who were already wearing sunglasses and floral garlands, and rode off toward the airport via the Unicorns Place.

Chapter 2

Prophecies are notoriously vague, unhelpful, and written by people who were either drunk, possessed, or paid by the word. The prophecy concerning the Five Unicorns was no exception. It had been carved into an ancient stone tablet, then recopied by monks with questionable handwriting, then translated by scholars who disagreed on everything except their mutual hatred of each other.

But one line had survived every translation, every argument, and every attempt to interpret it as a recipe:

“Five unicorns shall rise when doom draws near.”

This was followed by a footnote:

“Four shall walk as humans.
One shall walk on paws.
Do not question this.”

Most people questioned it anyway.

But the prophecy was correct, because in a quiet town not far from where Trevor the dragon was still unconscious in a beer garden, five unicorns were indeed living among humans.

Well. Four were living among humans.

One was living among lampposts, hedges, and the occasional postman.

Astra — The Librarian of Unnatural Silence

Astra had chosen to disguise herself as a librarian, because she believed books were sacred, knowledge was power, and shushing people was one of life’s purest joys.

Her human form was tall, calm, and carried an aura of “I will tolerate no nonsense, unless it is alphabetised.”

Astra’s unicorn magic manifested subtly: anyone who spoke too loudly within a five‑mile radius would suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to apologise.

She was the unofficial leader of the group, mostly because she was the only one who could organise a meeting without someone setting something on fire.

Bramble — The Gardener of Questionable Talent

Bramble had chosen to disguise himself as a gardener.

This was ironic, because Bramble was catastrophically bad at gardening.

Plants wilted when he walked past.
Flowers drooped in his presence.
Cacti — the most resilient of all florae — gave up entirely.

But Bramble insisted he was improving, and the others were too polite to mention the trail of dead begonias he left behind.

In his true unicorn form, Bramble controlled the forces of nature. In his human form, he controlled the forces of compost, which was significantly less impressive.

Zephyr — The Yoga Instructor Who Floated

Zephyr had chosen to disguise himself as a yoga instructor, because he liked the idea of serenity, even if he had never personally experienced it.

He was cheerful, airy, and had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel.

Zephyr’s unicorn magic manifested whenever he was stressed, which was often. His feet would lift off the ground, his hair would float, and small objects would begin orbiting him like confused satellites.

His students assumed it was a special effect.
It was not.

Ember — The Barista of Mildly Dangerous Coffee

Ember had chosen to disguise herself as a barista.

This was a problem, because Ember’s coffee was so strong it had once woken a man from a medically induced coma. Another time, it had caused a customer to briefly see the future, which he found deeply inconvenient.

Ember was fiery, impulsive, and had a temper that could ignite small objects. She had been banned from three cafés for “accidental combustion.”

Her unicorn magic was powerful, unpredictable, and usually accompanied by the smell of burnt toast.

And then there was Ralph.

Ralph had chosen to disguise himself as a springer spaniel.

No one knew why.

The prophecy didn’t explain it.
The scholars couldn’t interpret it.
The other unicorns had stopped asking.

Ralph simply was a spaniel, and he was very good at it.

He had floppy ears, a wagging tail, a bright shock of blonde hair on his head (which was his horn in disguise.) and the boundless enthusiasm of a creature who believed every day was the best day ever.

He also had a squeaky chicken named Gordon, which he carried everywhere. Gordon was missing one eye, smelled faintly of despair, and squeaked with the sound of a tortured kazoo.

Ralph loved him more than life itself.

Agro — The Pug of Death

The unicorns’ sacred duty was to protect Agro, the pug belonging to Death.

Agro was small, round, and snorted like a malfunctioning accordion. He was also the metaphysical anchor of the boundary between life and death.

If Agro ever died, the world would collapse into chaos.

If Agro ever skipped a meal, the world would collapse into whining.

Astra took the duty seriously.
Bramble took it nervously.
Zephyr took it optimistically.
Ember took it personally.
Ralph took it as the greatest honour of his life.

Agro tolerated Ralph with the weary patience of a creature who had seen eternity and found it disappointing.

On the morning after the Horsemen accidentally shot down a dragon with a cider cork, the unicorns gathered in the living room.

Astra was reading the prophecy.
Bramble was watering a plant (which immediately died).
Zephyr was floating three inches above the sofa.
Ember was making coffee that glowed faintly with a hint of radioactive menace.
Ralph was slowly chewing Gordon.
Agro was asleep, snoring like a tiny chainsaw.

Astra cleared her throat.

“Something is coming,” she said.

Ember raised an eyebrow. “Something bad?”

Astra nodded. “The worst.”

Zephyr drifted upside‑down. “Worse than Ember’s coffee?”

“Yes!”

Bramble gasped. “Worse than the time Ralph ate that entire wheel of cheese?”

“Yes!”

Ralph wagged proudly.

Astra closed the prophecy book with a soft thud.

“The apocalypse is scheduled for Thursday.”

Agro snorted awake.

Ralph dropped Gordon.

And somewhere, far away, a school bell rang.

Notes from the Author

Please feel free to let me know what you think, good or bad it really helps me to improve as a writer.