Nightside 09 - Just Another Judgement Day

Brotherhood were fighting their endless feud against the Drood Family . . . but it always comes back. Would you really use such a vile thing, John? Would you use such an evil thing, to stop a good man in his work? To use that Gun, in that way, would damn your soul forever.”
    “Yes,” I said. “It would.”
    And I slowly lowered the Speaking Gun, even as it hissed and squirmed in my hand. Because that was the real price the Gun Shop owner had wanted me to pay—for me to damn my own soul. And I wouldn’t do that, not even to save my friends. If only because I knew they would never have wanted me to do that.
    “What are you doing?” Chandra Singh asked. “After all we went through to get that thing, now you’re not going to use it?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Then give it to me. I am not afraid to use it!”
    “Chandra . . .”
    “I have to do something! He broke my sword! ”
    And he grabbed the Speaking Gun and wrestled it from my hand. He aimed it at the Walking Man, but already his hand was shaking, and his eyes were very wide as he heard the Gun’s awful voice in his head, the terrible temptation—to use the Gun and keep on using it, for the sheer joy of slaughter. Julien reached out to Chandra, seeing the horror in his face, but I stopped him with a sharp gesture. This was Chandra’s fight, he had to do it for himself. For the sake of his own soul. Or he’d always wonder what he would have done.
    I had faith in him.
    And slowly, inch by inch, he lowered the Speaking Gun, fighting it all the way, refusing to be tempted or mastered. Because he was, at heart, a good man.
    The Walking Man waited until the Speaking Gun was pointing at the floor, then he reached out and gently eased the Gun out of Chandra’s hand. The Indian monster hunter swayed, and almost fell, but Julien and I were there to support him. He was clearly shaken, and there was cold sweat on his grey face. The Walking Man hefted the Speaking Gun in his hand, turning it back and forth as though he’d never seen anything so ugly before. If he heard anything in his head, he hid it well. And having examined the thing thoroughly, and found not a trace of good in it, he crushed the Speaking Gun in his hand.
    The bone and cartilage cracked and shattered, the red meat pulped, and the Speaking Gun cried out in agony in all our heads as it died. The Walking Man slowly opened his hand, and the already decaying pieces of the Speaking Gun fell from his hand to spatter on the floor. The Walking Man lifted his foot to crush what remained; but it had already disappeared, every last bit of it. Gone, back to the Gun Shop perhaps, or to wherever else in the world it could do the most harm.
    I didn’t need to check inside my coat to know the black case was gone, too.
    “Well,” said the Walking Man. “That’s that. Now, back to work.”
    “No,” I said, and stepped forward to put myself directly before him, placing my body between him and the new Authorities. I was thinking hard on what the rogue vicar had said— To stop a broken man, heal the man. Julien had been right, too. There had to be a way to reach Adrien Saint. Even after everything he’d done, he was still a man. I had to try reason because I’d run right out of weapons.
    “So much justice,” I said, holding his gaze with mine. “So many dead, for the sake of those taken from you. So much blood, and suffering, in payment for the loss of your family. You killed the joy-riders responsible. Did that make you feel any better?”
    “Yes,” he said. “Oh yes.”
    “Really?” I said. “Then why are you still walking back and forth in the world, punishing the guilty? How many deaths will it take, before you can say enough ? How much more of this . . . before you become as bad as they are?”
    “I’m not like them. I don’t kill for the pleasure of it, or the profit in it. I only kill those who need killing. When law fails, and justice has become a joke, there is always the Walking Man.”
    “You see any justice in this?” I said. “This isn’t about justice, and you know it. You kill because that’s all you can do. Because there’s nothing else left in you. I’ve done my share of killing, in my time—to protect others, and yes, sometimes, to avenge injustice. But every killing, every death, eats away at you a little. Until there’s nothing left but the gun and how good it feels when you use it. How long, Adrien, before you start to seek out your victims, like any other