by M. T. Miller
The Nameless had grown callous to cruelty, but this was too much even for him. He extended a hand and put it on SIM’s shoulder. Much to his surprise, the man didn’t flinch.
“It is okay,” he said. “The thing is dead.”
“I know,” SIM said without a hint of relief. “Maybe someday my lizard brain will learn it as well.”
Taking his hand off the man’s shoulder, the Nameless turned his eyes to the northeast. Everywhere around them was a desert, but it didn’t prevent him from trying to look beyond. “I find it peculiar that you failed to save Washington, though.”
“It wasn’t the nukes that wiped it off the map,” SIM said. “It was God, or at least that’s what everyone thinks.”
Including the angel. “What do you think it was?”
“As much as I think it moronic, I’m inclined to agree,” SIM said. “Nothing, and I do mean nothing could’ve come through the defenses I set up around that city. And then, all of a sudden, the sky breaks and a beam of light totals it? I ran the data countless times while I was free, Nameless, and pondered on it for years while I was imprisoned. It might not have been God-God, but it certainly wasn’t anything man-made.”
“So…” the Nameless kept staring at the horizon. “God smites the devil, and destroys a city, then disappears without a trace. An angel stays in this world, angry at having been left behind. In desperation, it unleashes insanity the world has never seen before.” He turned to SIM. “Have I missed anything?”
“You did,” SIM said. “There is also the Mist.”
“Of course,” the Nameless said. “What do you know of it?”
“Absolutely nothing,” SIM said, now showing some semblance of a smile. “Although I would like to learn.”
“You and me both, SIM,” the Nameless said as he resumed staring at the horizon.
“You and me both.”
***
Six hours had passed since the successful defense of Babylon.
Done with their initial celebration, the survivors from both Babylon and New Orleans slowly spread out across the now-silent battlefield. Broken bodies of combatants from both sides seemed to extend all the way to the horizon. Men and women, white or dark; they were all equally dead.
The bones of the previously-animated dead glittered in the light of the moon, glossy and sticky with all the blood they’d spilled. The sudden manner in which they’d stopped moving worried Emile Mounier, the new Supreme Houngan and commander of New Orleans’ fighting force. Having previously sent his scouts out east toward Louisiana, he stood tall above an almost-intact set of bones.
“Let’s try this one more time,” he said as he raised one hand from his upright cane, extended all fingers, and pointed it at the skeleton’s rib cage.
“Arise!” he commanded. “You are needed in the service of Emile Mounier, Baron Samedi of the Loa, and by extension, Bondye himself!”
Nothing. Not a single bone twitched. There was no sudden gust of wind, no chill going up Emile’s spine. Not a single glimmer of the green light that usually followed the use of such magic.
This will be a problem, he thought as he turned left and right. In the dark of the night, it was difficult to differentiate his people from those of Babylon. However, the Movement’s priests were easily discernible: the vast majority of them were trying to do the exact same thing Emile was. As far as he could see, they all failed.
A lump formed in Emile Mounier’s throat. Putting two and two together wasn’t difficult. Something had happened in New Orleans, and it was bad. There were civilians in the city; in fact, most of those who lived there were non-combatants. To lose the mirror was one thing, but to lose those people as well…
He almost tore the knob off his cane. A handful of days on the job and I may have already lost everything. Had it happened to someone else, it might have even been funny.
Something moved to the northwest. The others saw it as well, and started to abandon what they were doing in favor of banding together. After what they’d survived, anything seemed like a potential threat.
It soon became apparent that what was closing in was in fact a vehicle; a van, to be precise. Only one of its headlights was functional, and a bunch of nonsensical-looking equipment stuck out from its roof and hung down its sides.
I could use that purple woman right about now, Emile thought as he quickly glanced back at the pyramid before refocusing on the van. From what he’d been told, the woman could make out details about the van before it ever got close. A course of action could have been decided on then. But she had chosen to retreat into the city and “drink herself stupid.”
Nothing to do but wait, Emile concluded. He let both arms rest on his cane again and kept standing straight, waiting for the vehicle to approach. Despite its apparent age, it was sturdy and stable. It effortlessly crushed any bones or dead bodies in its way. When it reached the now-sizeable mass of people from both New Orleans and Babylon, Emile was in the second row, standing behind a pair of bodyguards.
The driver’s door remained closed, leaving their identity a mystery. But the passenger door opened immediately, letting out a man with a shaved head in a ripped-up white tabard.
Assuming him to be a Knight, nearly everyone present drew their weapons. But Emile knew full well who it was.
“Lord Nameless,” he said in a tone that aimed to hide his worry. “I see you’re not as well-known as you’d like others to think.”
A surprised gasp echoed through the group. Within seconds, all weapons were sheathed again.
“Hard times change a man,” Lord Nameless said grimly. “Inside and outside.”
“Oh, how I agree,” Emile sighed. He wanted to add more, but just couldn’t find the words.
Epilogue
On all fours, Annabelle snuck along the desolate streets of the Underbelly. Days had passed since the Church fell apart, though she couldn’t say how many. As far as she knew, the city’s population had dwindled down to one.
It was over. Her dreams of forgiveness, her shot at the kingdom of heaven, it was all snuffed out when the Holy One died. She wished she knew how she felt about that. On one hand, she would never be able to atone. On the other, she was free. Free and hungry.
She had weathered the storm by hiding in a forgotten room in a forgotten house; one of the many hiding places Chastity had set in case of emergency. Considering that Chastity didn’t use it, she was either dead or out of the city. For that solitude, Annabelle was grateful. But now she was out of supplies, and had to hit the road.
There’s gotta be some food out ‘ere, she thought as she inspected house after house, hideout after hideout. She had survived, yes, but that was only the beginning. The next step was to either find a lasting source of sustenance, or traverse the desert in search of something else. Both required her to find the same thing.
For hours she searched unsuccessfully, until she finally stumbled upon the cathedral in the city center. Looted bodies littered its surroundings, causing her mouth to water. It’s dead meat, she reminded herself. Eating it would be a last resort. A diseased gut was only slightly better than starvation.
It was then that her stare fell on the limp, cut-up body of the Holy One. Despite being dead for days, not a single fly dared defile it, and there was no sign of rotting.
Ah must be seein’ things. Still on all fours, she came in closer and her nostrils caught its scent. Vanilla and honey, mixed with mother’s milk and a pinch of cinnamon. Already watering, her mouth began to drool.
Careful so as not to fall into a trap, she came up to the corpse. No one attacked, so she proceeded to touch it. The blood was white and translucent, and practically called for her to taste it. Bit by bit, she brought it closer to her mouth, before something at the back of her mind took over and forced her to wipe it on the concrete.
It must be here for a good reason, she concluded, looking around once more. There was no one in sight. Her head was beginning to ache, and the feeling of guilt threatened to over
whelm her senses as well as her hunger. This was an actual servant of God, and she had just dared to defile its grave. If she was on her way to the pit before, now her ticket was guaranteed. The rest must’ve felt the same way. No other reason for the body to stay like that.
But Ah’m already done. She leaned in closer, laid herself next to the body, and embraced it. Its translucent fluids soaked into her habit, causing it to stick to her body. At that moment, she was as close to God as any human would ever be. Fitting, given where she’d go after death.
She leaned in closer to the angel’s ruined face and kissed it on its closed eye. Her lips and nostrils went ablaze from the combination of tastes, scents, and emotions, and it didn’t stop there. Over the course of minutes, her whole body was on fire. It was the most intense sensation of her life. She needed more, and she needed it now.
THE END
###
When he is not lost in apocalyptic imagery, M. T. Miller enjoys the finer things in life: video games, junk food, and a whole lot of procrastination. Follow him on Twitter @MillerNameless
If you’d like to see more of his ramblings, he has a blog right here: Reclaiming the Lost
You can also join his mailing list here.
The rest of the Nameless Chronicle can be purchased here.
