Simon Green - Just Another Judgement Day

The scene moved past him, past the dead dogs in their kennels, to give us a clear view of the whole cellar. It was full of cages, rows and rows of them, maybe four feet square at most, simple steel mesh in steel frames. And in each of these cages was a child. Naked, bruised, and beaten, shivering, with a hopeless face and empty eyes. A bowl of water, and straw on the floor to soak up the wastes, and that was all. Not even a bucket to shit or piss in. Children, kept like animals. Worse than animals. Small children, none older than nine or ten. The youngest looked to be a little girl about four years old. None of them were crying, or asking for help, because they’d learned the hard way that didn’t work. They looked at the Walking Man with blunt animal curiosity. They didn’t expect to be rescued. All hope had been systematically beaten out of them. The cages weren’t big enough for them to stand up. They sat or crouched listlessly, in their own filth. Waiting for whatever this man wanted to do to them.

“These children were snatched off streets all over London,” said the Walking Man. “Brought here to the Nightside, to be raped, tortured, mutilated, and, eventually, murdered. All so that the experience could be impressed on a memory crystal, then sold to those who delight in such things. A real you are there experience, for sale to the very highest bidders. This was the product Precious Memories dealt in, for its very select clientele. Utter degradation, from a safe distance. They didn’t do anything, after all. They just watched. Over and over again, until the thrill wore off. Long after the child was dead and gone. That’s why everyone here had to die. They all knew what was going on. They all profited. They were all guilty. After the children died their slow, horrible deaths, their bodies were fed to the dogs, for disposal. And that’s why they had to die, too.”

He moved into view again, unlocking the cages one by one. None of the children tried to leave. They cowered back, afraid of the Walking Man, as they’d learned to be afraid of all men. Even with the doors open, they wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave. When the Walking Man had finished, he turned back to look at us.

“Help them,” he said. “Get them out of here. Get them to safety, and comfort, and heal those who can be healed. Get them home. I can’t stay here. I still have work to do. I have to track down everyone who was on Precious Memories’ customer list, and kill them all.”

The viewscreen disappeared, and the three of us were left together in the lobby full of dead people. I snatched my hand away from the memory crystal. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t speak. Suzie moved in close beside me, comforting me as best she could with her presence. I looked around at the dead men and women. I couldn’t believe I’d ever felt sorry for them. After what they’d done... the Walking Man showed them more mercy than I would have. He’d given them quick, clean deaths. I felt cold, so cold, right down to my soul. Bad things happen in the Nightside. That’s what it’s for. But this . . . systematic, business-like brutality, to feed the worst appetites of humanity . . . a concentration camp for children . . . He was right. The Walking Man was right, to kill every last one of them.

I must have said some of that aloud, because Chandra Singh nodded quickly. When he spoke, his voice was thick with outrage.

“Perhaps . . . I have been hunting the wrong kind of monster, all these years.”

“We have to go down there,” said Suzie. “Into the cellar. We have to help the children.”

“Of course we do,” I said.

We went down into the cellar. Sometimes we stepped over the bodies, sometimes we kicked them out of our way. At the bottom level, the smell hit us first. It drifted through the broken steel door like a breeze gusting out of Hell. A bad smell, of death and horror, of human filth and children’s suffering. Of piss and shit, sweat and blood. Of terrible things, done in a terrible place. A harsh, reeking, animal smell.

The children were still there, in their cages, trapped in the world that had been made to hold them. Suzie and Chandra approached the cages slowly and cautiously, speaking softly to the children, trying to coax them out. I got on the phone to Walker. I told him what had happened there, then I told him to send help. All the help the children would need. There must have been something in my voice, because Walker didn’t argue or waste my time with unnecessary questions. He promised me help was on the way, and I hung up on him.

Chandra was having some success reaching the children, with his great smile and his warm, friendly voice. And perhaps because he was dressed so differently from what they were used to seeing. Suzie did better. They weren’t as afraid of a woman. I tried to help, but I was too close to what they’d been taught to be afraid of. It seemed to take forever for Walker’s people to arrive. Down there, in that hell. When the doctors and nurses and shrinks finally turned up, we’d still only managed to coax seven of the children out of their cages. Five boys, two girls. They looked at us with wide, traumatised eyes, still too disturbed to talk, just beginning to hope that maybe their long nightmare was finally coming to a close.

One of the girls, a small bruised child of maybe five or six, impulsively hugged Suzie, who was kneeling before her. I moved forward to take the child away, but Suzie stopped me with a look. She slowly closed her arms around the girl and hugged her back. The child nestled against Suzie’s breast, safe at last. Suzie looked up at me.

“It’s all right, John,” she said. “I can do this. I can hold her. It’s like holding me.”

I guess one abuse survivor can always recognise another.

The doctors and the nurses and the shrinks did what they could. I got the feeling they’d seen this kind of thing before. They seemed to know what to say. One by one, the children began to emerge from their cages. Some could even say their names. Walker finally showed up and looked the scene over. His expression never changed, but his eyes were colder than I’d ever seen them.

“We don’t have social services, as such, in the Nightside,” he said finally. “Not much call for them. But I’ve got people coming in from all over, including a few telepaths and empaths. They’ll get the children stabilised, then I’ll arrange for them to be taken back into London proper. Back to their homes, eventually. Hopefully. The children will get everything they need, John. You have my word on that.”

“Search the computers here,” I said. “There has to be a complete list of Precious Memories’ customers, distributors, everyone involved in this filthy business who weren’t here when the Walking Man came calling. Find them all, Walker, and punish them. No exceptions, no excuses, no mercy. No matter how well connected some of them may be. Because if the Walking Man doesn’t kill them, I will.”

“He’s been sighted again,” said Walker. “At the Boys Club. Do you know it?”

“Of course I know it,” I said. “It’s back in Clubland. Send us there.”

“I’m not going,” said Suzie. I looked at her, and she met my gaze steadily, still holding the small child in her arms. “I need to be here, John. To see they all get the help they need. I can help. I understand.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “Stay. Do what you can. I’ll take care of things.”

“I will go with you,” said Chandra Singh. “I need to talk to this Walking Man. What kind of a man is he? What kind of man can go into places like this and kill everyone he finds? What must that do to a man, to his state of mind? To his soul?”

“He wants us to know,” I said. “That’s why he showed us everything. He’s teaching us to see the world as he does. Black and white, right and wrong, and no shades of grey. A world where the guilty will be punished.”