Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  The elevator stopped, and the door started opening. The pleasant illumination of the luxurious third floor bathed the inside of the lift, and the Nameless along with it. He blinked a couple of times and stepped out ponderously. After the stagnant atmosphere beneath, coming up always came as something of a shock.

  “Lord Nameless!” The voices of some ten guards pierced his ears. “Welcome back!”

  “At attention,” said the Nameless as he opened his eyes. The elevator hub was as pleasing as always; clean, polished to reflectiveness, and pristinely white. “Anything new?”

  “Governor Torres asked to see you, my Lord.” An elderly guard let his rifle hang. “However, he did say that it was not urgent.”

  He wants me to have a rest. Good. The Nameless turned right, and the guards moved backward to let him pass. “Thank you. I will be in my chambers.”

  “Understood, my Lord!” the elderly guard said.

  Even though the Nameless’ pace was hurried, it nevertheless took him a while to reach his apartment. Numbered 66, someone was in on the joke, and had added another six to it. The Nameless found it amusing, so he ordered that it not be cleaned.

  Sweet, sweet respite. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him. As always, the impressively sized living room was littered with books of all sorts. Manuals, encyclopedias, and fiction from all eras, he had read, was reading, and would read it all. Or so he planned. Only uncertainty is ever certain.

  But books would have to wait. Exhausted, the Nameless let both his clothing and weapons drop to the floor. Now nude, he dragged his bed covering to the side, slid underneath, and drifted into blessed oblivion.

  Chapter Two

  Sharp, polished nails blazed a trail across her back. Her own fingers contracted, burying themselves into her lover’s flesh. Their lips pressed together, their hearts beating as one as their tongues mirrored the dance of their bodies. There was no part of her that wasn’t on fire.

  “I love you,” her lover whispered when their lips separated. It was the voice of a woman in bliss.

  Astrid was still smiling when she opened her eyes. It took an entire second for her mood to go sour.

  I love you too, Alma, she thought as she straightened her back and prepared to rise. Her sides ached; the dungeon bed was hard on the shoulders, and worse on the ribs. For all she knew, rigorous exercise was all that prevented her from going gnarled and crooked. She wondered how long it will remain effective.

  I love you even more than I hate this disgusting cell. She tossed her blanket to the side. Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew exactly where it fell. Pressing her stockinged feet against the cold stone floor, she rose and braced her palms against her hips. She was about to start stretching herself too, when the sound of footsteps hit her from the far side of the walkway.

  So that’s what woke me. There was no point in proceeding. If it was already feeding time, she might as well dig in. Besides, the guards tended to find her exercise amusing. Sometimes they’d even sit outside her cell, lights on, and watch her as if she were a circus animal. There was no doubt they carried that memory with them when they went to the bathroom.

  Astrid moved her shoulders around in a circular motion several times before doing the same with her neck. No point in being sore while she ate. Even though she detested the horrendous, additive-spiked puke they all but forced down her throat, even she couldn’t deny that to eat was to live. And being alive was, as far as she knew, better than being dead, so she went on with the disgusting ritual.

  Let’s get this over with, then.

  She took a few steps back and pressed herself against the wall behind her. It was just as chilling as the floor, but she was well used to it by this point. A little bit of discomfort was a small price to pay for not showing these dogs how stiff the bed had made her.

  She held her breath, all the better to hear the incoming steps. Her fingers contracted as they got nearer, and she remembered the way she’d buried them in Alma’s breasts. All a dream. Who knows what she’s doing now. Or if she’s even alive. She clenched her fists as so hard her knuckles cracked.

  The guards took their time. That, or they were new. Every couple of steps they made were followed by an apparent stop and a brief exchange of words. It was grating. Still, Astrid held her ground against the wall, refusing to let their sluggishness get on her nerves. It was then that she noticed that the dungeon was slowly getting brighter.

  Too bright for flashlights. Are they lighting up each individual cell? She came up to the bars slowly, mindful of the sound she made. There was no doubt in her mind that it didn’t matter, but she did it anyway. Instinct was a powerful thing, and to a professional killer, there was nothing more important. This time, it didn’t tell her to cower—she was to see what was going on.

  A total of three men moved toward her from the other side. Something was off about their faces, but she couldn’t make out what. The dungeon, burned into her consciousness as a place of pitch black, now shone with the light of countless bulbs. As she squinted to try and make out as many details as possible, so did one of the men turn his flashlight toward her.

  “Someone in cell,” he said in an unfamiliar, slightly muffled voice.

  Russian? No guard had an accent that thick. Astrid retreated, but it was too late. The men picked up their pace, and would be upon her in seconds. Her heart started to pound. The Cleanup Crew had killed more gangsters than the entire police force, and the Russians were among the most vicious. In their hands, her rules would not apply; being alive would most certainly not be better than being dead.

  But here, of all places? The dungeons of Babylon were well-defended. Otherwise, mobs would just spring their members at will. The chance of this place being successfully besieged was nonexistent. Still… She pressed herself against another wall, this time the one to her left. Subconsciously, she looked for something, anything she could use to defend herself, despite knowing there was nothing at all.

  The shower! She turned to her right and fumbled in the darkness. The pipes were dull and too short to be practical as weapons, but it was better than her bare hands. She could still barely see a thing, but grabbing the mechanism was not difficult. After all, she’d had a lot of practice. She made a lever with her left hand, pressed with her right, and tore a pipe straight from the wall.

  If they turn out to be guards, they’ll be pissed. Not a second had passed, and the hole she’d made started to spew water. She paid it little attention and moved back to the wall to her left. As she hid her makeshift weapon behind her back, Astrid forced herself to make the most serene expression she could possibly manage. But if they came for me, at least I’ll go out swinging.

  The cell lit up, and she gripped the pipe harder. The pain in her eyes threatened to pierce the back of her head, but she nevertheless forced herself to keep them open. Three shapes came into view then, all distorted, all pointing flashlights in her direction, despite that being completely unnecessary.

  Yup, these are not guards. She tightened every muscle in her body as she prepared for the worst. If they wanted to make her suffer, they’d have to get inside. Let them come.

  “Divine?” a familiar voice said. “You alright? They didn’t torture you, did they?”

  Am I hallucinating? Astrid let go of the piece of metal, letting it hit the wet floor. Her heartbeat accelerated further, this time out of joy. “Whatever took you so long?”

  “That’s one long, messed-up story,” said the man they called Uncle. Even though he held the usual assault rifle of Babylon’s police force, his stocky body was mostly covered by loose-fitting synthetic fiber. A gasmask hung around his neck, apparently removed a moment ago. Unlike his usual grumpy self, just now he seemed to be in high spirits. “I’ll be glad to tell you once we get to safety.”

  “And these are…?” Even though Astrid had let her sorry excuse for a weapon drop, she still didn’t let her guard down. The other two men still had their gasmasks on. “Who are
you working with?”

  “Anyone who’ll work with me,” Uncle said as he produced a set of keys. He started trying them out against the door to her cell. “Things aren’t the way they used to be, Divine. We’re doing what we can, but it seems we’ve pissed off the wrong jackass.”

  Divine refused to give the Terror a single thought. “Where are the others? The Grin? Eagle?”

  “The Grin is on another, higher level, I think. We have another team looking for him.” Uncle kept going through keys. “And Eagle… I’m afraid he’s a bit too dead to join us.”

  The lock clicked, but Astrid wasn’t relieved in the least. “What happened?”

  “Lord Nameless happened,” said Uncle as he opened the door. “Eagle was killed on the night of the coup. He was the first casualty.”

  All taken from me, Astrid thought as she stood in place. First my lover, then my ex. Her nails bit into her palms.

  “I know you two shared a history,” Uncle said, “but we really, really need to get moving. Run now, grieve later, alright?”

  Divine didn’t say a word. Instead, she stepped out of her cell, but instead of going toward the exit, she went in the opposite direction.

  “I realize you might be disoriented,” said Uncle, “but you’re going the wrong way.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” she said, pacing deeper into the darkness. “Now, follow me. I’m going to need some light here.”

  The men with the gasmasks seemed to hesitate.

  “This can’t take long,” Uncle said, and the three of them followed in her footsteps. “What’s this about? Plenty of prisoners on other levels. Again, we need to get going.”

  “I understood you the first time,” Astrid said as her eyes followed their flashlights. “There’s a very particular prisoner here. Well, there are two, actually. Terror hated their guts.”

  “Can’t imagine that means a whole lot,” Uncle said. “That asshole must hate the whole city by now.”

  “But he didn’t try to put the whole city down here yet, did he?” Something moved in the corner of her right eye, so she stopped walking. She extended her hand toward the nearby wall, and Uncle’s flashlight illuminated it immediately. She flicked the light switch, and the cell lit up so hard she had to avert her gaze.

  And I thought mine was bad. There were at least a dozen light bulbs on the walls, roof, and floor, all protected by thick-looking glass. Her own awakenings were rough. For this prisoner, they must have been hell.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted, and she noticed that compared to this cell, hers was a five star hotel. The floor, apparently never washed, was caked with filth. The walls were little different. Instead of a bathroom and shower cabin, there was only a disgusting hole in the right wall, and it was spilling over. There was no bed, and the only thing that stuck out in all that muck was a nude, paper-thin figure of a man in the center.

  “Are you awake?” she asked, her eyes still not fully open. Initially, she though the man’s back was covered by a piece of black, sticky fur. As he raised his head, though, she realized that the covering was in fact his own hair.

  “I think so,” he said in a voice like torn silk. His eyes were the color of ice, his face a worn alabaster sculpture: everything was in its place, but the cheeks were too deep, and there was far too much dirt over it. There was no telling when he last ate. Or drank, for that matter. “Are you my execution squad? Or am I hallucinating?” He smiled. Somehow, he still seemed to have all his front teeth.

  “Why are you down here?” she asked as the men formed a line behind her. “The other one is mad. I know you’ve heard his mumblings at least as much as I have. What did you do?”

  The man’s grin widened until his mouth threatened to reach his ears. It was a thoroughly disturbing sight. “I cut up that masked cunt’s face until he looked like chopped pork. Then, I stabbed him in the balls, and left the knife there. Sadly, it didn’t take.”

  Divine smiled as well. “Would you like to do that again?”

  The man rose, much faster than anyone expected. Unlike the rest of him, his manhood was by no means shriveled. “I won’t stop at that. This time, I’m gonna chop that fucker’s dick off, then make him eat it!” He stepped forward. “And if he regrows it, I’m going to keep doing it again and again and again!”

  “Perfect,” said Divine.

  Yeah. This one’s crazy as well.

  ***

  An incessant banging roused the Nameless from his stupor. He had no idea how long it went on, and it took him at least a minute to compose himself enough to speak.

  “I hear you!” he grumbled, hopefully loud enough to be heard from the other side of the door. He jerked his head and noticed that he was lying in a pool of his own drool. What the… He rocked himself up, but put too much strength in it. With a thump, he crashed to the side of his bed, flat on his back.

  Something is not right. He lifted his hand up to his face, and tried to form a fist. Instead, it only limped up, and his fingers twitched pitifully. Lethargy? he wondered as he straightened himself up with his elbows. He wouldn’t stop shaking. Impossible. I was getting stronger and I have killed recently.

  The banging resumed. “My Lord! We have an emergency! Are you well?”

  “Yes. Wait up!” the Nameless shouted as he very, very slowly worked his way up. When he was upright, he took another look at his hands. They were still shivering, but there was no pallor or cracking of skin that usually followed his running out of juice. Poison, he concluded as he clumsily put one foot in front of the other. The Grin had to have done it somehow. It wasn’t the first time. The Nameless shrugged. But it will be his last.

  He grabbed a fresh trench coat hanging off a nearby chair, wrapped himself in it, and zipped it up. No use going before the men naked. Where is my mask? He looked around, and realized that he hadn’t pulled a new one from storage. The old one was full of cracks. Worse off, it was on the floor. If I bend over to reach it, who knows if I will be able to get back up. He would have to open the door without his assumed visage. No matter.

  He lumbered over to the entrance, unlocked it, and pulled. Five pairs of eyes stared at him from the corridor, all in distress.

  “Lord Nameless,” the centermost guard stated. It seemed as if he had more to say, but hesitated.

  “Let me guess,” the Nameless said, rubbing his forehead. “There is a problem downstairs.”

  “Y—yes,” said the guard. “Yes there is, my Lord. There’s been an attack. Some prisoners have escaped.”

  The Nameless sighed. “And one of them is the man we captured this afternoon, yes?”

  The guard swallowed his spittle. “Yes, my Lord. He’s gone, as are all three of your guests. Others, as well.”

  The Nameless made a fist. “And how did this happen?”

  “We’re still looking into it,” said the guard, “Most of the personnel seem to have been put to sleep in some manner. The rest have been killed.”

  Of course. What else could it be? “Did you interrogate the survivors?”

  “We’re trying,” said the guard, “but we’ve yet to succeed in stirring them. Me, I wake up after getting slapped a dozen or so times. These, not so much. Drugs, my Lord. Poison. Guaranteed.”

  When I catch the Grin again, I will slap him the way he will not wake up. “How bad is it down there?”

  “Controllable, for now,” said the second guard. “A few escapees are on the rampage, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. But most seem to have disappeared. Likely to rejoin their old gangs. The ones that still exist, at least.”

  This will become a problem, thought the Nameless. “And where are the survivors now? Sickbay?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” the first guard said. “Or at least en route.”

  The Nameless turned away, his hand still resting on the side of the door. “Has the sheriff been notified?”

  “Yes, my Lord. He’s still down by the dungeon, overseeing the forensics team. Should I send for him?”

  “N
o,” said the Nameless. “I will join them soon. I want to see this myself. Anything else you have to report?”

  “Not for now, no.”

  “Proceed with the rest of your orders, then,” the Nameless said as he shut the door. He took a step forward, and his body wobbled. Not as much as it had a minute ago, but it was still noticeable. He breathed deep.

  No rest. No rest, ever.

  ***

  The worshippers leapt at the sight of the Nameless when he disembarked the elevator. He did not feel like making up another speech, so he merely waved, gave them a quick blessing, and proceeded along with his entourage.

  This is proving more trouble than it’s worth, he thought en route to the dungeon. The steady stream of worship he had created for himself was supposed to provide him with nourishment. Whether or not it worked, he couldn’t say. Hardly a day passed that he didn’t take to the streets, spearheading a strike against some criminal element. Taking his fill via human sacrifice was easy.

  Still, it will save lives, he told himself. Times of strife were temporary. They had to be. One day, there would be no need for lives to be taken, at least not by the Nameless’ hand. And when those days come, he would be glad that he had done this. The Cult of the Nameless would be the means by which he would be able to coexist with humanity. As opposed to slowly killing it, as he’d have to do otherwise.

  Besides, I had no other choice. After he’d executed the Sun God, he was trapped. Surrounded from all sides, the Nameless had to bluff, and despite all odds, it worked. The worshippers came by themselves; few at first, but their numbers swelled and swelled. It didn’t take a whole lot of thinking for him to conclude the best course of action. The downtrodden got a way of feeding themselves, and the Nameless got a little bit of hope.

  The dungeon was in sight. As expected, it was surrounded by guards. On one hand, this was good. The matter would be handled properly. On the other, who knew how many crimes would go unstopped? Especially with more prisoners on the loose.