Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  The whole unit saluted the Nameless when he arrived, practically in unison. Their faces were covered with strange, round-eyed masks that turned their breathing loud. A mask was offered to the Nameless, but he declined it. I cannot show weakness. Besides, I already have my own.

  “Where is the sheriff?” he asked no one in particular. The guards did wear rank-denoting uniforms, but there were so many present that searching was out of question.

  The guard who offered him the mask pointed toward the oversized door. It took a whole three seconds for the Nameless to make out a grey-coated figure that stood out among the swarming policemen.

  “Azarian!” the Nameless shouted as he stepped forward. “Report!”

  Even though he wore a mask as well, the new sheriff was easily recognizable from up close. He was head and shoulders above the Nameless and comically thin of limb, which made his portly belly stand out more. He had been reading a report of sorts, and raised his eyes as soon as he heard his name. “Lord Nameless. Good to see you, even under these dreadful conditions.”

  “You see me nearly every day, Azarian, and the occasion is rarely a happy one,” said the Nameless as he extended his hand. The sheriff took it, and they shook briefly but fiercely.

  “True, but no reason not to be civil,” the sheriff said, turning toward the building. “This is hardly the worst thing that’s happened thus far. Though it’s possible that the consequences of this will be longer-lasting than most.”

  “What exactly did happen? The men you sent for me were vague.”

  “Some airborne toxin,” said the Sheriff. “Knocked out most of what we had stationed here. Then, someone hit the place, and hit it hard. Killed whoever was still conscious. Took the keys and unlocked all cells. You can imagine what happened then.”

  “What about the prisoners?” the Nameless asked.

  “A good number of them were affected, of course,” the sheriff said, “but the gas was most effective on levels one and above. They had to deal with lower security a little bit more… conventionally.”

  “One and above…” the Nameless mused. “Do I need to guess where the Grin was being kept?”

  “Not at all,” the sheriff said. “It was him, a hundred percent. How he did it, we have no idea; the reports said he was brought in nude—”

  “I can attest to that.”

  “A cavity search was performed,” the sheriff continued, “so this doesn’t make any sense. Forensics is still in place, though. We might learn something in hours. Days. Weeks.”

  It is as if he is mocking himself, the Nameless noticed. “And he is missing, along with Divine, Contrast, and that madman?”

  “Ashes,” the sheriff said, “he called himself Ashes. Yeah, he’s on the loose as well. Things are about to get jolly.”

  The Nameless turned away. He let his gaze fall on a nearby clearing. It was still unclaimed; no patchwork excuse for a habitat polluted it yet. There was some space between the dungeon and the area where people lived (for lack of a better word). Yet the dungeon is better kept.

  “They are setting up something major,” he said.

  “Who are ‘they?’” the sheriff asked.

  Who, indeed? thought the Nameless. “The Cleanup Crew. The gang remnants. Whoever it is that still works with them. Regardless, when they come, we will be ready.”

  “Of course.”

  “We meet at midnight to discuss strategy. The usual place,” said the Nameless. “Our men, are they engaged in battle somewhere?”

  “Not at the moment,” the sheriff said. “As for the meeting, I will be there. Should I relay it to the others?”

  “Yes,” the Nameless said, a moment before taking his first step back toward the great pillar. “Yes, you should.”

  “Understood, my Lord.”

  ***

  A single hanging lamp brought light to the inside of a large derelict house. Cracked and rusted, its failing walls were reinforced with several layers of iron and tin.

  In the center of the house’s largest room sat a lone figure. Wrapped in a patchwork cape of several different shades of blue, it seemed to refuse to acknowledge its surroundings. The only sound that disturbed this delicate silence was that of breathing. At least, until the front door slammed open and shut.

  “What is wrong with him?” Astrid shouted as she helped lug the blanket-wrapped and still-unconscious Grin. Her voice was muffled by the gasmask she herself now wore.

  “Relax,” Uncle said, carrying the lion’s share of the burden. “We’ll explain everything, but first we need to get ‘em fixed!”

  The figure rose seconds before Astrid and Uncle lowered the unconscious man onto the table before it. As it did, the cloak slid backward, revealing a beautiful, feminine face, and a head full of long and coarse black hair. She did not wear much of clothing. Instead, her nudity was hidden beneath several pieces of stretched-out denim.

  “Who is this?” Astrid asked, turning to the woman while setting up for the Grin to be put on a nearby table. In her surprise, she couldn’t help but stare.

  “No one in particular,” said Uncle as they gently lay down their human luggage. “Just the only living member of the Management, is all.”

  “She—“ Astrid let the Grin’s legs down in a hurry. “Miss Tarantula? Forgive me, I didn’t know.”

  “Nothing to forgive, Divine,” Tarantula said with a faint smile. Her dark eyes drifted between the new arrivals as if she knew every single detail about them. “After all, I’m not in charge anymore.”

  Astrid had dozens of questions, but the sound of the Grin’s irregular breathing made her ask only a few. “What happened down in the dungeon? What happened to him?” She pointed a finger at their fallen friend.

  “I could start explaining immediately,” Tarantula said, her smile disappearing, “or I could save his life now and explain later. Take your pick.”

  Astrid stepped back. “You know my answer. Whatever you’re going to do, do it and do it quick.”

  Tarantula didn’t say a word. The few steps she took toward the unconscious Grin were equal parts graceful and terrifying. Her shoulders slid from one side to the other, and the soft and hard parts of her body followed suit. Continuing in that rhythm, she bent herself over the table and brought her face closer to the Grin’s. Then, staring right into his closed eyes, she brought her lips to his own, and kissed him like one would kiss a lover.

  Maybe I should volunteer for the next mission, Astrid thought. The rumors did say that Tarantula was beautiful, but even they could not do her justice. There was something about her, some inhuman quality that spoke to the core of Astrid’s being. She wanted her, and there was no doubt that that she was not the only one. If he were awake, perhaps even the Grin wouldn’t mind the kiss.

  Tarantula rocked her body backward. Just as fast, she lurched to the side of the table, and heaved as if she were about to die. A thick torrent of foul-smelling green goo erupted from her mouth then, hitting the ground as if fired from a hose. A few seconds later, she stopped to collect her breath, but went back to puking soon enough.

  Then again… this might be too much. Once more, Astrid’s thoughts drifted back to Alma. I’ll have to ask about her soon. First chance I get.

  For a full minute or so, Tarantula kept regurgitating more of the disgusting goo. It smelled far, far worse than it looked, of industrial waste and dying old men. Astrid regretted having a gasmask on. It prevented her from plugging her nose. If Uncle was affected in any way, he most certainly didn’t show it.

  “He…” Tarantula whispered, her lips green from the residue. She straightened herself slowly back to her usual, hypnotically slow manner of movement. “He is clean.”

  “He’ll live?” Astrid asked, almost stepping closer. One look at the pool of sludge by the table was enough to change her mind. How did that even fit inside him? Or her?

  “Who knows for certain?” said Tarantula, gliding back to her seat. “These are dangerous times. A stray bullet or blade c
an come from anywhere at all. But he has been cleaned of the poison in his system. He will stop being a danger to his environment in a minute or so.”

  Divine hesitated. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “This was the plan,” Uncle interceded. “Tarantula did something to the Grin, and we had this Nameless capture him. Then, we sprung everyone we could.”

  “In essence, yes,” Tarantula said. “I poisoned the very core of his being. He exuded a potent neurotoxin with his touch, sweat, and even breath. From the moment he was put inside that prison, your release was easy to secure.”

  Divine readjusted her mask. “And why go through all this trouble just for me? Why am I so important?”

  “Ask them,” said Tarantula, pointing at Uncle, then toward the unconscious Grin. “I didn’t need you at all. But these two gentlemen, they refused to move an inch without their comrade, so…” she smiled. “I had to make do somehow.”

  A friend in need is a friend indeed, Divine thought. For all their faults, the Crew held together. The Terror never should have been let in. “What now, then?”

  “Now…” Tarantula let her back rest against her seat. It seemed uncomfortable, but her expression said that she needed it. “Now we wait. With everyone we’ve let out just waiting to get back at Lord Nameless, there’s bound to be a riot, or ten.”

  “And then?” Astrid asked. “We hit him when he least expects? Take the city back?”

  “As much as I’d like to do that, I’m afraid that it’s impossible,” said Tarantula. “At least from where we stand right now.”

  “You’re not suggesting that we flee!” Astrid stepped forward. “That… that monster took away seven months of my life! I’m not calling it quits without putting up a fight!” And I’m not leaving Alma behind.

  “Putting up a fight would be the same as giving up,” Tarantula said, raising her shoulders. “As you’ve said yourself, you’ve been locked up. You have no idea what it’s like up there. The people are halfway up the Nameless’ ass. The police force obeys his commands like a whipped dog. We simply lack the power to fight this.” She leaned forward. “But if we use this chance to flee the city… I know I’ll be able to negotiate something that will actually work.”

  “Negotiate with whom?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Tarantula said humorlessly. “I’d like to, but I can’t.”

  “None of us know,” said Uncle.

  “And you expect, what?” Astrid grabbed the protruding part of her mask. “Us to risk our lives blindly? Without even a hint of what you’re trying to do?”

  “Look at us, girl! No one is more desperate than we are right now!” Tarantula spread her arms. She lowered her head as she stared into Astrid’s eyes. “Nowhere else to go. If there were, I would’ve seen it! Besides, I know why you’re so hesitant to leave.”

  Astrid’s heart started pounding. “I just told you. Of course you know.”

  “Not that,” Tarantula said. “That special someone you’ve left up on the third floor. You’re worried about what’s going to happen to her, and I’m afraid you’re not going to like the answer.”

  Astrid’s gaze turned to Uncle. He seemed disinterested. Do I admit it or not? To encourage breeding, homosexuality was illegal in Babylon. She and the Grin often posed as a pair to hide their private lives. The law that made them do this had been passed and approved by the Management. Among others, by Tarantula herself.

  “She has moved on,” Tarantula continued without paying attention to Astrid’s reaction. “And she will continue to move on. After all, you’ve disappeared without a trace, and you hadn’t shared the details of your work with her. As far as Alma knows, Astrid, you are long dead. Accept it, so you yourself can move on.”

  Astrid stood in place, her mind a battleground. Memories of the time she’d spent down in the dungeon mixed with memories from the third floor. Luxury clashed with agony. Pain with pleasure. Bliss with rage. Finally, it all merged into one, and the result was a filthy, blood-encrusted pyramid, reflected on the surface of a skewed, face-shaped mirror.

  I am going to kill him if it’s the last thing I do, she told herself. “I’m in, and I’m in all the way. But before that, I want you to promise me something.”

  “You people are just never happy, are you?” Tarantula scoffed. “These two wouldn’t move without you, you won’t play ball without something else. What is it?”

  “I’ve freed a prisoner,” Astrid said. “We left him with the rest of this gang you’ve put together. He’s eating right now, recovering. I want you to take him with us, wherever it is that we’re going.”

  “Contrast?” Tarantula raised an eyebrow. “He can’t be trusted. You do know that, right?”

  “I disagree,” Astrid said. “I think he can be completely relied on to hate Terror’s guts.”

  Tarantula closed her eyes for a few seconds. “No use,” she said as she opened them back up. “Fine. I guess he won’t be that much of a danger within the foreseeable future.”

  Astrid nodded. “Thank you, Miss Tarantula. For this, and everything else.”

  “You’ll repay me by pulling this off without a hitch,” said Tarantula. She pointed to the unconscious Grin. “He should be safe to handle by now. You can carry him elsewhere. Oh, and leave the door open on your way out. This sludge might not be harmful to me, but it still doesn’t smell like roses.” She turned toward Uncle. “Your contact, is he good to go?”

  “Of course,” Uncle said. “He’ll do his part. Owes me that much.”

  “Beautiful,” Tarantula said, leaning back against her chair.

  Yes, you are, Divine thought, but venomous, in more ways than one.

  Chapter Three

  The moon was full. High up in the sky above the open roof of the penthouse, it gave the large chamber a hypnotic, ethereal quality. The countless mirrors that paved the floor and walls shone with a cold, soothing light. There was but one detail that spoiled this serene perfection: the large wooden table that stuck out in the room’s center.

  “We can begin,” said the Nameless as he presided over the congregation. Right behind his back, the Sun God’s still-standing throne towered ominously. The day was long gone, but the Nameless still refused to sit on it. The stone was quick to heat, and very, very slow to cool.

  Before him sat three figures: David Torres, Sheriff Raymond Azarian, and Rush, real name unknown. The governor, sheriff, and Champion of Babylon. The lattermost title was new, but this was appropriate. Rush did not fit any mold.

  “Finally,” she yawned as she leaned back against her chair, her side-shaved purple hair hanging behind her. In the light of the moon, her face seemed more blue than white. Her feet were up in the air, her fishnet-covered calves resting on the table. No one seemed to mind.

  “If a crucial attendee wasn’t late,” the Nameless turned toward the Sheriff, “this might have been done by now.”

  “Pardon me for being thorough, then,” Azarian said, his elbows resting on the table. His face was narrow, his nose bigger than that of his predecessor, a strong-minded man who had unfortunately decided to stand his ground against the Nameless. His skin tone was brown, his hair still pitch-black. “I was under the impression you made me sheriff because of that trait.”

  “And have you learned anything new?” the Nameless asked.

  “This wasn’t an investigation,” the sheriff said. “There’s nothing more to investigate. I was going over the numbers, double-checking on what we’ve lost.” He put a piece of paper on the table and gently shoved it toward the Nameless. “Twenty-eight dead, five incapacitated. A total of one hundred and twenty-seven prisoners no longer in the dungeon, seven of which our own men killed during the escape. Fifty-two rifles lost, now in the hands of this resistance. The list goes on, but you get the picture.”

  The Nameless sat down without uttering a word. Staring at the piece of paper, he interwove his fingers and pressed them down against his chin.

  “Sorry to
burst your bubble, but this isn’t the worst of our problems,” said David Torres, sitting directly opposite the Nameless. His back was completely straight, his hands resting at his knees. “Rioters can be dealt with. A rebellion can be stopped. But nothing, nothing will help us if we can’t keep our people fed. Unless you legalize cannibalism.”

  A brief glimpse of the woman Annabelle, whom he had met in the village of the Manhunter cannibals before he even came to Babylon, flashed before the Nameless’ eyes, and he blinked. “I hope that is a joke.”

  “It is, for now,” David said, “but I promise you this—no one will be laughing a couple months from now. We need more trade partners, and we need them now. This whole cult thing you’ve made isn’t helping, either.”

  “The cult thing is what put us in these positions of power in the first place,” the Nameless said. “Besides that, it has a clear purpose, one I cannot ignore or avoid.” Or discuss in front of Azarian. The sheriff did his job admirably, but there was no reason for him to know the Nameless’ strengths and weaknesses.

  “I know,” David said. “No need to tell me twice. But you’ve made me governor, and I can’t govern under these conditions. If the cult has to stay, fine, but find some way to offset its costs. People are eating like mad, and a lot are quitting their jobs as well. This won’t work. We need more, and we need it fast.”

  “We have discussed this,” the Nameless said. “We can expand. We will expand, as soon as some degree of peace is made.”

  “See, I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” David said, leaning in. “You’ve avoided mentioning it, I’ve avoided mentioning it—“

  “I didn’t,” Rush interrupted.

  David turned toward her. “I doubt you even know what we’re talking about.”

  “The Skull thing,” Rush said, staring at the moon. Several seconds of silence followed.

  “You’re calling it a thing?” David grumbled. “The Church comes out and offers pardoning of all sins to every single Skull who wants it. Two of the biggest powers on this messed-up continent are merging as we speak. Have you heard their rhetoric? It’s not exactly subtle in the way they’re calling for our heads. I wouldn’t call it a thing. I’d call it the fucking end!”