Just Another Judgement Day

by Simon R. Green

  “Mercy,” said the Walking Man. “Compassion. Sorry, not my department.”

  “Then I must represent it,” said Chandra. “Even with the blood of so many unfortunate creatures on my hands. Because someone has to. John Taylor was right. There is still some hope left in the Nightside, and not everyone here deserves to die.”

  “If you stand against me,” said the Walking Man, quite casually, “you stand against God’s plan. God’s will.”

  “This is your will,” said Chandra. “Your need to punish the guilty and avenge your lost family. How many deaths will it take, Mr. Saint, how many murders, to put your soul at rest?”

  “Only one way to find out,” said the Walking Man.

  They didn’t just throw themselves at each other. They were both professionals, after all, with many years of experience in what they did, and they knew enough about each other to respect each other’s skills. So the Walking Man didn’t go for his guns, and Chandra Singh didn’t draw his sword. Not just yet.

  “I am the wrath of God,” the Walking Man said finally.

  “No,” said Chandra. “You’re only another monster.”

  He drew his sword with inhuman speed, and thrust the blade straight for the Walking Man’s heart. It all happened in the space of a single breath, all of Chandra’s strength and speed compressed into a single deadly strike, planned and launched while he was still speaking, to catch the Walking Man off-balance. But that was never going to happen. The Walking Man hardly seemed to move, but one hand came out of nowhere to grab the long, shining blade and stop it dead in its track. The two men stood face-to-face for a long moment, straining almost imperceptibly, Chandra to push the blade forward, the Walking Man to hold it where it was. Until finally the sword blade snapped, broken clean in half by the two immovable forces working upon it. Chandra staggered and almost fell. The Walking Man opened his hand, and the broken half of the blade fall to the ground. His hand wasn’t even bleeding. Chandra breathed harshly, swaying as though he’d been hit, but he didn’t drop his broken sword, and he still stood before Razor Eddie, protecting him. The Walking Man smiled on Chandra, almost kindly.

  “Nice try. But you’re only a khalsa, a holy warrior, whereas I am so much more. I made a deal with God Himself.” He looked at me for the first time. “Always get it in writing, eh, John?”

  “You’ll have to kill me to get to Eddie,” said Chandra.

  “Kill you, Chandra?” said the Walking Man. “I’m not here to kill men like you. You’re a good man. Unfortunately for you, and everyone else here, I’ve gone far beyond that.” He looked at me again. “Are you going to try and stop me, John Taylor?”

  “You really think you’re ready to throw down with me?” I said. “I may not be holy, but I’m sneaky as hell. I move in really mysterious ways, and I guarantee you’ll never see it coming.”

  I met his gaze easily, holding my breath . . . and he shrugged abruptly and turned away from Chandra and Eddie.

  “I’m wasting my time here,” he said. “I’ve allowed myself to become distracted. I came to this godforsaken place to kill your precious new upstart Authorities before they can organise the Nightside into a real threat to the outside world. I can always come back here, after I’ve killed them. So, stop me if you can, John.”

  He turned his back and strolled away. I let him go. I was thinking furiously. He hadn’t realised I was bluffing. And that...was interesting. Chandra Singh knelt beside the unconscious Razor Eddie, hugging his broken sword to his chest. He was crying.

  EIGHT

  There Is Always a Price to Be Paid

  The crowd was already dispersing. Money was reluctantly changing hands, as many bets were settled. I was frankly amazed that anyone had been ready to bet on Chandra Singh and me against the legendary Walking Man. But then, the Nightside has always had a weakness for the long odds. Chandra was still on his knees, still hugging what was left of his broken sword to his chest, still sobbing quietly. And I stood there and did some hard thinking.

  I’d seen the Walking Man in action, seen how implacable and relentless he could be. I’d tried reasoning with him. I hadn’t expected that to work, but I had to try. And I’d stood back and let Chandra have his run at it, just in case one man of faith could bring down another. Now it was up to me to take the detestable, necessary, and maybe even evil step that was all that was left.

  When all else fails, you can always damn yourself with a necessary evil, for the greater good.

  Meanwhile, all around us the shot-up, blasted, and downright-ruined churches and temples were already starting to rebuild themselves. Cracked stonework came together again, splintered marble smoothed itself over, and vast edifices rose unmarked from their own graves, given shape and substance again by the unrelenting faith of their congregations. Those faithful whose certainties had taken a severe kicking from seeing the Walking Man in action were already looking for Something new to follow, leaving their smashed-up churches to rot in the rubble. And people passing on the Street only paused to spit on the remains of the Temple of the Unspeakable Abomination. Some of the more up-and-coming Beings were already squaring off to see who would take over the more valuable positions on the Street. There’d be lightning strikes and plagues of boils and general massed smiting going on soon, and I planned to be somewhere else when it happened.

  Razor Eddie sat up suddenly. His eyes snapped back into focus as his injured face repaired itself, then he shook himself sharply, like a dog emerging from a cold river. Chandra Singh, to his credit, immediately put aside his grief and his bruised pride and helped Eddie to his feet. Which made him a braver man than I. I wouldn’t have touched Razor Eddie’s filth-encrusted coat for all the gold in Walker’s teeth. Razor Eddie nodded brusquely to Chandra and raised his right hand. His straight razor was immediately there again, shining as brightly and as wickedly as ever. The Punk God and his straight razor were never separated for long. I don’t think they can be any more. They belong to each other.

  “Well,” said Razor Eddie, in his grey and ghostly voice. “That was . . . unexpected. It’s been a long time since anyone was able to put me down so thoroughly. It would appear the Walking Man actually is the real deal, after all. Which is kind of scary, if you think about it. So I don’t think I will.” He smiled slowly, showing rotten yellow teeth. “I suppose it is possible I’ve been getting a little cocky, of late. The occasional humbling can be good for the soul. Though you mustn’t overdo it, of course.”

  I took advantage of Razor Eddie’s unexpected chattiness to recover the broken half of Chandra’s sword and offer it to him. The metal wasn’t glowing any more. It looked like just another broken sword. Chandra nodded his thanks and accepted the blade as though I were handing him the body of his dead child. I felt like slapping him. It’s always a mistake to get too attached to things. Chandra carefully slid both halves of the broken sword back into the scabbard at his side.

  “It cannot be repaired or remade,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Or at least, not by any human hand. It was a most ancient weapon, entrusted to me to protect the innocent and punish the guilty, and I have brought about its destruction through my own stubborn pride.”

  “You had the right idea,” I said, touched despite myself. “But the wrong weapon.” I turned to Razor Eddie. “To stop a man of God you need a weapon of God. One particular and very nasty weapon.”

  Eddie looked at me thoughtfully. “You want a weapon, John? I thought you were above such things.”

  “You know what weapon I’m talking about,” I said.

  He nodded slowly, reluctantly. “No good will come of this, John.”

  “I need the Speaking Gun,” I said, and the Punk God of the Straight Razor shuddered briefly.

  “Nasty thing,” he said. “I thought you destroyed it.”

  “I did,” I said. “But as with so many other awful things in the Nightside, it’s only ever one step away from a comeback. Any idea where I might find it?”

  “
You know I know where it is,” said Razor Eddie. “How is it you always know things like that?”

  “Because it’s my job,” I said. “Now stop stalling.”

  “You’ll find it at the Gun Shop,” said Razor Eddie. “At the place where all weapons are worshipped.”

  “Is that where you got your straight razor?” said Chandra.

  Razor Eddie looked down at the steel blade shining so brightly in his hand and smiled briefly. “Oh no,” he said. “I went to a far worse place for this.”

  “Then the Gun Shop it is,” I said, trying hard to sound like I knew what I was doing.

  “Wait,” said Chandra, moving forward to stare me in the eye. “You think you can stop the Walking Man, John Taylor? After I failed so miserably? After seeing him throw down all these false temples and churches? After he beat down the Punk God of the Straight Razor and shot the Unspeakable Abomination in the head? After he broke my blessed sword, a thing not achieved in centuries of trials against evil? What makes a man like you believe he can defeat the Walking Man?”

  “You have to have faith,” I said. “And I believe I’m a bigger bastard than the Walking Man will ever be. I’ll find a way to stop him. Because I have to.”

  Chandra nodded slowly. “Are you ready to die to protect your friends, John?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I said. “I was rather more planning on making him die. That’s why I’m going to the Gun Shop.”

  “Want me to come with you?” said Razor Eddie. The straight razor flashed briefly, eagerly, in his hand.

  “No,” I said. “They see you coming, they’ll probably lock the doors, slam home the bolts, and hide under the bed until you’ve gone away again. I would.”

  “They couldn’t keep me out,” said Razor Eddie.

  “True,” I said. “But I think I’m going to need them on my side, for this.”

  “Fair enough,” said Razor Eddie. He looked about him. “I think I need to spend a little quality time here, walking up and down the Street of the Gods, carving up the minor Beings and doing terrible things to their gullible followers, just to prove I’ve still got it. Reputations have to be carefully maintained and nurtured, or people will start thinking they can take advantage. Besides, I’m in the mood for a little carnage and mayhem.”

  “Never knew you when you weren’t,” I said generously.

  “I will go with you to the Gun Shop,” said Chandra Singh. He was standing straight and tall again, his eyes dry and his voice firm. “The game isn’t over yet, and I am not beaten till I say I’m beaten.”

  Heroes and holy warriors. They always bounce back faster than you’d think.

  So we nodded our good-byes to Razor Eddie and watched him stride off down the Street. People and Beings took one look at what was coming their way and suddenly remembered they were urgently needed somewhere else. I looked at Chandra.

  “Are you all right? The Walking Man really did a number on you.”

  “I am fine,” he said. “Or at least, I will be. I failed to understand what was really going on here, you see. I thought this was a conflict between the god I serve and that of the Walking Man, to see which was the greater. To determine which was the one true God, and therefore which of us was the true holy warrior. But instead . . . it was a conflict between two men. And in the end, it was my faith that proved to be lacking. I doubted I could beat him, and in that moment, I was lost.”

  “You really believe that?” I said.

  “I have to believe that,” said Chandra. He looked around him, taking in the ruins and the rubble, the dead and the dying. And the tourists, taking photos of it all. “No true God would approve of this . . . this indiscriminate slaughter. No, everything that happened here is down to the pride and needs of one stubborn man. And if there is one thing in this world you can be sure of, John Taylor, it is that the proud shall always be humbled.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And the Nightside does so love to break a good man.”

  I was looking right at him when I said that, but he still didn’t get the point. “So,” he said briskly, “where is this Gun Shop?”

  “Right here on the Street of the Gods,” I said. “It isn’t just a Gun Shop, you see.”

  “Of course,” said Chandra Singh. “I should have known.”

  “The Gun Shop . . . is the Church of the Gun,” I said. “It exists because of all the people who worship weapons. Everything that is worshipped strongly enough and long enough has a place here. People do have an awful lot of faith in weapons, and the more people believe in them, the more power and influence they have in the world. You can find anything in the Gun Shop, anything that kills, from swords to nukes to energy weapons from future time-lines. The Speaking Gun will be there. Because even a terrible thing like that needs somewhere to go that feels like home.”

  We walked down the Street of the Gods, and people and other things hurried to get out of our way. Chandra Singh, because so many people had just seen him go head to head with the Walking Man and survive, and me . . . because I was John Taylor, and had done far worse things in my time. And might again. Meanwhile, I did my best to explain to Chandra exactly what the Speaking Gun was and what it could do. He needed to be prepared.

  “The Speaking Gun is an old horror,” I said. “And I mean really old. So ancient it was created before the days of History, from the time of Myth and Legend. A gun fashioned from flesh and bone, that breathes and sweats and hates everything that lives. Its power comes from God, indirectly.”

  “And that’s why you think it will work against the Walking Man,” said Chandra.

  “Exactly. You see . . . in the beginning was the Word, and the universe burst into existence. Or so they say I wasn’t there. But anyway, as a result, the echoes of that Word live on in everything that exists. In their true, secret, descriptive Name. The Speaking Gun can see that Name and say it backwards. Thus . . . Uncreating them. I destroyed the Speaking Gun by forcing it to speak its own true Name backwards, and making it Uncreate itself. Seemed to work well enough, at the time. But the bloody thing still exists in the Past, and in certain future time-lines. And so the Gun Shop will always be able to reach out to it because its very nature links it to every weapon that ever was, is, or will be.”

  Chandra Singh shook his head. “Words fail me.”

  “Well, quite,” I said.

  It didn’t take us long to track down the Gun Shop. I didn’t need to use my gift. Like so many places on the Street of the Gods, the Gun Shop lies in wait for those who need it. Never far, always ready to be of service, always ready to slap a gun in your hand and encourage you to use it. Death And Destruction “R” Us, but don’t come back crying when it all goes horribly wrong.

  It wasn’t much to look at, when it finally hove into sight before us. More like a corner shop than a church, which I

  suppose was only to be expected. A simple wooden door next to a single glass window, showing off all the wonders to be found inside. I stopped, and looked. I couldn’t help myself. Chandra stood beside me. And in the window of the Gun Shop, weapons showed themselves off like whores. Swords and axes, guns and rifles, energy weapons and shifting shapes that made no sense at all. All of them utterly glamorous and sweetly tempting.

  Come inside, find something you like. You know you want to.

  I pulled my gaze away from the display and looked at Chandra. “Those aren’t just weapons,” I said. “They’re icons, archetypes, avatars of their kind. The Onlie True Originals, of which everything else are but pale reflections.”

  “Yes,” said Chandra, turning his head abruptly to look at me. “Not just guns, but the Spirits of Guns. Every gun, every sword, maybe every bomb, too. You don’t come here looking for something to protect the innocent or punish the guilty. These are simply instruments of death. Means to murder.”

  “Got it in one,” I said. “Once we get in there, watch yourself. Murder is a sacrament in the Gun Shop, and temptation comes as standard.”

  I headed for the d
oor, and it opened silently before me, without my even having to touch it. The Gun Shop was expecting me. I strode in as though I’d come to condemn the place on Moral Health grounds, and Chandra was right there with me, giving the place his best snotty and entirely unimpressed look. Sharp fluorescent lighting blazed up, revealing a huge emporium containing every killing tool known to man, and a few that wandered in from adjoining dimensions. Like so many churches in the Street of the Gods, the Gun Shop’s interior was much bigger than its exterior. It’s the only way they can fit everything in. The Shop fell away before us, retreating endlessly into the uncomfortably bright light, with lines and lines of simple wooden shelves, stretching away into the distance for further than the merely mortal eye could follow. I never knew there were so many types of weapon.