The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (99 page)

“Oi,” Tim says, “we haven’t failed yet.”

And we’re not going to.

Hell is my kingdom, and it shall bend to my will. And no dark god is going to change that.

The city towers around us. We have been walking for hours, silently but for the occasional tune that Wal whistles, until he is hissed down. He’s good, but old show tunes seem wildly inappropriate. The city is cold and dark and empty.

But somewhere ahead Morrigan waits.

My wrist burns, I’ve marked it not with the triangle and the line, but with the Stirrer’s own mask symbol, in the hope that it will shield me from Morrigan. That he won’t feel me until it’s too late.

I’m walking at the front with Alex, Lissa a little behind, our footfalls echoing quietly ahead of us. Alex passes me a pistol.

“I think you need a weapon,” he says. “It’s a Glock, standard issue.”

“I’m familiar with it,” I say—meaning I know which end to point. “You ever had to use it?”

“There’re thirteen rounds in there,” he says not looking me in the eye.

OK, we’ll leave it at that, then.

“Point, squeeze and kill. The bullets have been braced with my blood.” Alex smiles. “Being a Pomp and everything, it should make a Stirrer stop and have a serious think.”

I hold the pistol, speculatively, it’s heavier than I expect: this kind of death always is. “You don’t need it?” I ask him.

“No, I’ve got the rifle.” Alex gives me a pained look. “Who’d have thought I would end up down here. This was Dad’s territory. But I wonder what he’d think of what we’re doing…I miss the old bastard, you know. Still got half a carton of his beer in the fridge.”

“You keeping it in his memory?”

“Nah, it’s terrible shit. I open a bottle now and then, just smell it to remind me of him.”

“Dad’s got a set of golf clubs,” I say. “When Lissa’s not around I get out the five iron, talk to it like it’s him. Stupid, huh?”

“Yeah, fucking stupid.”

It’s easy grieving the loss of your mum, easier to cry or something. But dads…dads are problematic. This is about as close to tears as I’m going to get.

“Could murder one of those beers now,” Alex says.

“You and me, both.”

“What are we going to do once we find Morrigan?”

“That’s the tough part,” I say. “I need to get him back to the living world. You see, I’ve made a deal.”

“What sort of deal?”

“Trust me, a good one. I’m not talking a Lando Calrissian chatting with Vader sort of deal. This one will end this. But I can’t do what I need to here.”

A soft shuffle of feet, a movement in the air, alerts us to a presence. Alex raises his rifle.

“Always with the gun,” the Stirrer says, stepping out from the shadows.

“What do you want?” We say almost simultaneously

“You’re almost there,” it says. “Morrigan has called a moot. The Stirrers have gathered, all but the most stupid of creatures have resisted the call—those which your Pomps met at the wall. Hurry, follow me.”

“How many Stirrers?”

It turns back to me and smiles. “A lot. A lot of Stirrers, too many for my allies to make a difference right now. But you, I’m sure you have a plan.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a plan.” Tim and Lissa have moved in close, Wal is resting on my shoulder. “Nearly there,” I say.

We follow it down winding streets, and it whispers, whispers, and I feel Morrigan’s presence grow. HD shifts angrily inside me.

“The city, how the hell do you live here?” I ask, more to distract myself than anything else.

The Stirrer stops, looks at me, shocked. “You do not see it?”

“What?”

“The splendor.”

“No, all I see is gray and stony and cold.”

“Ah, Mr. de Selby, your kind do not have the eyes for this. It makes
sense I suppose. Everything is glorious here. The colors vibrant and warm, the boulevards broad. Right now a gentle wind is blowing, and I can smell the sea, rising up from a distant place, but no less delightful for it. It is your world that is all gray and cold, and awful.”

“Then why do you want it?”

“Worlds are infinitely malleable. Our god promises to make it in the image of our dreams. But this dream,” the Stirrer gestures at the walls, weeping and sullen, “this dream is just as vast, just as wonderful, it does not need to be any bigger.”

Unless you have a god to fill it
, I think.
Then a world, a universe, is never big enough.

We reach a broadening in the road, and there at last I see the extent of what we face.

“Perhaps, Ari was right,” Lissa says quietly.

There must be ten thousand at least. But what is more frightening than that is their silence. There is no snuffling, no howling, just quiet, stillness. An ocean, glassy and flat with not a breath of wind.

And at their heart stands Morrigan. I don’t ask the Stirrer what it sees, I can recognize the rapture in its face—and this is one of the rebels.

I look over at Morrigan. He’s standing there, eyes closed, arms out. The scythe must be nearby, yes, a Stirrer holds it with such reverence you would think it were some sort of holy vessel. I guess it is in a way.

Now’s my chance. Before anyone can protest, I slide the Glock from my belt, unclick the safety. I shift right beside Morrigan. The Stirrer turns toward me, Mog clutched to its chest.

I kick it hard in the stomach. Mog clatters to the ground. Morrigan turns towards me, and I shoot him in the face, the kick of the gun’s a bit more than I expect, but maybe my aim was off because it’s a great shot. Morrigan stumbles back, not really hurt. Just stunned by the force of the bullet.

It’s all I need.

The scythe recognizes me at once, I reach towards it, it hurtles towards my palms. My fingers close around the snath.

And I shift.

Back to Lissa, Tim and Alex. The Stirrer has left, I don’t blame it.

“Well, there we go, easy,” I say. “But we really better start running.”

Lissa slaps my head. “That was your plan?”

“Got my scythe back, didn’t it?”

Morrigan howls. He pulls his hand from his face and there’s not even a welt. His eyes open and I swear he is looking into my soul. I give him the finger.

In a single movement, the Stirrers turn. And twenty thousand eyes filled with hatred are focused upon us. All stillness, all quiet is gone, and only hunger remains.

“Guys, I think we need to run,” I say, and they already are.

“This what you call drawing Morrigan out?” Alex says.

“It might be.”

“It’s certainly got a reaction,” Lissa says.

“Less chat, more run,” I say.

And the race is on. We run so hard we throw dust up behind us. The air’s heavy with it. It gets in our hair, our lungs. We’re all coughing and snorting, but none of us stop.

I call Wal to me.

“Yes,” he says, blinking dust out of his eyes. His wings dark with the stuff.

“I need you to fly ahead. Warn them of what’s coming.”

Wal nods, looks back at the approaching Stirrers. “You’re not going to make it. They’ll wash over you like a wave.”

“Leave that to me. You just go.”

He doesn’t hesitate a moment longer, he’s off.

“You shift,” Lissa says. “Leave us.”

“I can’t,” I say. I need to know that he is following, I need him to think that I’m such an idiot, and maybe I am. I certainly didn’t expect so many Stirrers. I lift dear old Mog above my head. “At least I have this now.”

We round a corner, into a narrowing street, and Alex stops running, I stop with him.

“You keep moving,” he says. He doesn’t sound winded.

“You right?”

“Fine, couldn’t be better.” His face is flushed, his eyes shine.

“We’ve got to keep going,” I jerk a thumb towards the others.

Tim and Lissa sprint ahead of us, not yet aware that we’re no longer with them. The approaching Stirrers are growing louder, their footfalls thunderous. Dust tumbles from the roof above.

“I’m done running,” Alex says.

“What the fuck?”

“Blood’s good for some things,” Alex says. He reaches beneath his jacket pulls out a belt of round objects, I take a step back. “But sometimes you really need grenades.” He yanks out the pin and tosses the first grenade around the corner.

In an eye blink, before the first one goes off, he hurls another two. “Always played Deep Field in cricket, out the back. Got a bloody good arm, Dad used to say. You keep running,” he shouts at me. “I’ll hold them off here where the street narrows. It’s a good position.”

The Stirrers are quiet behind the corner. Then I hear Morrigan shouting something unintelligible.

“You can’t. I can shift, I can do this.”

Alex snorts. “Shit! Mate, you and grenades? I think not. They’d be picking pieces of you out of the walls. Too fucking risky.”

“You can’t.”

“I can,” Alex says. “Don’t you go telling me how I can or can’t die.” He reaches out a hand, and I shake it. “You never know, I might get lucky. But saving the world—what better way to go? I always worried I’d get shot in the head by some stupid kid high on fucking meth. This I can deal with. Regardless, Steve, it’s been a pleasure.” The Stirrers shuffle cautiously around the corner. It would be almost comedic. In fact, Alex is smiling.

I don’t know what to say. Nothing wants to come out of my mouth.

Alex lets go of my hand and casually lobs another two grenades in their direction: one strikes a Stirrer in the face before exploding. It’s a bit messy, and Alex winces.

“Hope that wasn’t one of your mates. Morrigan better put in an appearance soon, fucking prick,” he says. “Now, you run.”

And I do, I shift to Lissa’s side.

“Where’s Alex?” Lissa demands, and I have to hold her to stop her turning back.

“Grenades,” I answer. There’s another burst of explosions. “To give us more time.”

“He can’t.”

“But he has,” I say, and Lissa nods her head.

A few blocks further on, Alex’s soul appears beside us.

“Run,” he says, to all of us. “Run and run.”

And he runs with us. “Slowed them a little,” he says, and I can almost imagine that he’s still alive. Only he’s moving the way the dead move, in rapid bursts, sliding easily between one point in time and the next. Not quite fixed in any. It breaks my heart to see it.

The trip back is at once interminable and swift. Down roads that narrow and widen and curl so that sometimes it feels that we’re not
running away from the Stirrers, but drawing closer to them. There are side streets, and any moment I expect to see the enemy come flooding out of them. Any moment.

Alex, I don’t know how he does it, keeps up with us, and he’s cracking jokes. It’s an Alex I’ve never seen before, one free of worry. Death almost suits him. All it does though, is show what could have been.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. All this decisiveness, all this strength and I still let my friends down.

Twice Tim stops to vomit, Lissa patting his back. “Have. To. Get into shape,” he says, the second time, wiping his mouth.

We’re near the edge of the city, dust hazing the air, and just a hint of something else—life force, the living world beyond—when Wal catches us, coming the other way.

“They’re ready,” he pants, landing on my shoulder. “Waiting.” He peers over at Alex, and frowns. “Sorry, mate.”

“It’s all right,” Alex says.

No, it’s not.

The Stirrers are getting closer, at this rate they’re going to catch us before we reach my Pomps.

I stop. “You lot, keep running. Gonna bloody a few noses.”

Lissa hesitates.

I shake my head, “I’ll be all right, I promise.”

For another moment I think she’s not going to go, but she does, following Tim’s lead.

Wal drops onto my shoulder. “I really need to get in shape,” he says, shaking his head and showering me in cherub sweat.

“You, too,” I say to him. “I need to do this alone.”

“Right, right, we’ll be waiting by the wall.” Then he’s off too, darting back toward my Pomps. Just me and Alex now, and the Stirrers drawing nearer.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

Alex shakes his head. “What the fuck for mate? Trying to save the world? You ready?”

“Yeah.”

I spin to one side and swing Mog. It’s time to make a mess.

Mog arcs around me cutting and cutting. It’s not as smooth or as neat as I would like. But the Stirrers, hemmed in by the narrow streets have trouble getting close enough to stop me. I keep them clear for seconds. And seconds more, shifting in and out of the mass of them. Always hoping that enough time has passed, that Lissa and Tim are close to the ranks of my Pomps.

But even with Mog I know that they can wash over me if I move too slowly.

They catch on quickly and start grabbing me, grabbing the snath of the scythe en masse. Sharp-toothed faces snap at me.