Good Omens

“That’s right. Adam Young,” said Adam.

“Good effort. You’ve saved the world. Have a half-holiday,” said Crowley. “But it won’t really make any difference.”

“I think you’re right,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure my people want Armageddon. It’s very sad.”

“Would anyone mind telling us what’s going on?” said Anathema sternly, folding her arms.

Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s a very long story,” he began.

Anathema stuck out her chin. “Go on, then,” she said.

“Well. In the Beginning—”

The lightning flashed, struck the ground a few meters from Adam, and stayed there, a sizzling column that broadened at the base, as though the wild electricity was filling an invisible mold. The humans pressed back against the jeep.

The lightning vanished, and a young man made out of golden fire stood there.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “It’s him.”

“Him who?” said Crowley.

“The Voice of God,” said the angel. “The Metatron.”

The Them stared.

Then Pepper said, “No, it isn’t. The Metatron’s made of plastic and it’s got laser cannon and it can turn into a helicopter.”

“That’s the Cosmic Megatron,” said Wensleydale weakly. “I had one, but the head fell off. I think this one is different.”

The beautiful blank gaze fell on Adam Young, and then turned sharply to look at the concrete beside it, which was boiling.

A figure rose from the churning ground in the manner of the demon king in a pantomime, but if this one was ever in a pantomime, it was one where no one walked out alive and they had to get a priest to burn the place down afterwards. It was not greatly different to the other figure, except that its flames were blood-red.

“Er,” said Crowley, trying to shrink into his seat. “Hi … er.”

The red thing gave him the briefest of glances, as though marking him for future consumption, and then stared at Adam. When it spoke, its voice was like a million flies taking off in a hurry.

It buzzed a word that felt, to those humans who heard it, like a file dragged down the spine.

It was talking to Adam, who said, “Huh? No. I said already. My name’s Adam Young.” He looked the figure up and down. “What’s yours?”

“Beelzebub,” Crowley supplied. “He’s the Lord of—”

“Thank you, Crowzley,” said Beelzebub. “Later we muzzed have a seriouzz talk. I am sure thou hazzt muzzch to tell me.”

“Er,” said Crowley, “well, you see, what happened was—”

“Silenzz!”

“Right. Right,” said Crowley hurriedly.

“Now then, Adam Young,” said the Metatron, “while we can of course appreciate your assistance at this point, we must add that Armageddon should take place now. There may be some temporary inconvenience, but that should hardly stand in the way of the ultimate good.”

“Ah,” whispered Crowley to Aziraphale, “what he means is, we have to destroy the world in order to save it.”

“Azz to what it standz in the way of, that hazz yet to be decided,” buzzed Beelzebub. “But it muzzt be decided now, boy. That izz thy deztiny. It is written.”

Adam took a deep breath. The human watchers held theirs. Crowley and Aziraphale had forgotten to breathe some time ago.