Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  Strife

  Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

  by M. T. Miller

  Copyright © 2017. M. T. Miller

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission in writing from the author.

  For breaking old bonds, and forging new ones.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: After the Coup

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two: The Battle of the Sierra Nevada

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Three: Tugging the Threads

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Four: The Siege of Babylon

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Five: Breaking the Chains

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  Tomas de Silva pressed his back against the side of a cold brick wall. His ears were ringing and his heart was pounding like a steam engine, but those were the least of his concerns. He raised his rifle up in front of his face, and brought his nose closer to the side of the barrel. Unlike the wall, the gun was searing hot. It smelled of gunpowder, and the grip was wet from what seemed like sweat.

  What the hell are we even doing out here? Tomas shook his head rapidly, forcing himself into some semblance of consciousness. His eyes focused, first on the gun, then on everything else. He was down on the ground floor, in some forgotten part of the slums. Sent there by that... man? He looked left and right, only allowing himself to move once he was certain there were no hostiles about.

  A strangely powerful piece of spider silk stuck to his back. It took far more effort to break than expected.

  He jerked his body to the side, took a dozen hurried paces to his left, and pressed his back against yet another cold surface. There were walls to his left and walls to his right; all of them blasted, shredded, or otherwise damaged. High above, instead of a sky there was a grey ceiling that shone with built-in neon lamps. He had gotten used to that. What he hadn’t gotten used to was getting shot at.

  This isn’t what I signed up for! he reminded himself as he took a peek through what was once a doorway. Babylon used to be a stable place. Gang territories used to be left to police themselves. Guards were supposed to be the only ones with guns, dammit! This wasn’t what anyone of us signed up for!

  Automatic fire came from in between the two derelict buildings to his right. He took cover so quickly, he didn’t even have a chance to see the pieces being torn off the rusty rooftops and shattered windows. Dust fell everywhere around him as he went into a crouch. Rifle rounds were unlikely to penetrate the wall from that distance, but it couldn’t hurt to be careful.

  Yes, he thought as he remembered what he was here for, bits and pieces hitting the ground all around him. They were on an attack run, he and his new team. None of the team but him had ever left the second floor before. They were fat, out of shape, and used to policing the Josés and Marias of gen-pop. But that… that asshole wouldn’t have any of that.

  “You’ve all signed up to serve the city of Babylon. The recent change in Management does not in any way terminate your contract.” The words of the self-proclaimed Lord Nameless kept echoing through Tomas’s head. Despite the fading sound of gunfire, the words were as clear as day. The memories of what had happened only minutes ago came next, and Tomas started blinking uncontrollably.

  Despite his intentions, his gaze fell on his own body, and he temporarily stopped breathing when he saw that he was completely covered in blood. A single droplet of a tear rolled down his left cheek when he realized that he didn’t need to check himself for injuries. None of the blood was his.

  It was a complete and utter massacre. He and his squad were supposed to lie in wait, and only go into action once recon had done its job. The only problem was that recon had been slaughtered whole, and by the time Tomas had spotted the ambush, it was already too late. The hail of bullets turned Tomas’s buddies into mincemeat before they even had a chance to react to his warning. There was nothing he could do but leap into safety. Things got blurry after that.

  But the shock had passed, and he now remembered. For the most part, at least.

  Tomas let go of his rifle, and let it hang off its belt, nearly touching the ground. He slapped himself with both hands, and the ringing in his ears lessened somewhat. It was only then that he noticed that the sound of gunfire had died down. Maybe I can still get out of here?

  It was possible. Street gangs weren’t prone to massacres in the past. Better to let the enemy escape and tell the tale, right? Then again, they didn’t used to sport this many firearms, either. Tomas gripped his rifle again. This time, it wasn’t wet. It was sticky.

  Play dead? That would be insanity. The enemy would most certainly loot the ‘corpse,’ and who knew what they’d do to him once they learned he was alive. No. Better just end it right here and now. He took up the barrel of his rifle and stared into its blackness. It was inviting him in.

  “On your feet, soldier!” The echoing baritone called Tomas back to his senses. Contrary to every instinct, he straightened himself up against the wall. He repositioned his gun as fast as he could, holding it at the ready. Blinking once more to do away with any remaining tears, he turned to his left and instantly regretted not having killed himself.

  His own face stared at him from between the shoulders of a taller man. Clad completely in black and wielding the standard issue assault rifle of Babylon’s peacekeeping forces, Lord Nameless strode forward. His mirror-like facemask was just as featureless and unnerving at it had always been, and his loose, long hair was of the same shade as his trench coat–black.

  A row of armed guards huddled behind Lord Nameless, the self-proclaimed god. Tomas knew some of them. The rest were either new or used to be stationed on other floors. None of that mattered anymore. All of them were stuck down in the slums and bound to the will of an undying monster. Hell, some of them even seemed to like it.

  “My Lord! Awaiting orders, my Lord!” Tomas shouted, fully on autopilot. He relied on it more and more these last several months. It had kept him alive this far, so why change the winning formula?

  “Where is your unit?” Lord Nameless asked, seemingly oblivious to the man’s distress.

  “Everywhere, my Lord!” Tomas shouted back. “Slaughtered to the last man, my Lord!”

  “How did it happen?” asked Lord Nameless, tilting his head toward a nearby passage.

  “I…” t
he words got stuck in Tomas’s throat. “I’m not sure, my Lord. Recon’s missing, and we were hit from the side. He pointed toward his back. “That side. I saw them first. Shouted for everyone to take cover. No one else seems to have made it.”

  “So they somehow knew we were coming…” Lord Nameless turned toward the rest of his men. Tomas sighed in relief. Having to look at his own twisted reflection on the face of another man was unnerving in more than one way.

  “Treason is possible,” Lord Nameless continued. “And less horrifying than the alternative.”

  “My Lord?” Tomas blurted out. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “And you don’t need to,” Lord Nameless said without turning around. “The enemy is behind you, and if my assumption is correct, so is our goal. No, soldier, I do not need you to understand a thing. What I need you to do is take up your weapon and get behind me.” He turned around just a little bit, giving Tomas a glimpse of the distorted slums reflected off the mask. “Can you do that?”

  No, thought Tomas as his fingers contracted around the grip of his rifle. “Yes, my Lord. I can.”

  “Perfect,” Lord Nameless said, once again turning toward the others. “Our opposition is strong, else they could not have decimated our vanguard. But I am here now, and no bullet or blade is capable of bringing me down!” He pointed his gun barrel up to the fake sky and fired off a short burst. “As always, I will take point! As always, you will follow! And as always, we will triumph! For among you walks a god, and he who stands with me need not fear death!”

  The men roared loudly, and so did Tomas. He had no other choice.

  At least the ones against us are human, he thought.

  Part One:

  After the Coup

  Chapter One

  The Nameless’ forehead hurt. Unlike the rest of his head, it hadn’t taken any direct damage. However, his bulletproof mask had been shot several times within the last minute, and the dents applied constant pressure to his skull. It kept biting into his face over and over again. And he kept healing rapidly, just to get cut up once more.

  “I shot you! I fucking shot you, asshole! You’re dead, you’re just too stupid to realize it!” a man shouted from the other side of the windowless room. Most of the furniture had been looted who knows how long ago, and all that remained was the concrete counter that served for him to hide behind. He was completely trapped. Other than the doorway the Nameless and his men took cover behind, there was no way out.

  The Nameless touched the left side of his neck. The bullet had exited cleanly. It didn’t slow him down for one moment. He wanted to believe that he had come a long way since his time in the Underbelly, but he knew better. He was still a killer, a literal god of murder. Becoming a better damage sponge did not change that one bit. If anything, his increasing inhumanity only made it worse.

  You should wear a helmet, the words of his friend David Torres echoed inside his mind. A direct hit to the brain might cause a loss of consciousness. Or it might not. The Nameless had no idea what he was capable of anymore, and neither did anyone else. But maintaining the illusion of invulnerability was crucial. If he took obvious effort to protect himself from gunfire, sooner or later someone would start to question his divinity.

  “So you did. And what good did it do?” he said without shouting, yet loudly enough for the man to hear. He let his rifle hang, and unsheathed the skull-engraved revolver from underneath his shot-up trench coat. “Give up, Grin, and save me the trouble. Unlike me, you cannot shrug off gunfire!”

  A dreadful silence was the only answer he had for almost a full minute. The first thing to break it was the sound of a heavy gun hitting the cracked floor of the room. The man’s voice was next.

  “And here I hoped we’d have ourselves a Mexican standoff,” the Grin said as he stood up from behind the counter, his arms up in the air. He was always thin, but now looked more akin to a skeleton. A good part of his face was covered by week-old stubble, and the patchwork mess of denim and leather he wore seemed ready to come apart at any moment. “But you had to go and ruin that for me as well, huh?”

  The Nameless wasted neither time nor effort. His revolver firmly in his grasp, he rushed into the room and closed the distance between himself and the Grin in a single breath. And he didn’t stop moving. His muscles tightened as he slammed into the smaller man, and the Grin flew backward, lost his balance, and fell over behind the counter. Not willing to let him draw any hidden weaponry, the Nameless leapt over the obstacle, crouched, and pressed his forearm against the Grin’s neck as he touched the ground.

  “What are you doing? What is the Cleanup Crew doing? Where are they?” the Nameless asked, pressing his arm just as little bit harder down. His men came closer as he spoke, their pace not too hurried.

  “Beats me,” said the Grin, flashing his namesake. “We agreed on not sharing our hideouts with each other back when we separated. Given how committed you are to hunting us down, it seemed the reasonable thing to do.”

  “I am not going for you just because I do not like you,” the Nameless said. Although that is part of the reason. “You are sowing dissent. Engaging in pillaging and petty robbery. Spreading blasphemy and outright lies!” He brought his face closer the Grin’s, letting the man see his own shattered expression in the mask. “I am trying to do something here. Make a difference. Turn this hellhole into something that can be good for everyone, instead of just for you. Why are you so dead-set on undermining me at every turn?”

  “Is that how it is?” the Grin said, his eyes lighting up as they moved to inspect the surrounding guards. “And here I thought you were out to build a cult of personality. Conquer what’s left of the States. Give everyone a loaf of stale bread just for worshipping your balls. You know, the stuff you’ve been up to for the last seven months or so!”

  “I have been ‘up to’ more than that, Grin,” the Nameless said as he loosened the pressure on the Grin’s neck. “Do you wish to know what that is?”

  “Not particularly,” the Grin said, the zest in his voice fading away. “But you’re going to tell me anyway, right?”

  “No,” said the Nameless as he lifted his arm up. The revolver grip gleamed above the Grin’s face as it came back down. “I am going to show you!”

  If the Grin had anything left to say, the blow to the forehead snuffed it out of him along with his consciousness. The Nameless rose, his mask doing its work of hiding traces of his own grin. He turned to one of the guards, and pointed down at the unconscious man. “Arrest him, but strip him first. Separate any weapons from items you cannot identify and place them into separate bags. Then, bring it all to the dungeon for inspection. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Lord Nameless!” said the men.

  Even though the moniker used to please him, this time it only made his smile disappear.

  ***

  The distinct scent of slum-air was strong in the Nameless’ nostrils. The mask didn’t help. If anything, the dents on its surface made his vision fragment. He had only become aware of this after he’d left the building where the firefight took place.

  Everything fades in combat, he reminded himself. Everything but myself and my enemy.

  He turned around, catching a fractured glimpse of his entourage as they hauled the Grin’s nude, limp body for everyone to see. The man was a master poisoner. Stripping him was a necessity, but he Nameless didn’t regret this particular act of mistreatment. If the Grin could, he’d have killed everyone present without a shred of mercy.

  “No problems here, Lord Nameless!” one of the men said, as if expecting a question. There were about twenty, and they took up the entire street. Behind them, a row of ten more cuffed prisoners marched at a steady yet irregular pace. The Nameless nodded as he turned forward again. The ground floor was a treacherous place. Caution was a necessity.

  It still looks the same, he thought as he scanned the filthy concrete path, the derelict houses, and the beaten-down heaps of long-misshapen contraptions that
littered the ground in between. He had learned much of this new world since he had risen from the grave, mostly from books. In the century and a half that he’d spent dead, people had created many wonders, not the least of which were these metallic, horseless carriages. Few of them were still functional in Babylon. Most just took up space.

  So far, I have not made it better. He formed a fist with his right hand. He had tried. He had tried so, so hard. Free food. Eliminating the criminal element. Fairer treatment of the deprived. It meant next to nothing at all. For all the good it did, he might as well have kept the old Management’s system. At least he’d have kept the complete loyalty of his guards, as opposed to fear keeping them obedient.

  He hit the side of his mask, somewhat fiercer than he should have. Its surface smoothed out a bit, and a piece that was particularly harsh on his forehead distanced itself from it. He shaped it once more, quickly and haphazardly. That should hold until I can replace it.

  He upped his pace, knowing full well that the men would have to do the same, or try their best. They would grumble, but none would disobey. Let them. It was for their own good. There used to be next to no guards stationed at ground floor, and gangs had free reign. The interventions led by the Nameless had taken control from the bosses, and given it to no one at all. Minimizing the team’s time in the open would reduce the chance of another ambush.

  Besides, I cannot risk losing the Grin now that I have him in my grasp. The old Crew, formerly a group of mercenaries (of which the Nameless had once been a member), secretly employed by the police on the third floor had something planned; that much was certain. On the surface, it was all chaos. Disrupting supply lines. Robbing the few trading caravans that resisted the pressures from outside and still came to trade in Babylon. Joining the terrorist actions of once-powerful local gangs. But underneath it all, the Nameless was beginning to get a glimpse of something.