Good Omens

“Because everywhere I go, I hold up traffic,” he mumbled wretchedly.

Crowley looked glumly at the controls of the jeep.

“I’m sorry about the car,” Aziraphale was saying. “I know how much you liked it. Perhaps if you concentrated really hard—”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” said Crowley.

“I suppose not.”

“I had it from new, you know. It wasn’t a car, it was more a sort of whole body glove.”

He sniffed.

“What’s burning?” he said.

A breeze swept up the dust and dropped it again. The air became hot and heavy, imprisoning those within it like flies in syrup.

He turned his head, and looked into Aziraphale’s horrified expression.

“But it’s over,” he said. “It can’t happen now! The—the thing, the correct moment or whatever—it’s gone past! It’s over!”

The ground began to shake. The noise was like a subway train, but not one passing under. It was more like the sound of one coming up.

Crowley fumbled madly with the gear shift.

“That’s not Beelzebub!” he shouted, above the noise of the wind. “That’s Him. His Father! This isn’t Armageddon, this is personal. Start, you bloody thing!”

The ground moved under Anathema and Newt, flinging them onto the dancing concrete. Yellow smoke gushed from between the cracks.

“It feels like a volcano!” shouted Newt. “What is it?”

“Whatever it is, it’s pretty angry,” said Anathema.

In the jeep, Crowley was cursing. Aziraphale laid a hand on his shoulder.

“There are humans here,” he said.

“Yes,” said Crowley. “And me.”

“I mean we shouldn’t let this happen to them.”

“Well, what—” Crowley began, and stopped.

“I mean, when you think about it, we’ve got them into enough trouble as it is. You and me. Over the years. What with one thing and another.”

“We were only doing our jobs,” muttered Crowley.

“Yes. So what? Lots of people in history have only done their jobs and look at the trouble they caused.”

“You don’t mean we should actually try to stop Him?”

“What have you got to lose?”

Crowley started to argue, and realized that he hadn’t anything. There was nothing he could lose that he hadn’t lost already. They couldn’t do anything worse to him than he had coming to him already. He felt free at last.

He also felt under the seat and found a tire iron. It wouldn’t be any good, but then, nothing would. In fact it’d be much more terrible facing the Adversary with anything like a decent weapon. That way you might have a bit of hope, which would make it worse.

Aziraphale picked up the sword lately dropped by War, and hefted its weight thoughtfully.