Strife

by M. T. Miller

  “You mentioned something before,” the Nameless said.

  “I did,” the prisoner said, still staring with his coal-black eyes.

  “What did you mean by it?” the Nameless asked.

  “Exactly what you think.” The prisoner’s beard furrowed up as if he were smiling. “I can stop the detonation. Assuming, of course, that you let me out of here.”

  The lock clicked, and the Nameless shoved the door in. He approached the man. There was no need to be careful. Considering how skinny he was, the prisoner was no threat to anyone even if he was armed.

  “How do you know about that?” the Nameless asked.

  “We can waste time here, talking about it,” the prisoner said, “or we can try to prevent the detonation remotely.”

  The Nameless measured the man again. He was dressed in grayed-out rags, yet his teeth were unusually white. Not a single one was missing.

  “How do we do that?” he asked, extending a hand.

  “There is a jury-rigged van in the north part of the city.” The prisoner grabbed the Nameless’ forearm and rose. “Easily recognizable since it acts as a relay. Antennas protrude from the top. If you can get me there, I should be able to override the system and stop the explosions.”

  The Nameless released the prisoner’s hand and pointed for him to leave the cell.

  “I recommend that you take point,” the prisoner said. “If I die along the way, so does most of Louisiana.”

  The Nameless left the cell without a word, the man following closely behind. By the time they were out of the prison, mass hysteria was in full grip of the city. As if they were a single person with a thousand voice boxes, the residents of the Underbelly lamented the loss of the Holy One like a child would mourn their dead mother.

  “Never thought this day would come,” the prisoner said with subdued relief.

  He was tortured, the Nameless realized. There weren’t any physical signs, but there is more than one way to break a man. In all likelihood, he had been made to set up the bombs.

  “Tell me where to go,” the Nameless said.

  “That way,” the prisoner said vacantly as he pointed a finger northward. “Most should have gathered around the cathedral. We should have free passage.”

  Indeed. The Nameless started moving as fast as he could without risking the man’s health. As the minutes passed, he noticed that he didn’t have to worry too much. The prisoner was either used to the pace or hid his discomfort well. Possibly both.

  They didn’t stumble upon a soul, but the constant shrieking made certain they didn’t feel alone. The Nameless turned around at every intersection, sometimes even in the middle of a road. Nothing lurked between the walls, and no guards waited to take revenge for the death of their supposed savior. The One True Church of America was broken, and all it took was one life.

  “Is that it?” the Nameless asked. The van was the color of vermillion, and sprinkled with rust. An ugly and overwhelmingly large formation of metal sprouted from it in all directions. Among everything else, there was also at least one solar panel like the ones they had in Babylon. If the thing could even be driven, he would be surprised.

  “Yes.” The prisoner nodded, observing the area with his own pair of eyes. His skin was almost as pale as Contrast’s or Divine’s. Whether that was his natural state or a consequence of sun deprivation was anyone’s guess.

  They reached the van without a single issue, and the Nameless noted a peculiar lack of a handle. The door wouldn’t budge, no matter how much he pulled at or around it.

  “No need,” the prisoner said as he approached. He extended a hand and placed his palm on a flat, dark square near the lock. The diodes and bulbs around it sprang to life momentarily, and the door first loosened up, then slid open. The prisoner stepped in, and so did the Nameless, and the illumination system greeted them by turning itself on.

  “This thing needs about a minute to fully boot up,” the prisoner said as he sat down near a black, then blue, screen. “Once it goes fully online, we will be in business.” He dragged his fingers over the innumerable keys that sprouted under the table, then turned to the Nameless again. “I will need you to cover us from that direction. If anyone starts going for us, taking care of them would be on you.”

  The Nameless cracked the knuckles of both his left and newly regrown right hand. He had recently killed. Keeping a few broken stragglers at bay would not be a problem. At least until they start thinking again.

  An intense buzzing filled the room, and the prisoner started hitting the keys. He didn’t speak, at least not to the Nameless. Any conversation he was taking part in was between him and the machine.

  He kept going at it some ten seconds before his expression went sour.

  “What’s the problem?” the Nameless asked before the prisoner had the chance to speak.

  “Only the general and I had access to this console,” the prisoner said. “The door opens for no one else.” He hit a few more keys in frustration, then rose and started feeling the cables. “He must’ve expected I’d do something and sabotaged the system just in case. My commands aren’t coming through.”

  Having only a vague idea of what was going on, the Nameless started looking around as well, more for show than anything else. “Can you do anything about it?”

  The prisoner moved the screen to the side, tugged on five different cables, then continued to do the same with everything else in the van. “Of course I can. But I’ll need time. And that’s one thing we don’t have.”

  “Do what you can,” the Nameless said. “And after you’ve done what you can, do more. A lot of lives are at stake.”

  “I know,” the prisoner said as he prodded around.

  The Nameless caught movement with his peripheral vision. He turned back toward the door, noting a trio of Knights heading their way from across the street. Their movements were clumsy and erratic, not any different than the walking dead.

  “Trouble?” the prisoner asked without looking.

  “Not at all.” The Nameless stepped out of the vehicle and pulled out his saber. “Keep at it. I will prevent anyone from reaching you. Can you work under pressure?”

  “All my work was done under pressure.”

  “Good to know,” the Nameless said, stepping forward.

  The men may have acted like zombies, but most definitely weren’t. When they noticed the Nameless draw his blade, they responded in kind. A moment ago, they might have been curious. Now they were out for blood.

  What a coincidence, the Nameless thought as he dashed toward them. So am I.

  The Knights would’ve had no chance if they were in their right mind. In this shocked state, the Nameless brought them down within seconds. Wiping his blade on a red-stained white hood, he was just about to turn back to the van when he noticed more coming in. He looked around, and realized that they were arriving from more than one direction.

  Ten… no, twenty people, and the number keeps increasing. He stepped back toward the van, and the encroaching Knights advanced from all sides.

  “We are getting surrounded!” he shouted, stepping back again.

  “I know!” the prisoner shouted through a clangor of metal. “Get back in here! We need to move!”

  The Nameless didn’t need to be told twice. Even if he could slaughter twenty to thirty men en masse, at least some of them were guaranteed to go around and reach the van. And if that happens, I lose. He jumped inside, expecting to see the prisoner still fumbling around the wires. Instead, he stepped on a disconnected pile of electronics in an empty van, while the screen showed something, the purpose of which he had no idea.

  Where is he? The Nameless turned toward the driver’s seat, sighing in relief when he saw the prisoner starting the vehicle. The engine rumbled like a bear waking up from hibernation, and the whole thing shook as if an earthquake were in progress.

  “Shut the door or you’ll fall out!” the prisoner shouted as he frantically turned the wheel.

  T
he Nameless grabbed the protruding bar on the inside of the door, pulled, and slammed it shut. Just as the vacuum secured it tight, the van sprang to life and he almost lost footing. On reflex he put a hand before his face, preventing it from flattening in contact with a nearby wall. The tires screeched as the prisoner pushed the gas pedal as far as it went. The Nameless didn’t see his hands as they worked the wheel, but judging by the way the vehicle was turning, they were very busy.

  You will kill me, he wanted to say as he stopped himself from falling on his own saber. The sound of several men hitting the van reached his ears then, and he realized that the prisoner was busy killing others. He wanted to look out the windows and see how far they’d come, but realized that the van didn’t have any.

  Except in the front. Still holding himself firmly, he advanced up to the driver’s seat, noticing that they were approaching the northern gate. There were no guards around, so the only thing between them and freedom was the lowered barricade.

  “Will this van survive that?” he asked.

  “It will,” the prisoner said, “but most of the gear on top won’t!”

  It didn’t take long for the Nameless to put two and two together. “Pull over,” he said.

  “No.”

  The Nameless did not feel like going back for his blade. “You must stop the nukes.”

  “I can’t!” the prisoner shouted. “The gear won’t transmit! It’s worthless! Get it?”

  The Nameless’ body went numb. How he still managed to stand, he had no idea.

  The prisoner took his silence as permission to ram the pedal as far as it would go. The engine roared, and the van smashed through the barricade as if it were dough. Having not held tight enough, the Nameless flew over the shotgun seat and landed head-first where the legs were supposed to be.

  “Hey!” the prisoner shouted while struggling to keep the vehicle’s trajectory straight. “Hey, hey! We’re out of the woods! Don’t die on me now, man!”

  “I am alive,” the Nameless grumbled as struggled to straighten himself up. He was alive, yes. Whether he deserved to be was an entirely different question.

  ***

  “You have… you have no idea what you’ve just done…”

  Rush was disappointed. She’d expected more from the enemy commander. Instead, all she found was a broken old man with far too many bite marks. The fact that most of his guts were outside his body didn’t help his case either.

  “What did we just do?” she asked, standing tall above the broken man. There was no need to be alert anymore. Anything that still moved around her was either friendly or undead. “Refuse to join your cult? Stop you from taking over everything? Not die? You’ve gotta help me out here.”

  The general tried to speak, but all he managed to do was cough out blood. His stare drifted to the shattered skull-mask at his side, then back to Rush. “You’ve defied the will of heaven, girl. You, and everyone on your side. And if that wasn’t enough, you’ve allied yourself with demons. This—“ He started coughing again, and didn’t stop for a while.

  “And lemme guess,” Rush crouched and leaned over his face. “You’re the only one who’s right in this whole shit-show, right? You, you, and only you know what’s best for everyone, and whoever disagrees is to be put to death. Am I close?”

  The general gargled before he spoke again. “You mock us.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” she asked with a grin.

  “Fine,” the general said. “The more you mock…” his eyes rolled upward, “the more you will suffer…”

  He lungs and heart stopped at the same time. Rush was surprised he even made it that long. How old is he? Sixty? Seventy? She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to live that long. To know of a better world, then see it turn to this… She closed the old man’s eyes then rose. No wonder he went nuts. In truth, she had no idea of how she would have dealt with it.

  So… Bones was successful, she thought as she tried to determine which way was east and which was west. Part of her hoped to see him trod through the desert on foot, ready to brag about the mission being complete. Of course, that was nothing but bullshit. It’d take weeks for him to return. If he is even alive…

  A skeleton to Rush’s left stopped glowing and fell apart. Zombie upon zombie went limp, collapsing into the sand and not twitching once. Rush turned around several times. Everywhere she looked, there was more of the same. All kinds of walking dead were losing the ‘walking’ quality.

  Was this supposed to happen? she wondered. From the reactions of the few priests she could see, it most certainly wasn’t.

  ***

  There was still gas in the van, but the machine had to cool. The Nameless sat in his seat, both arms crossed. Beside him, the prisoner stared out the window, scratching at his ragged beard.

  “Who are you?” the Nameless broke the silence. They had failed already. This time, nothing would stop him from pressing the issue.

  “That is… a complex question.” The prisoner turned to the Nameless and looked him straight in the eyes. “You didn’t ask, so I assume you’d figured out the nukes were my doing.”

  “I did,” said the Nameless. “I take it you were forced into it as well.”

  “Of course.” The prisoner nodded. “So this gives you an idea of what I do. Or rather, what I used to do in the world before this hell.”

  “So you were in charge of… big bombs?”

  “Big, small, medium-sized…” the prisoner said. “If it can be hurled at the enemy, I worked with it. Not personally, mind you. I wasn’t a technician or a nuclear physicist. I was… the closest term would be a tactical analyst or commander, in charge of both offense and defense, and on the grandest scale there is.”

  Defense? “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you did not do too good of a job.”

  “On the contrary.” The prisoner smiled, again showing the Nameless his disturbingly white teeth. “I did the best job one could possibly do. I’ve run the numbers in my head, once, twice, a billion times, and always come to the same conclusion: had I done things even a little bit differently, America would’ve been a smoldering crater by now.”

  “Explain,” the Nameless said, expecting complete absurdity. “Whatever your name is.”

  The prisoner smiled. “Name? That’s where you and I are similar. Aren’t we, Nameless?” He waited for a reaction, but continued after realizing that there would be none. “I was never given one. My designation was SIM-5, but you can just call me SIM. As far as I know, I’m the only one alive. It stands for ‘Superlatively Intelligent Male.’ There were also SIFs; to my knowledge, just as extinct as the other SIMs.”

  “And what are you?” the Nameless asked. “Faeries? Mole-men? Dinosaurs? Help me out here.”

  “Test tube babies,” SIM said. “Designed to be amazingly intelligent. Hundreds were made, but only a handful were kept. I in particular had the honor of standing out even among my peers, and was put in charge of predicting the course of the nation’s defense, and reacting in case of major emergencies.”

  The more I know, the less sense everything makes.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many wars I’ve stopped from happening, Nameless,” SIM continued. “Even less, you wouldn’t believe how many wars I’ve created from nothing at all. When you zoom out enough, the world becomes a living, breathing organism, and anything you do or don’t do echoes and influences something else. And the more you do it, the more a pattern emerges. After a decade of my service, there wasn’t a thing that could happen that I wouldn’t see coming.”

  “But then…” Out of the blue, SIM broke into manic laughter, but subdued it within seconds. “Heheheh… Sorry. But then, millions of people disappeared without a trace, cause, or resolution!” He was still smiling as he spoke. “I tried in vain to figure out what the hell was going on, before having to drop it for the sake of practicality. Equations kept surfacing within my mind, and I saw what would inevitably happen.

  “The mis
sing people’s psych profiles showed a clear pattern: decent, or at the very least peaceful people, to the last man, woman and child. With that stabilizing factor out of the way, all you have left is a powder keg set to explode. And explode it did. Oh, did it ever explode.”

  His story meshes with the others I’ve heard, the Nameless thought.

  “I erected every single countermeasure we had,” SIM said. “I performed preemptive strikes on those most likely to attack first, and what little of their own warheads managed to fly before that, I mostly intercepted. Apart from a few mishaps, I have saved the world. You’re welcome.”

  “The world does not seem saved to me,” the Nameless said.

  “You think that because you don’t see the bigger picture,” SIM said. “If Uncle Sam hadn’t made me, all of this would’ve been dust by this point.”

  “If you are so smart, how did the Holy One catch you, then?” the Nameless asked.

  “Ah…” SIM’s expression went sour at the mention of the angel. “It appeared after the destruction of DC. Kept spouting about the end of the world, the Rapture and the Tribulation. And the way it looked at me when my superiors agreed to meet it…” SIM shivered. “It was pure, unbridled hatred.”

  “Why?” the Nameless asked. “Because you refused to join its cult?”

  “The cult didn’t exist at that point,” SIM said. “I think it was still mostly aimless then. But it did know one thing: that I was a man-made man, and it despised every inch of my being. In fact, one of the first demands it placed on the increasingly desperate command I was part of, was for me to become its prisoner. ‘The Almighty will never forgive you if you disobey,’ it said.” SIM started blinking rapidly, and then stopped. “So now you know what I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years.”

  The Nameless’ eyes widened. “You were in jail? All that time?”

  “Not all of it,” SIM said. “Sometimes the angel needed to vent. It’d come into my cell and do some… thing where it’d ignite every nerve in my body.” He clenched both fists. “That pain… you wouldn’t believe how excruciating it was. It never let me age, Nameless, and it’d heal me whenever I’d try to commit suicide. I was to be its personal punching bag, for all of eternity.”