Bedlam: Fourth Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “No problem there, Bones!” Rush patted his back. It was controlled, but in no way weak. “Far as I remember, you rose from the grave less than a couple years ago!”

  The Nameless’ frown slowly became a smile. “You might be right in a way, I guess.”

  “’Course I am!” She approached the door, and so did he.

  “No need to overthink this, Bones. No point. We’re here to have fun, and that’s the way it’s gonna be.” She gave him a side-wink. “No matter the body count.”

  ***

  An hour passed.

  All things considered, The End was not a bad-looking place. Most of it consisted of a colorless, finely-polished dance floor. High above, specialized contraptions sent waves of colored light down upon the tables, patrons, and the floor itself. There wasn’t a single chair in sight. No one seemed to mind—nearly everyone present danced to the cacophonic beat.

  The Nameless was a notable exception. Alone, he stood by the counter with a cup of soda in hand. The distortions that emanated from the oversized speakers interacted badly with his voice box. Again and again, each exaggerated beat sent vibrations through his neck and into the base of his throat, causing an onset of nausea. It was far from the worst thing he’d endured, but neither was it enjoyable.

  The sole reason he didn’t pick up and leave was some twenty feet away and in the center of the hall. Possessed by the music and atmosphere, she rocked, contorted, and twisted in ways he would never think possible. Each hard muscle and soft curve moved in sync, dancing in perfection to whatever passed for rhythm in this place. The sight more than compensated for the sound.

  Several unfortunates had made the error of trying to approach her. All were pushed away and given a close-up of Rush’s middle finger. None had dared escalate the situation.

  “’Scuse me, sir,” a young man said as he approach from the Nameless’ left. Behind him stood a group of five. All six pairs of eyes focused on the exact same point: this rhythm-deaf, black-clad stranger.

  The Nameless downed his soda and put the cup back on the counter. “Speak up, son. I can barely hear you.” He took note of the kid’s features, as well as those of the group. All wore nonsensical, vividly colored or monochrome costumes. Some wore make-up. In all likelihood, none were adult.

  “You’re Sheriff Nameless, right?” the young man asked. Even though his hair was buzzed short, the black muck he’d painted over his mouth and the tight striped shirt gave him an almost feminine appearance.

  “That I am,” the Nameless said.

  The shaky illumination didn’t hide the way the young man’s face lit up. He turned to his peers, nodded, and the Nameless was surrounded within seconds.

  “Are you really a god?” a girl with a pierced lower lip and red hair screamed over the music.

  “Why aren’t you in charge anymore?” another girl, this one in all black, asked.

  “Need help with anything?” a burly, shirtless young man shouted. His high-pitched voice didn’t match his body. “Say the word, and we’re there!”

  The speakers went wild and the Nameless’ voice box started vibrating again. If he managed to say anything, he wasn’t aware of it. The kids’ eyes, so full of worship and elation, showered him with what could only be concentrated faith. In effect, it was not dissimilar to what his cult did.

  Power. He closed his eyes, shut out the sounds, and did his best to ignore the discomfort in his throat. With his mind’s eye opened, the Nameless sensed the small yet delicious little cloud of faith that formed around him. Not claiming it would be a waste.

  With his eyes still closed, he inhaled deeply. Upon command, the magic flowed into his being. Rejuvenating vigor coursed through his body, as well as what passed for his soul. He had almost forgotten the sensation.

  This is new, he thought as he slowly opened his eyes. For the longest time, he’d thought he was incapable of reaping so much power through any means but murder. Was he getting better? Only time would tell.

  This brief glimpse of unconditional optimism soon evaporated. The Nameless looked in all directions, then did so again. Rush was nowhere in sight.

  Without a word, he shoved the closest kid aside. The rest stepped away immediately. For all their worship, these kids knew just how dangerous their idol was.

  “Rush!” the Nameless shouted at the crowd. “The violet woman. Has anyone seen where she went?”

  “Whaddaya need her for?” the redhead cooed. “Anything she can do, I can do better.” She started unbuttoning her jacket.

  “The back door.” The Nameless turned to the young man in the striped shirt. “Where is it?”

  “Um, that way, I think,” the young man said, pointing to the far end of the hall.

  The Nameless reached into his pocket, took a chip, and placed it into the kid’s palm. “For my drink, and yours,” he said before striding away from the counter.

  ***

  Except for a pair of kids making out against a wall, the back alley outside The End was empty. Rush was not there. However, the pair of hurried footsteps that kept getting farther and farther told the Nameless all he needed to know.

  He gave chase, running out into the street. He looked left and right, making note of a flowing streak of violet that gleamed some hundred feet to his right.

  “Rush!” he shouted as he dashed in her direction. She didn’t stop moving.

  As the Nameless caught up, he tried yanking her by the wrist. The way she rocked her arm almost dislocated his shoulder.

  “Motherfucker!” she shouted as she turned to face him. Her eyebrows, normally thin, furrowed like the back of an angry cat.

  “What did I do?” he asked.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you push those groupies away?” she asked as she came up to his face. “Y’know, like I did with those other assholes?”

  “That was different,” said the Nameless. “You had suitors. These were just kids wanting to see a war hero.” For the most part.

  “Is that what I am to you?” she snorted. “A dumb kid? A brainless punk? A drugged-out loser?”

  The Nameless’ stare darkened. “Why would you think that?”

  “I…” Rush turned away. She walked a few steps, then went still.

  Seconds passed. The Nameless was just about to step forward when she spoke again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I overacted.”

  “That you did,” the Nameless said. “But it doesn’t matter. That place was almost unbearable.”

  She faced him again.

  “I did say almost,” the Nameless smiled. “Your dancing made the difference.”

  Little by little, Rush’s frown faded. Her stare, however, kept a good chunk of its weight.

  “Say,” she said, now looking at the pavement, “don’t you ever get tired?”

  “Of what?” the Nameless asked. He stepped forward. “In general? Of our jobs? I need you to be more specific.”

  “Of me,” she muttered.

  The Nameless closed in. She still didn’t look into his eyes.

  “No,” he said. “Why would you even ask?”

  Instead of looking up, Rush turned aside. “Don’t you ever wish for someone... y’know, more normal? More human?”

  The Nameless was about to reply, but she cut him off.

  “You’re fixed, Bones. You don’t need to kill anymore. Well, not needlessly. Me, I’ll have to keep injecting myself with my shit for as long as I’m alive. And I won’t get any better. You know that, right?”

  “Of course I do,” the Nameless said. “I also do not care. Not in the slightest. If I wanted someone normal, I most certainly would not have gone for you.”

  Slowly, Rush turned to face him. There was moisture in her eyes, far more than usual.

  “Besides,” he continued, “whatever you are, you remain closer to humanity than I will ever be. For many reasons.” His eyebrows flashed. “Never having died, for instance.”

  “Yeah…” she whispered. A faint wind blew along th
e street, as if to carry the words away.

  “Rush,” the Nameless placed his hands around her waist. “Is everything all right?”

  She didn’t seem to register the question. Instead, she asked one of her own. “Bones… you’re not gonna leave me, are you?”

  For a brief moment, the Nameless’ mind went blank. He’d grown used to hearing many things from Rush, but he had never expected this. Slowly and carefully, he closed further in, as if he were handling something fragile instead of a chemically-perfected killing machine. With their bodies touching in the middle of the street, he locked his stare with her own as his fingers clasped behind her back.

  “I will not,” he said. “Where you are is where I stay.”

  One by one, Rush’s thin fingers buried themselves into the Nameless’ back. As far as he could tell, her nails had pierced his shirt.

  He didn’t mind.

  Chapter Six

  The next day, it was the Nameless who was up early.

  Perhaps it was the power he’d collected from those kids. Maybe he was just nervous. Regardless, he had a job to do, and he would make use of the head start. Rush chose to keep sleeping. The Nameless didn’t try to persuade her otherwise. Where he was going, she wouldn’t enjoy.

  He entered the pyramid, checking if Max was around. He wasn’t, so the Nameless went up to the third floor. As he approached Room 75, he remembered the innumerable sleepless nights he had when he was Lord of Babylon. The decisions that he had to make would have been difficult for anyone, let alone someone with no memory. The knowledge and council provided by the man from that room had proved, and remained, invaluable.

  He knocked thrice, waiting for a response. When it didn’t come, he grabbed the knob and went inside on his own.

  “Lem?” The smell of old paper tickled the Nameless’ nostrils. As always, the library was well-organized, even though it never gave off that expression. The shelves were arranged symmetrically and the books followed a pattern, albeit a pattern that was only known to the librarian.

  Seconds passed before a reply came.

  The voice of a late-middle-aged man drifted from the other side of the room. He didn’t speak loudly, but the library carried his words well. “Who’s that?”

  “Babylon’s former lord needs your council once again,” the Nameless said as he set off toward the voice. Unlike the librarian, he had to shout.

  “Nameless?” Lem’s voice warmed up, but only slightly. “This is a surprise!”

  “Life is full of twists and turns,” the Nameless said as he zig-zagged through the numerous shelves. “As always, they are best met with a clear head and proper preparation.”

  “And in order to prepare…” Lem’s voice kept leading the Nameless toward his location.

  “…One must know,” said the Nameless as he took one more detour. When he stepped out of the book-maze and faced the librarian, he almost didn’t recognize the man.

  Normally plump and pot-bellied, Lem was now pale and thin of limb. His normally black moustache now had more than a few grey hairs, and the bags underneath his eyes seemed to have doubled in depth. If he wasn’t sitting in a comfortable-looking chair, the Nameless was certain he’d have been in pain.

  “Grab a chair,” Lem said, lowering the book he held to a small table at his side. “It’s not right to talk to an old man from up above like that.”

  The Nameless looked around and grabbed the first stool he found. “You are not that old, at least as far as I know.”

  “A man is as young as he feels,” Lem said. “And I feel as ancient as these tomes.”

  The Nameless set the stool about three feet away from the large chair, then sat. He looked into the librarian’s eyes. There was still fire there, and clarity. “What happened to you?”

  “What happens to us all,” Lem said. “Life. It hits us all in the most painful of places, and doesn’t hesitate to twist the blade. Coronary, Nameless. I had one a couple weeks ago. The doctors were baffled by the fact I survived, to tell you the truth.”

  The Nameless braced his elbows against his knees and sat in an ambassador pose. “I was never informed of this.”

  “Yes, I presumed you weren’t,” Lem said. “Doesn’t matter. I needed rest back then, not a former god-king moping at my bedside. The worst has passed, and I can stomach real people again.” He pointed to the bookstands. “Though I still prefer these.”

  Did Torres hide this from me? Or SIM? The Nameless gritted his teeth. Had he known Lem was sick, he’d have spent more time visiting him in the pyramid, and less time pursuing the killer down in the Circle. The motive behind this omission of information was obvious; they wanted him on the case.

  Should I confront them about it? he wondered. Yes or no, the decision would come later. For the moment, he had other business.

  “I presume it was pretty bad,” he said. “What are your recovery prospects? Life expectancy? Would you need special care?”

  “Heh. Who knows?” Lem’s moustache fluttered as he smiled. “Better yet, who cares? I don’t, and I’m the one whose life’s on the line. But know what I am interested in?” He pointed at the Nameless. “You, my friend. Regardless of my expiration date, my days of doing things are more or less done. But you on the other hand… you must have a tale or two to share from this outside world.” He waved in the general direction of a nearby wall. “From this Circle you police.”

  The Nameless wasn’t certain of the expression he made. He was grateful he’d covered his lower face. “I am afraid my days of excitement are behind me as well. Though I am not complaining. I have found myself a woman, Lem. We live together.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Lem said. “I’ve heard a lot, really. About her. They call her Rush, right?”

  The Nameless sighed. “I presume you’ve heard nothing good.”

  “Again, who cares?” Lem said. “As long as you two are getting along, who cares about what everyone else says? Or thinks? Or anything else, really?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said the Nameless.

  “Not a day passes, you know,” Lem said, “that I don’t regret my own failure at finding myself a kindred spirit. I was so buried—in books at first, and then my own survival, that by the time I remembered some things, it was already far, far too late for me to change my ways.”

  It is never too late to change one’s ways. You have taught me that, the Nameless thought. He didn’t say it.

  “What did you remember?” he asked.

  “That one important fact,” Lem said. “That life, from time to time, writes stories that are just as interesting as any fiction” He pointed at the Nameless again. “Sometimes even more.”

  “Even if that were true,” the Nameless said, “you not having anyone to look after might have been the tipping point that allowed you to survive the madness outside and reach Babylon. Were things any different, you might have died out there. As far as you or I know, your passion saved your life.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” Lem said. “Maybe my life, even if it were shorter, would have been far more enjoyable if I had someone to share it with.” He raised both eyebrows. “And maybe it wouldn’t have. No way to know.”

  “Debatable,” the Nameless said. It was as far as he was willing to agree with what the librarian said.

  “But enough about that,” Lem said. “I assume you’re here for advice.”

  “Perhaps I should wait until you are better.”

  “Nonsense.” Lem gently hit his book. “This is the fifth time I’m reading this. I’m bored. Give me something else to do.”

  The Nameless considered telling Lem to read something else, but there was no point. In all likelihood, the book at his side was among his least-read.

  “We are expecting visitors,” he said. “They are due to arrive in three days or so. Emissaries from what remains of the One True Church of America. As you can assume, I am in charge of security.

  “I will need to make certain that these emissaries do not pull off a
ny underhanded tactics or sneak attacks. At the very worst, they may try and smuggle a nuclear bomb into the city, although I doubt they would succeed. On the other hand, I will need to keep them from getting torn apart by the populace.

  “Rare is the citizen of Babylon who hasn’t lost loved ones as consequence of the Church’s machinations. There is a lot of bad blood in the Circle, and I will need to get these people through it and into the pyramid intact.” He counted his priorities on his fingers. “In essence, I will need to protect the city from the emissaries, the emissaries from the city, and this protection must hold until negotiations are concluded.”

  “And what are these negotiations about?”

  “I do not know,” the Nameless said. “I do not think anyone here does, but I might be mistaken.”

  “I see,” Lem said. He weighed his words for several seconds. “Tell me, Nameless, what are you to this city?”

  “A vague question,” the Nameless said. “I used to be its lord. I am definitely its savior. Right now, I am its sheriff.”

  “Exactly,” Lem said. “You see, while you definitely have the right idea, you are still thinking as a monarch. A god-king. You do not rule this place anymore. You could if you wanted to, but for now you don’t. Repeat that in your head if you must. It needs to settle in.”

  “Your point, please,” the Nameless said.

  “My point is that for as long as you call yourself ‘sheriff,’ you will need to do the sheriff’s job.”

  “Did you not hear what I said? As far as I know, I may not even take part in the negotiations. At no point did I say I had any plans for this city, or the White one.”

  “What’s the dilemma, then?” Lem asked. “You know what you need to do. You have both the knowledge and the experience. Use it. Scout the terrain. Map the city. Do it again and again until not a speck of dust remains that you’re not familiar with. Greet these guests professionally, but by no means friendly. Don’t let in any unknown variables. And for the love of god, you or whoever, never let them actually feel safe!”