Just Another Judgement Day Part 12

"No I don't," said the Walking Man. And he shot Razor Eddie in the head.

Or at least, he tried to. Razor Eddie's hand came up and round impossibly fast, his straight razor blazing like the sun, and cut the bullet out of mid air before it could reach him. The two separated halves fell to the ground, and the two small sounds seemed to echo on forever in the hushed quiet of the Street of the G.o.ds. The Walking Man stood still, openly stunned, defied and defeated for the first time in his life since he'd left his simple humanity behind to become G.o.d's. .h.i.t-man. Things like this weren't supposed to happen any more. And while he was standing there, trying to make sense of what was happening, Razor Eddie brought his straight razor round in a blindingly swift arc and cut the Walking Man's throat.

Or at least, he tried to. The supernaturally sharp blade, which had been known to cut through Time and s.p.a.ce, sliced across the Walking Man's throat but couldn't touch it. The blade just swept past, held back the merest fraction of an inch from the bare skin, by the power and the force operating within the Walking Man. The two men just stood there, shocked silent, looking first at each other, then down at the weapons that had betrayed them. And from the crowd that had gathered all round, there came the busy murmurs of many bets being made.

The Walking Man's hands were suddenly full of his guns. He blazed away with both pistols, firing over and over again, but somehow Razor Eddie was never there to be hit. He surged back and forth, dancing through the fusillade of bullets, here there and everywhere at once, like the grey G.o.d he was. The Walking Man swept his guns back and forth, raking the Street with bullets, and everyone watching fell to their knees or flattened themselves on the ground, as bullets flew overhead. I had to pull Chandra Singh down beside me. He was so caught up in the spectacle of two earthly G.o.ds going at it right in front of him that he forgot all about self-preservation.

Both guns kept firing long after they should have run out of bullets, but for all the deafening thunder of the gunfire, Razor Eddie was drawing closer, step by step. Now and again he cut another bullet out of mid air, just to prove the first time hadn't been a fluke, slicing clean through the flas.h.i.+ng bullet with his s.h.i.+ning blade. And finally, inevitably, he drew close enough to go head to head with the Walking Man. He cut and sliced and slashed, moving almost too fast to be followed by mortal eye; and still he couldn't touch the man touched by G.o.d.

And finally, inevitably, they duelled each other to a standstill. They stood facing each other, both breathless from their exertions, close enough to feel each other's panting breath on their faces, eyes staring into eyes. Neither of them beaten, neither willing to admit defeat. And then, quite unexpectedly, the Walking Man took a step back. He put his guns back in their holsters and showed Razor Eddie his empty hands. And as Eddie looked, and hesitated, the Walking Man s.n.a.t.c.hed the straight razor out of Razor Eddie's hand. Eddie cried out, as though he'd lost a part of himself. The Walking Man threw the straight razor the length of the Street. It tumbled end over end through the air, the blade flas.h.i.+ng brightly, until it vanished into the distance. And then the Walking Man clubbed Razor Eddie to the ground with his bare hands, beating him unmercifully again and again until Eddie crashed bloodily to the ground and stopped moving. The Walking Man stood over him, breathing harshly, blood dripping from his fists. And then he drew back his foot to kick the fallen G.o.d in the head.

"No!" said Chandra Singh. "Don't you dare!"

I was back on my feet again, and so was he. And if he hadn't spoken out, I would have. But when Chandra advanced steadily on the Walking Man, I stayed right where I was and let him do it. I was still observing the Walking Man, seeing what he could do, and making up my mind as to what I was going to have to do. So I let Chandra Singh take his shot, to see what would happen. I can be a real cold-blooded b.a.s.t.a.r.d when I have to.

Chandra stood protectively over the fallen Razor Eddie, and stuck his face right into the Walking Man's. Chandra was clearly steaming mad, but his face and his gaze had never looked so cold. The Walking Man met Chandra's gaze calmly and didn't budge an inch. One holy warrior facing off against another. This was what Chandra had wanted all along, whether he'd admitted it to himself or not. Why he insisted on sticking with me. To end up here, in this place and at this moment, for a chance to test his faith and his G.o.d and his standing, against the legendary Walking Man.

He stepped quite deliberately over the unconscious Razor Eddie, putting himself between the fallen G.o.d and further violence, openly defying the Walking Man to do anything about it. He didn't draw his sword, made no move to attack or defend; but stood there, confident in his faith and the righteousness of his cause.

"Go ahead," he said steadily to the Walking Man. "Shoot me. Kill a good man. Just because you can."

"A good man?" said the Walking Man, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what you are, Chandra Singh? After all those creatures you killed, merely for the sin of being . . . different?"

"You'll have to do better than that," said Chandra, entirely unmoved. "I have only ever acted to save lives. Can you say the same?"

"Yes," said the Walking Man.

"Too much faith can blind a man," said Chandra. "Especially to his own faults. I admit, I came here for selfish reasons. I wanted to test myself, my skills, my faith, against yours. To prove once and for all that I was your equal, if not more, in everything that mattered. But now that I have seen you at your b.l.o.o.d.y work, your murderous function . . . I see I have a duty here. You have to be stopped. You're out-of-control. What you are doing . . . is not G.o.d's work. He may have his wrath, but He tempers it with mercy and compa.s.sion."

"Mercy," said the Walking Man. "Compa.s.sion. 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 G.o.d's plan. G.o.d'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 G.o.d," 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 s.p.a.ce 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, s.h.i.+ning 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l. 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 G.o.dforsaken 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 d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sing 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 ma.s.sed 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, s.h.i.+ning as brightly and as wickedly as ever. The Punk G.o.d 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 c.o.c.ky, 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 G.o.d you need a weapon of G.o.d. 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 G.o.d 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 wors.h.i.+pped."

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

Razor Eddie looked down at the steel blade s.h.i.+ning 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 G.o.d 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 G.o.ds, 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 G.o.d I serve and that of the Walking Man, to see which was the greater. To determine which was the one true G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.ds," 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 wors.h.i.+p weapons. Everything that is wors.h.i.+pped 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 G.o.ds, 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 fas.h.i.+oned from flesh and bone, that breathes and sweats and hates everything that lives. Its power comes from G.o.d, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.ds, 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 gla.s.s 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 wh.o.r.es. Swords and axes, guns and rifles, energy weapons and s.h.i.+fting 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 door, 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 G.o.ds, 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.

And then I blinked, and almost fell back a step, as the Gun Shop's owner, or manager, or high priest was suddenly right there before me. A respectable-looking middle-aged man in a respectable suit, with a broad square face, retreating hair, and rimless eyegla.s.ses, he looked more like an undertaker than anything else. Which was only appropriate, I suppose. He had that quiet, remorseless calm that comes from dealing with death on a regular basis, and his warm, professional smile didn't touch his calm dead eyes at all. He nodded briskly to me, then to Chandra. My skin crawled. It was like being noticed by some poisonous snake or spider that might strike at any moment. He was an icon of suffering and slaughter; cold-eyed, cold-hearted, always ready to cut a deal, everything for sale but nothing on credit. And why not? You didn't come to the Gun Shop for a gun. You came to get yourself an unfair advantage, a weapon so powerful no-one could stand against it.

"Good to see you at last, Mr. Taylor," said the storekeeper, in a voice like every salesman you've ever heard. The ones who don't have to try too hard, because everyone wants what they've got. "Always knew you'd drop in, eventually. Everyone does, eventually. And Mr. Chandra Singh, renowned monster hunter. How nice. You may call me Mr. Usher, if you wish. What can I do for you?"

"Are you a G.o.d?" said Chandra, honestly curious.

"Bless you, no, sir," said Mr. Usher. "Nothing so limited. G.o.ds may come and beings may go, but the Gun Shop goes on forever. I am the human face of this establishment. An extension of the Gun Shop, if you will. Because people find it easier to discuss business with something that looks like people. I am the Gun Shop."

"So . . . you're not really real, then?" Chandra persisted.