Ascent: Second Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “If you don’t like it,” she said, downing her drink within seconds, “you can pretend I’ve brought you to see where I work.”

  The Nameless laughed. This time, it was intentional.

  ***

  Laughing maniacally, Lydia led the way to her home. Holding her hand, the Nameless walked by her side.

  “Here we are!” she said, pointing her finger at room 358. She smiled. “I’ve been trying to get sixty-nine for a good while now, but someone keeps taking it.”

  The Nameless let go of her hand, allowing her to take out her keys. As she embedded them in the lock, so did her movements get incrementally slower.

  “Lydia?” the Nameless said.

  “Brace yourself, Bones,” she said. “And let the alcohol work.”

  She opened the door and pushed it inside, revealing the last sight the Nameless ever expected to see: an elaborately decorated dungeon. Men and women lay suspended from the walls and on the ground; some encased in polished leather, others wearing nothing at all. Chains dangled from the ceiling, their rattle mixing with the ever-present sound of… moaning? And to top it all off, somewhere near the right wall, a tall, black-clad woman was in the middle of sticking her heel between some unfortunate’s legs.

  Just barely, the Nameless managed to wrest his gaze from the insanity. The way Lydia looked at him spoke volumes about his expression.

  “Heh, come on, it’s not that bad,” she said with a weak smile. She moved inside just a little bit, stepping on the red, velvety thing that covered the floor. “I even had the red carpet up for you.”

  “You torture people?” the Nameless asked, frozen in place.

  “Up to a point,” she said, scratching the back of her head. “Mind coming in? Ain’t alright to keep the door opened.”

  “But it is alright to keep them like that?” he said. “No, I do not think I will be doing that. Thank you for the evening, Miss Watson. It has been most enjoyable.” Up to a point.

  “So, what happens now?” she asked, biting her still-red lower lip. The way she did it almost made him step in.

  “Now I go and drink some more,” he said as he turned away and left.

  There are things I need to burn from my memory.

  The sound of the door closing did not reach his ears until he disappeared behind a corner.

  Interlude Seven

  High up in the penthouse, the Sun God sat upon his throne.

  It was night, and the sky above was clear and beautiful. He did not need to look up to know: every little speck of light could be seen as it reflected off the countless panels in the chamber.

  A metallic buzzing sound emanated from his left. Soon after, a part of the wall opened, and two figures stepped inside.

  “Here he is,” the sheriff said as he pushed the other man toward the throne.

  “I’m telling you, man! You’ve got the wrong guy!” the man said. Although his clothing was high-class, the way he spoke was anything but. Despite his protests, though, he proceeded forward.

  “You are James Carver?” the Sun God asked. “Recent arrival from the second floor?”

  “Well, yeah, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything!” the man said, now only a few feet away from the throne. He was of average height and wiry, with short, jet-black hair.

  “You used to work with the so-called Rainbows,” the sheriff said, himself right next to James. “A good-for-nothing slum-gang.”

  “Now, that’s where you’re wrong!” James said as he turned to the sheriff. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. None whatsoever.”

  “Then how did you strike big enough to get up?” the sheriff asked. “After all, you’ve been a second floor tenant for almost a year now. What’s changed?”

  “That’s a trade secret,” James said. He looked at the Sun God. “You! You’re part of the Management, right? I can’t share no trade secrets! I’d be finished if I did, you know how it is!”

  “Afraid I don’t, Mr. Carver,” the Sun God said. “I’ve never been a criminal.”

  “Again with that.” James was insistent. “I’m telling you both: you’ve got yourselves the wrong man.”

  “Sheriff,” the Sun God said. “Are you completely certain?”

  “His info matches to a fault,” the sheriff said “He arrived in Babylon with two of our deceased. They bought their third floor passes at the same time. No way I’ve got this wrong.”

  “Now, that doesn’t mean a damn thing!” James shouted.

  Disgusting, the Sun God thought. He let his gaze fall down on the man’s left foot, and, just for a moment, looked at it a bit harder.

  “Wha—oh, Jesus fucking Christ!” James shouted as he fell on the polished floor. Shocked, he stared at his charred limb. “What the fuck!” Something broke off and fell from it. A toe.

  “You don’t seem to understand what you’re dealing with here, Mr. Carver,” the Sun God said, his eyes glowing intensely. “I suggest you start trying, or I will have to burn other pieces.”

  “What… what is this?” Tears rolled at the sides of James’ face as he held what remained of his leg. “What are you?”

  “I—” The Sun God remained in his seat. “I am your boss, Mr. Carver. I am the man in charge of everything inside the great city of Babylon. Despite what you may think, that includes you. You’d be wise to give me some respect.”

  “Fine!” James said. “I respect you, so there! Can I go to a hospital now?”

  “No,” the Sun God said. “But I recommend that you answer our questions, and I might reconsider.”

  “Alright, alright!” James said as he slowly let his foot down. His face twitched when it made contact with the floor, so he raised it instantly.

  “So you admit to being who the sheriff says you are?” the Sun God asked.

  “Yeah, that…” James said. “That’s me. Me an’ the other guys… we got the chips off a badly messed-up guy we found in our turf. Messed ‘im up worse. Got way up, then some of us got… murdered.”

  “Hence the change of image,” the sheriff said. “You wanted to hide.”

  James nodded.

  “Where is your boss?” the Sun God asked.

  James pointed a finger at the throne.

  “Flattering,” the Sun God said. “But I’m talking about one Brian Ackers, better known as Contrast. He went missing, with much better success than you did. My question is where?”

  “Beats me,” James said.

  The glow emanating from the Sun God’s eyes intensified.

  “I swear I don’t know!” James covered his face with one hand, and his groin with the other. “Him goin’ missin’ is the other reason I hid, alright! I figured the guy got ‘im!”

  “And he did not, even once, mention anything like this to you? Contingency plans and the like?”

  “What plans, man?” James shouted. “We just got up! How would we know where to hide?”

  “I believe you,” the Sun God said, the glow subsiding. He turned to the sheriff. “What do you make of this?”

  “It’s a clusterfuck,” the old man said. “But on a more serious note, our friend’s probably caught up to this Contrast and dealt with him. We just haven’t found the body yet.”

  “You don’t think he has somehow evaded our capture?”

  “It’s possible,” the sheriff said, “but unlikely. The third floor has a stuck-up culture it tries to drill into you. Newcomers stick out like a sore thumb. Criminals doubly so.”

  “I see,” the Sun God said as he looked back at James. “So, aside from his little vendetta against this… scum, he has been on the level?”

  “For now, yes,” the sheriff said.

  Is it possible that I was wrong? the Sun God asked himself, however unlikely that was.

  “Then that’s that,” he said. “You can go, Sheriff.”

  The old man stepped toward James and extended a hand.

  “I said you,” said the Sun God. “He has seen what I can do. Not to
mention the secret elevator. Besides…” The glow filled the chamber again. “He is scum.”

  “Right,” the sheriff said, slowly lowering his eyes to James. Out of his mind with fear, the man’s eyes begged for help. Without a word, the sheriff turned toward the elevator, not wishing to see what was about to happen.

  Every time he did, it gave him nightmares for weeks.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Fresh from his recent kill, the Nameless stood inside the elevator, due to arrive on the third floor within seconds.

  No more guilt, he thought as he gazed at his opened palm. Not for gang members.

  The doors started opening. He let his hand down, and proceeded forward.

  “Ahoy,” he said.

  “Ahoy yourself!” a guard said. He did not seem to be looking at the Nameless. Instead, he fumbled through a bag that hung at his side.

  They are usually courteous. Not interested in learning the reasons for the guard’s attitude problem, the Nameless passed them by.

  The guard spoke again. “Hey! There’s something for you, Bones!”

  “Something?” The Nameless turned around. “What counts as something?”

  “A letter,” the guard said as he extended his arm. He held a plain, white envelope. “I’m not a courier. Next time, give them your room number.”

  Staring at the letter, the Nameless took it. The only thing written on it was his name.

  “Thank you,” he said as he turned around.

  Curious. The envelope in his hands, the Nameless walked toward his home. Both Mark and the sheriff know where I live. He tore it on one side, pulled out the paper, and started reading.

  My dear Horace, the writing said. I guess you weren’t drunk enough, huh?

  Lydia, the Nameless realized. He considered crumpling it. There were few things he was certain about, but not wanting to see that den of horrors was one of them. Regardless, perhaps out of morbid curiosity, he kept on reading.

  You saw just how much booze I needed to go through with showing it to you. Still, it was probably too soon. Sorry about that.

  Anyway, I’d understand if you didn’t want to see me again. But I hope you will. I’d like to get to know you better.

  P. S. I’d never, ever do THAT to you. Not unless you wanted me to.

  Lydia

  The Nameless folded the letter, placing it back into the envelope.

  Brazen, he thought as he reached his apartment. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Inflicting pain came with a price. The Nameless knew that all too well. Even when there were no direct consequences, the soul was sure to suffer. The regret he did not feel for his most recent victims was proof of that. He was getting colder. How cold was she after all that torture?

  Although she did not seem cold, he thought as he went for the shower, removing one filthy piece of clothing at a time. If anything, Lydia was like fire, which might be even worse. Killing was one thing, but to take pleasure from someone else’s extended agony?

  But who am I to judge? The Nameless closed the shower cabin and let the water spray over his body. I am the least deserving of life here, yet I cling to it desperately. Unable to let go, no matter who gets hurt.

  He remembered the slum girl, and the way she chose to end her life. In one way, she was braver than the Nameless would ever be. In every other, she had chosen to give up when salvation was at her doorstep. One more innocent, gone because of the Nameless. Snuffed out because of his inaction.

  And when Lydia came to me, I chose action instead, he thought. Was he taking the inactive approach again? Would cutting ties with her make him miss out on something vital? Or could something worse happen?

  He turned the water off, and stepped out of the cabin. As he looked into the mirror, the Nameless took note of his shaved face, and the way Lydia said she liked it. That gleam in her eyes; it was an altogether pleasant memory. He wanted to see it again.

  “This is ridiculous,” he said out loud, then left the bathroom.

  I am conflicted. Still dripping, he gathered his dirty clothes into one pile, and proceeded to get into the clean ones. Conflict breeds hesitation. Hesitation is death.

  Completely dressed, the Nameless hid his revolver in the closet, then proceeded toward the door.

  I must root out the cause of my inner conflict, he concluded as he left for the café.

  ***

  “Horace!” Lydia said as she came up to his table. “I thought I wouldn’t see you here again.”

  “I would not miss out on my coffee,” the Nameless said, turning away from his second favorite view.

  “I was here first, you know?” She sat in her usual seat opposite him. This time, she wore a tight-fitting dress that gave her the appearance of a wasp.

  “I take it as compensation,” the Nameless said. “For last night.”

  “Ah,” Lydia said, her stare hitting the table. “Straight to the point, I see.”

  “No use in going around it,” he said.

  Chloe suddenly appeared near the table. “What’ll you be having?” she said.

  “Nothing for now, thanks,” Lydia said. “I won’t be long enough to finish my order.”

  “I see,” Chloe said, already on her way to the counter. “Feel free to call on me if you change your mind!”

  Chloe tried to warn me, the Nameless realized. But the barmaid prevented her.

  “You’re ogling the wrong girl,” Lydia said.

  “At least she does not torture people,” the Nameless said.

  “She sure doesn’t,” Lydia said. “She sleeps with them instead.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t seem dumb, Horace,” she said. “A waitress, living comfortably? Up here? Put two and two together. My profession is ten times cleaner.”

  The Nameless kept following Chloe with his stare. No overt mincing. No revealing clothing. By appearance and attitude, a decent girl.

  “I will take that with a grain of salt,” he said. “On both counts.”

  Lydia sighed. “Yeah, I thought you would. It’s me you caught red-handed, after all. Not her.”

  “From where I am standing,” he said as he took a sip, “you had intended to goad me into that dungeon from the beginning. Perhaps to squeeze money out of me?”

  “Oh, money is the last thing I wanted out of you, Horace,” she said, pointing to her clothes. “Look at me. I’m loaded. No, you’ve piqued my interest. Thought I might lend a hand. Help you let go of what’s troubling you.”

  “With torture?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Lydia said without a hint of a smile. “I have worked on killers. On policemen and mobsters, current and former. Some are in it cause of guilt. Others because of something they’ve repressed. All simply want to let go. I thought you’d be able to appreciate that.”

  “Lydia,” the Nameless said. “Ever since I got here, control has been wrested from my grasp. You would not believe the things I had to do to get some measure of it back. Why in the world would I want to relinquish it?”

  “I guess.” Lydia’s stare drifted toward the window. “You’re just not into it.”

  “I have had quite enough of pain, thanks.”

  “So, what do we do now?” she asked, her eyes meeting his.

  “That depends,” the Nameless said.

  “On what?”

  “Whether taking part in that horror show of yours is a necessity for continued contact.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Lydia said with hints of a smile. “As I’ve said before, I’d like to get to know you, one way or the other.”

  “How does another dinner sound, then?” the Nameless said. “The same place, the same time?”

  “Like a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. You’re on, Mr. Bones,” she said, slowly rising from her seat.

  “You have business?”

  “’Course I do,” she said as she waved and walked toward the door. “The slaves need feeding. This is a full-time gig, after
all!”

  The Nameless followed her movements, uncertain of what he was to think.

  Just what am I getting myself into?

  ***

  “And here I thought you’d like us to dine somewhere else,” Lydia said as she took her seat. The moon was full, and clearly visible through the glass wall of the View. Reflecting off of her white jacket, its light made her appear positively angelic.

  “No use changing a good thing,” the Nameless said.

  “Is that the same approach you take with your clothing?” She laughed. “Since the day I first saw you, you didn’t change once.”

  “I do have another suit,” he said. “Identical to this one, of course.” Discounting the filth and blood.

  “A regular diamond in the rough, this one.” Lydia took a sip of her cocktail, something with milk and coconut. “You’ll grow a sense of style. In time.”

  “If I am so rough,” the Nameless said, “then why the interest?”

  “A diamond is a diamond,” she said as she put her glass down. “Maybe I’m the one to put you into shape. Ever thought of that?”

  The Nameless took a quick sip of his Russian. “A woman of your wealth and looks should be able to get herself any man she wishes for. Why me?”

  “You don’t look too bad yourself, Horace,” Lydia said. “And you wouldn’t be here if you were piss-poor, too.”

  “You are waltzing around the answer,” he said. “As you have been for a while now.”

  “Fine,” Lydia said, her expression no longer indicative of amusement. “Mr. Kill-the-romance. I’ll tell you.”

  It would not be the first thing I have killed.

  “The people up here seem nice for the most part,” she said. “Some even are. But they are petty and gossipy. And you’ve seen my home-slash-workplace. News gets around. I had…” She took another sip. “I had to bribe a number of people just to get them not to give out warnings to anyone I approach. Both for business and pleasure. This adds up, you see.”

  “As a consequence,” she continued, “I can’t escape my rep. I am seen as a dominatrix rather than a person. And the more I force one over the other, the more the other side suffers. It is all so dreadfully tedious. Get it?”