Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “Thinking of how you’re going to bash their heads in?” Greg asked as he came in from the right.

  What does he want from me? the Nameless wondered. “I will leave that to Kenneth.”

  “Naw, he can’t do shit,” Greg said, spitting out a piece of something that seemed like bone. “I’ve seen his kind. He’s your regular high school bully. Act big around those weaker than him, but just parrot whatever the bigger kid tells him.”

  “And you are different?” asked the Nameless.

  “We’re all equally fucked from where I’m standing,” Greg said. “Except maybe we aren’t.”

  He is referring to Father Light’s visions, the Nameless realized. “Maybe.”

  It took a couple of seconds for Greg to speak again. “Never been a believer, my brother. Never took no cross, nor put faith in anything beyond these here fists and whatever they could grab. When everything went to hell, when the shit came for me and my family, I was ready.”

  The Nameless turned away from the melee. “They are dead?”

  “Damn right they are!” Greg said. “Thought I was strong. Thought I could protect them on my own. Turned out that was a crock of shit.”

  “And you are telling me this because…” The Nameless had heard such stories countless times before. Just like everything else, they lost their bite.

  “Because you think you’re strong,” Greg said coldly. “Because you think you can make it on your own. And because that’s all a crock of shit as well.”

  The Nameless remained silent as Greg turned around and went back toward the camp.

  All these people, I will need to kill, the Nameless reminded himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a dark day on Babylon’s second floor. Then again, without electricity, any day would’ve been dark.

  Doing his usual rounds, Tomas de Silva walked at the head of a team of five. Even though they were well fed and armed, the men’s morale was at an all-time low. Ten-hour shifts under torchlight in a city that had suffered its second coup was a fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy. Although I’d like to see Azarian have to do it.

  As was the norm now, most walkways (save for the ones at center) were all but empty. With everything grinding to a halt, the city’s huge population found themselves jobless, and thus the constant traffic of people died out. The madman Ashes was successful at bringing back a semblance of subservience to the populace, but religion could only accomplish so much. Eventually, Azarian had to stoop to providing the very same thing as the extinguished Cult of the Nameless: free food.

  When someone else does it, it’s a waste, he argued with an imaginary sheriff as he peeked to the right of an intersection. Another man did the same with the road to the left. But when you do it, then it’s generous, right? He almost hurled.

  With the coast clear, he tilted his head forward and the group proceeded. The responsibility of leading a patrol was the last thing he wanted, but with his enormous experience, he was the logical choice. Given the amount of casualties the peacekeeping force had suffered over the recent months, everyone with any time out in the field was a godsend.

  Tomas and his team approached another intersection. Something tensed in his throat, and he extended his left arm to command his squad to stop moving.

  But it was far too late to make any difference.

  Doors and windows opened on both sides of the street. Pouring from within what were once business stands, a tide of people came running at the guards. Their limbs were thin, their postures hunched. Yet the fury that shone from their eyes made them threatening even in such a sorry state.

  “Ambush!” Tomas shouted on instinct. Already holding his gun with one hand, he braced it against his body, pointed at the nearest attacker, and fired. The man was of greasy skin, balding and short. A split second later, he was meatloaf. A spray of blood hit Tomas in the face. Several others splashed him from other sides. Dozens of men cried out, creating a cacophony of screams, a moment before the sound of gunfire overpowered it.

  Whether he kept firing or just zoned out, Tomas had no idea. By the time he regained his senses, he stood in the middle of a pile of mutilated dead bodies. In sharp contrast to every other confrontation he had taken part in, he now had an injury: what appeared to be a shiv stuck out the right side of his gut.

  A first time for everything, he concluded as he pressed on the wound and turned to face his team. “Everyone in one piece?”

  “Goddamn pieces of shit!” one of the men shouted in response. He’d been stabbed several times, and he knelt instead of standing. The way he looked at the corpses indicated that he would’ve gladly killed them again.

  “We’re alive,” someone else said, apparently unfazed. “More than I can say for these sons of bitches.”

  The other two men didn’t speak. Apparently unable to look away, they stared at the bloodshed they’d created. Tomas knew that was not a smart thing to do. Nevertheless, he ignored his own wisdom and did the same.

  Sweet mother of mercy. Men, young and old. Women. Gunned down and ground to a pulp. There didn’t seem to be any children among the deceased, but Tomas found little comfort in that. Within the mess they’d made, anything might be found.

  To hell with this, he thought as he reloaded his rifle while trying to bleed as little as possible. When he was done, he turned left and right, forcing through the haze and making himself notice every detail. To his relief, there were no random onlookers.

  “Sir?” the pincushion-guard said. “Permission to evacuate and seek a doctor!”

  To hell with you. Tomas’ eyes leapt from one dead citizen to another. Even though he had enlisted for selfish reasons, protecting these people was still his job. And he had failed at it horribly.

  He turned toward his men, his weapon at the ready. Unlike their own hate-filled stares, his expression betrayed nothing at all. Pointing the gun at the leftmost guard, Tomas didn’t blink as he squeezed the trigger.

  To hell with me, he thought as he steered the weapon to the right. He didn’t stop firing until the clip ran dry.

  ***

  As he sat in a chair before the sheriff’s desk, Tomas massaged his temples with both hands. The wound in his side had been cleaned and dressed, and he had been given a fresh uniform.

  The room was sizeable but dark, its only source of illumination being a portable neon light that hung off a nearby wall. Whether it was somehow being charged regularly, or its use was reserved for special occasions, Tomas had no idea.

  Even though Azarian had not been physically injured, his expression was that of a beast being bled dry. “What in the name of all that’s holy happened out there?”

  Tomas breathed in, feigning distress. “The people are beginning to riot, sir. If you ask me, this was only a taste of what’s to come.”

  “You think?” the sheriff said sarcastically. “I’ve read the reports. I know what this was. What I’m asking is how did you lot end up slaughtered like that?”

  Tomas discreetly looked to both sides. Besides him and Azarian, there were five guards in the room. The sheriff either doubted his innocence, or was just paranoid. Let’s hope it’s the latter.

  “There were a lot of them,” Tomas said, “and they were lying in wait. None of us saw them coming. Someone, somehow, got hold of a rifle, and that was that.” He clasped his hands in front of his face. “Complete massacre.”

  The sheriff responded in an identical gesture, either reflexively or on purpose. His stare extended behind Tomas, possibly even through the wall behind him. “This is a complete shit-show,” he said.

  “Respectfully, sir,” Tomas nodded, “I agree.”

  “We save them from a madman,” Azarian said, apparently to himself, “some mutant freak who might as well be Satan himself, and they end up hating us. They were displeased with the Nameless in charge, now they’re displeased with us. Do these people even know what they want?”

  Tomas thought long and hard about what he was going to say
. Supposedly, Azarian never believed the rumors about the old Management’s divinity, yet somehow he entertained the notion of the Nameless being the devil.

  “I mean, you know what I’m talking about,” Azarian continued after several seconds of silence. “You’ve seen the shit. Hundreds of good men lost for something that couldn’t be done. Just like me, you’ve risked your health, your sanity, and your life for something you had no stake in. And while we served this monstrosity, the rest of the world was getting ready to crush us.”

  Ignoring the pain it made in the back of his head, Tomas stared into the neon light. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it all.” There was no denying the validity of what Azarian was saying. Every word was correct.

  “He’d worked the city to the bone,” the sheriff said, “and now it’s up to men like you and me to take it to the doctor. Except survival instincts have kicked in, and it’s gone freaking mad!” He slammed his fist against the desk, sending papers flying. “Nowhere to go from here but forward. We stop, and we’re all dead. Understood?”

  His face an emotionless mask, Tomas nodded again. Beneath, however, he was smiling. If Azarian took the trouble to explain himself, it meant that Tomas was not under suspicion. And if he was not under suspicion, then the surrounding guards were not being watchful of his every move. His gaze drifted toward the man to his right, focusing on his holster. The shiv-wound began to ache, as if to discourage what he was about to attempt.

  “Of course you do,” Azarian said, flashing a half-smile. “You have to, after all you’ve been through. What’d they call you again?”

  “Lucky Tom,” Tomas said as he discreetly tightened every muscle in his body. For a moment, he worried that the shakes would return. However, the way his fingers responded when he contracted and released them made him feel like a boy again.

  “Lucky Tom,” Azarian smiled. “Is there anything you can’t survive?”

  Instead of words, Tomas responded with action. Springing to his right like a crooked jack-in-the-box, he grabbed the guard’s sidearm and pulled it out of its holster. Ignoring his re-opening wound, he aimed the pistol at Azarian’s forehead and opened fire.

  There is, he thought as the sheriff’s brains darkened the neon light, and the surrounding guards cocked their rifles.

  I won’t survive this.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Struggling to chew what he hoped was meat, the Nameless stood in front of what was either an absurdly long table, or tens of them joined at the base. He turned his back to the food on it, and observed the grand melee before him. It was the third such event this afternoon, but there was no shortage of eager participants. Malachi fought in all three, smashing all opposition. The Nameless burned each brutal move he made into his memory. You will never best me again.

  Three days had passed since he was proclaimed a Knight, and besides the scope of these war games having increased, little else had changed. He rose early, fought, ate, and repeated the pattern. All this time, Greg strived to surpass him in combat, and failed every step of the way. However, this didn’t seem to affect the results of the man’s skill tests. Both he and the Nameless had been marked as potential elite forces. What this meant in the long run was, for now, a mystery.

  Speaking of mysteries, the Nameless was slowly getting acquainted with a new one: muscle inflammation. Without the quick recovery provided by regular murder, the consequences of pushing himself were slowly becoming more and more apparent. His arms, chest, and even hips ached with every sharp movement he made, and semi-regular breaks were becoming more and more of a necessity.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye. Still wrestling with his food, he turned toward it, and found himself looking at a group of ten nuns. Just as white-clad as the priests and the Knights, the women added provisions to the still-plentiful table. Turning back toward the fight, he still observed the nuns as discreetly as possible. I wonder what they think about all these Skulls.

  The women passed him by in obvious hurry. He took note of their faces and candidly looked below the veils. Young. Old. Young. Middle-aged. Besides being as white as snow, they seemed to come from various backgrounds. One even looked familiar, with a pinkish, even beautiful freckled face under a pair of arched red eyebrows. Annabelle?

  The Nameless froze, dropping whatever it was that he was eating. Impossible, he told himself, yet he had to check. He followed the pretty-faced nun, sped around her, and took a good look. There was no doubt—the murderous cannibal from his past was now serving him food.

  Even though there was no chance for her to recognize him, Annabelle stopped moving. Her bright green eyes remain fixated on his own, as if she were reaching for something beyond her grasp.

  “Violator!” an older woman shouted from the Nameless’ side. As he turned toward the sound of nearing footsteps, the sound of something hard cutting the air caused him to step back.

  The nun was corpulent, and she swung a crop with a bit too much familiarity. To someone like the Nameless, though, evading it was effortless. Both of her chins bloating below her round face, the woman seemed about ready to start breathing fire.

  “Rapist!” she screamed, causing the eyes of everyone nearby to turn toward her. “Molester! Profaner of the innocent, the just, and the holy! Is this what passes for Knights today? Must we recruit from the lowest of the low?”

  You are letting in Skulls. It is impossible to go lower, the Nameless thought while remaining quiet. The fact that the corpulent nun called him a rapist while defending Annabelle was amusing in a twisted way. The Knights that slowly began to close in from both sides, far less so.

  “A monster among men!” The corpulent nun pointed her crop at the Nameless. “Wanting to stain the purest of the pure with blood-soaked hands!”

  As if to prove her wrong, the Nameless displayed his palms. They were indeed filthy, but from food rather than blood.

  She wasn’t in on the joke, and neither were the men that now encircled them. “He even dares to mock us! Us, who took the lot of you in when no one else would! Us, who offered you a chance to save your souls from eternal damnation!” Every single vein jutted on her forehead, and there were many. “How dare you?”

  The Nameless realized that the question wasn’t posed to him, not really. She was trying to incite the former Skulls against him. It was working. Even though the faces were no longer human, they didn’t fail to communicate resentment. However, none dared speak. Not before Malachi, the man they now called the First Skull.

  “Think yourself big?” Malachi roared as he plowed through several rows of Knights to stand before the Nameless. Still a mountain of a man, he was head and shoulders over anyone else. “Think yourself tough?” He turned toward Annabelle, his neck twisting like that of a hunting dog. “What’d he do?”

  “This one has taken a vow of silence,” the corpulent nun said, the veins on her forehead receding somewhat. “So I must speak for her. This violator invaded her personal space, and was getting this close to slobbering all over her face.” Her lips contorted in disgust. “If I hadn’t stopped him, the poor thing would’ve been scarred for life. Perhaps even longer.”

  Malachi looked at the Nameless, then back to the corpulent nun. “Don’t worry. He’ll be taught a lesson.” He pointed to the mass of men, who instantly parted to reveal a chalk-drawn circle that lay beyond. “You. Get in. Show me what you got.”

  The Nameless sighed. He wished for nothing more than a chance to mutilate that mug even further. But this was too early. And I do not have the revolver with the cursed bullets.

  “Are you brain-damaged, or just deaf?” Malachi shouted, raising a fist.

  The Nameless responded by turning to his right and moving toward the arena. Nothing he said would make his situation better or worse. Whether there was something he could do was another question, albeit one he couldn’t answer.

  Malachi didn’t issue a warning. He didn’t ask if his opponent was ready, nor mention any rules of the engagement. Rather, he threw
himself forward at the very second his feet touched the inside of the circle. Eager to see the First Skull pummel some insolent punk senseless, the Knights flocked to see the spectacle up close.

  The man was not slow for his size, but his movements telegraphed everything he was about to do a mile away. It didn’t take much effort for the Nameless to evade his swing, even with his aching muscles.

  Now what? he asked himself as he parried another punch and leapt back to avoid a grapple. If he were to punch, kick, or otherwise try to injure Malachi, all he would do was shatter his own bones.

  The huge man snarled, his muscles bulging, and he went into a tackle. His intent on pinning the Nameless underneath his weight and beating him into submission (or worse) was apparent.

  Maybe that will work, the Nameless thought as he moved, this time neither to the side nor backward, but forward. Sliding underneath Malachi’s grasping arms, he planted both legs underneath the huge man’s feet, sending him flying out of the ring. Whether or not he was aware of what was going on, Malachi didn’t cry out. The men who broke his fall more than compensated for his silence.

  Small victories, I reckon. The Nameless straightened himself up, uncertain of what to expect. If they went by the rules of individual combat, he had just beaten the First Skull without laying a hand on him. The sheer disbelief in everyone’s eyes was only matched by their anticipation of what was to come.

  Unable to articulate his rage into words, Malachi sprang back to his feet. His eyes were as red as if his capillaries had popped, an amazing feet given his invulnerability. The skin on his face tightened even further back, and he returned to the ring with clear intent to kill.

  “An amazing display!” someone shouted in a deep, rugged voice that easily overpowered the murmur of the crowd. The Nameless, unable to afford to turn fully toward its source, circled Malachi to the opposite side and hoped to catch a glimpse of the speaker with the corner of his eye. A pair of red, reflective glasses stared at him from somewhere within the mass of people, slowly getting closer.