Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “Tarantula’s luck is about to run out,” he said loudly. “She knows this, I know this, and you most certainly know this. Whatever she has in mind, she has to finish soon. Her back is up against a wall, or else she would not have backed the Cleanup Crew. Help me stop her before this gets out of hand.”

  For a while, the only response was silence. Then, a mound of rocks to the far right started moving, and a single rattlesnake slithered out. It was not unusual-looking, save for one almost negligible detail: its vividly green eyes shone with an intelligence far too great for an animal.

  This, Rush would not understand.

  Chapter Four

  Three days had passed.

  Mask in place, the Nameless crouched inside of what was once a slum-house. There was literal blood on his hands, the body a few feet behind him. It was still warm, its life snuffed out seconds ago. He rose slowly, looking over what remained of the wall. An empty, desolate street. No one was in sight, but the sound of gunfire was near.

  Three factories, all under attack. This was it. He would either crush this insurrection, or his grasp on the city would be shaken beyond repair. Good ruler or bad, he at least held things under control up to this point. If these attacks damaged the infrastructure in any real way, he would be finished.

  Their choice of targets was perfect. Firearms manufacture. Ammo. Food processing. Losing even one of those would put a significant strain on Babylon. Losing two would be unimaginable. And if by some chance the attackers managed to pilfer the goods and escape with them, their numbers would most certainly grow. In turn, the number of circles around the statues of Lord Nameless would start dropping drastically.

  He felt around his trench coat, re-checking his sidearms. The revolver was in its holster by his right hip. The katana he’d confiscated from Divine hung by his left. A couple of grenades lined his inner pockets. There was no need to feel for the rifle; its weight was apparent. He took a couple of steps toward the sound of gunfire, leaping over a heap of shattered glass and running through the alley.

  I can do this. The Nameless was not fresh from the grave anymore. He wasn’t starved, tired, or deprived of anything he truly needed. He didn’t lack in weaponry, and he most certainly wouldn’t underestimate his enemy. He was the god of war, reborn to a world that was perfect for him. What Snake does not or cannot tell me, I do not need.

  The Nameless’ temples hurt when he thought of the creature. It was the only surviving component of the snake-god, its existence known of by maybe five people total. To further limit this number, the Nameless had it moved to his own quarters, a decision he regretted deeply. Not only did the thing not cooperate in any way, it flat-out mocked him, showing hints of sentience one moment, and imitating a dumb animal the next.

  The Nameless did not doubt the creature’s intelligence. It was most certainly biding its time. For what, he had no idea. I will kill it once this is over, he concluded as he looked left and right at a minor intersection. Nobody. He stuck to the wall to his left and followed it up to the main street.

  Snake, or whatever is left of him, has had its chance. Right now, however, there are more pressing matters. He looked up to his right: the ammunition factory lay some five hundred feet forward. Dark grey, rusted, and belching forth clouds of black smoke, the eyesore kept working despite being under siege. The sound of gunfire never seemed to stop, and the Nameless could make out little blots of red where some of the fallen guards lay.

  Closer to the Nameless, some fifty people took cover behind several layers of decomposing walls. Most bore firearms. Those who didn’t have that luxury sported blades, rods, and makeshift bows. These were the remnants of Chinese and Russian mobs, joined up with whoever was embittered enough to lend a hand. Their roars were loud enough to overpower the gunfire. The constant flashing of weapons was dazzling.

  The Nameless scanned his surroundings once more, noting at least five rows of worn-out hovels, houses and such on all sides. Many more of these outlaws were probably hiding around him, waiting to ambush any force that went for what was visible. The Nameless smiled. Heading out ahead was the correct decision.

  He took another look at the attackers. They completely lacked explosives of any sort. If not, they would have used them on the barricades by now. This wasn’t surprising. Explosives, as well as the materials to make them, were tightly controlled in Babylon. However…

  Judging by that toxic attack on the dungeon, the Cleanup Crew had the means of brewing all sorts of concoctions. They should have been able to provide this resistance with the means to break through walls. Without them, this attack would last a long while. The Nameless snorted, his suspicions confirmed. This was a diversion. But in the end, did that matter?

  We need these factories. Lord Nameless had to crush this before it was allowed to grow. Only when that was done would he be able to tackle more important threats. Besides, there were people in there. Guards as well as regular folk. I am locked in this path, he realized.

  Unimportant. The Nameless pulled both grenades out as he ran out of his cover. He pulled a pin out. One. He threw the device without cooking it, counting on the factor of surprise. He prepared to toss the other one.

  A couple of heads turned. How they managed to hear him through the surrounding racket, he’d never know. One. He tossed the second grenade toward the closest pair of eyes. Given how long had passed since they last saw such a device, they might even think it a stone. More heads started turning.

  The Nameless would not leave it up to chance. Grabbing his rifle with both hands, he pointed it toward the middle of the crowd and pulled the trigger. Drowned within a sea of singing firearms, its sound went mostly unnoticed. However, its effect on the hapless revolutionaries was anything but.

  Blood spurted in geysers, erupting from several people at once. Limbs flailing, most dropped to the ground, expecting the shots to come from the direction of the factory. The first bomb went off then, showering the center of their group with blood and gore. The Nameless ejected the clip as he leapt to the side, taking cover behind a wall that used to belong to a house. He was well on his way to replacing the clip when a sudden bullet took that hand’s fingers clean off.

  The second grenade went off, but the Nameless didn’t have the time to look at the result. He turned left and right like a rabid animal, not stopping until he had his attacker in sight: a stocky, pistol-wielding Russian of medium height. He was barely a couple feet away, having apparently stumbled upon the Nameless by dumb luck.

  Or misfortune. The Nameless let his rifle hang, reaching under his coat with both his good and crippled hands. The Russian kept shooting, but the second blast disrupted his aim. The Nameless grunted, his stomach pierced by a shot that may or may not have come from the man. Gripping Divine’s sword, he swung it out from his side in one fluent motion, cutting a piece of his coat in the process. The Russian had no idea what happened. Expression frozen in place, his head slid clean off his shoulders, the body crashing a moment later.

  Reload. The Nameless stuck the blade into the ground, pulled out another clip and slammed it into the rifle. He turned around once more, noting a pair of outlaws by the houses on the other side of the street. He changed the weapon’s setting, got down on one knee, and fired two bursts. One of the men was a good shot, managing to hit the Nameless’ left shoulder before his face turned into a flower of red.

  Destabilized by the impact, the Nameless’ second burst was not as clean. Only one bullet hit the second outlaw, ending up somewhere around the base of his neck. The unfortunate shuddered as he hit the ground. He had a good several minutes of agony to look forward to.

  The Nameless pulled the sword out of the ground with his bloody, regrowing fingers, and slid it into its scabbard while he took cover again. He’d stopped minding the pain months ago. A dented bullet fell out of his body, making almost no sound. He changed the setting on his gun again, ran in between a nearby pair of walls, and sprayed the narrow walkway with bullets. He had just enough time
to get a glimpse of a dead man hitting the ground before he turned around and emptied the clip. This time, his assumption was off, and he hit nothing at all.

  Looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide, he ran through a nearby doorway and crouched beside it. It lacked a door as well as a house, but it would have to do. It was at that moment that the sound of screams overpowered the gunfire. He exhaled slowly, a smile of relief hidden behind his mask. His signal had been received.

  The cries of despair came in many languages, but their meaning was always the same. Broken and weakened, the outlaws would no doubt try to run for their lives as Babylon’s guard forces descended on them. This, the Nameless would not allow. He leapt up to his feet, not tired in the slightest. His men would need his lead, as well as his protection. As for the outlaws, they had made their choices. Over and over again.

  ***

  “Good luck, Champion!” the pot-bellied elevator operator said as he pressed a button and the doors started to close.

  Inside the lift, Rush was silent. Luck was for chumps; she didn’t need it. Some respect, on the other hand, would be more than welcome.

  The gears began to turn, moving the contraption down. Rush heard every single one. The rational part of her mind told her that those details were unimportant, that she should ignore them. Her senses disagreed. Altered by the chemical cocktail on which she was dependant, there was no detail that escaped her notice.

  This was okay. She had gotten used to it a long time ago. But it was still annoying, especially when she needed to endure a repetitive and uneventful elevator ride.

  There had been a lot of these rides in the last few months. Having agreed to help Bones murder all crime in the city, Rush had descended into the slums again and again. He’d lead one team, and she’d lead another. People died every time. It was yet another thing she’d gotten used to.

  Rush was not oblivious to the effects all that violence had on those around her. Their men degenerated into nervous wrecks, incapable of living lives, let alone pulling a trigger. Others went mad from all the killing and had to be jailed or put down. Contrary to her own expectations, she remained exactly the same.

  Rush truly was a child of the wasteland. And now she was all grown up.

  The elevator touched down. The doors opened as slowly as always. As she exited, Rush scratched the base of her neck. The slum-air always made her itchy, but never this fast. Maybe she was getting more sensitive. Or maybe she was just pissed. The shades of grey and vermillion that permeated the whole place did not help.

  “Where’s the rest of you?” she asked a unit of guards that stood at ease some hundred feet away from the central pillar. There were eleven of them.

  “Left for the processing plant, Champion,” said the closest one, a tall, thin sort who smelled of overcooked broccoli.

  “Left, you say?” Rush let her forearm rest over his shoulder. “And why, pray tell, did they do that without my permission?”

  The man hesitated. Another one spoke in his stead. Stocky and with a wide face, he resembled a humanoid frog. “Because, Champion, you are late. Due respect and all.”

  Rush ground her teeth. It was true. She’d fucked up. Half an hour ago, she thought it would be nice to make a statement by not showing up on time. Let Bones know just what she thought about him using her as a blunt instrument. Now that she was undermanned and marinating in the shit of the ground floor, however, it didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  “The unit asked the sheriff for commands,” Private Stinky added, “and was told to head out without you. We’re the only ones who stayed behind.”

  Rush withdrew her hand. She almost apologized as well. “Great fucking job, separating like that. What’d you expect, a reward?” She went past them before anyone could answer. No one seemed to mind. “Let’s go, then! If we hurry up, there might be a head or two to bash before the whole thing is done!”

  The footsteps behind her assuring her that the men were properly motivated, Rush pushed the pace. Barely a few minutes had passed before a peculiar scent started burning her nostrils. It was faint, but there was no mistaking it for anything other than what it was.

  She stopped, turning toward the men. “I don’t suppose the lot of you smell gas?”

  “Gas?” Private Croak stopped first. “Gasoline? Fuel? Haven’t smelled that in a while, no.” The others looked around. They didn’t seem to catch it.

  “It’s coming from far away, then,” Rush said, sniffing around. The surrounding filth and industrial waste had a strong aroma of stale farts that overwhelmed the senses of most people. But Rush was not most people. To her, the scent of gas might as well have been a trail of breadcrumbs.

  She pointed a finger to her diagonal right, her eyes turned toward the guards. “What’s out there? Like far, far out there. Maybe even near the wall?”

  The guards exchanged glances. Their brows furrowed. Small muscles tightened around noses and lips. Hairlines moved up and down.

  “Something bad, right?” she asked.

  “That’s where the vehicle gate is,” Stinky said.

  “But it’s not in use,” Croak added, his chunky fingers slowly tightening around his rifle. “The city is under attack, so all exits are closed off.”

  Exactly! Rush breathed in through her nose. With speed that made the men twitch, she pulled out the pair of SMGs that hung at her hips, holding them up to her face. “Well, someone hasn’t been doing their job, apparently!” She turned toward the vehicle gate, her violet hair swaying behind her. “Come on! Leg it!”

  She started running. No one would be able to keep up, but that was by no means a problem.

  All the more for me!

  She didn’t bother taking any cover. Anything of the sort would only slow her down. Like a colorful bolt of lightning, Rush blazed toward the still-distant gate.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck! Since trade had been mostly dead for a few months now, vehicles and caravans alike rarely entered the city. Having anything guzzle fuel inside was a distant memory of a distant memory.

  She had to squint to see through the air that was slapping her in the face. The vehicle gate was either really well-polished, or completely open. Given the state of the ground floor, the latter was far more likely. She pushed herself to go faster, ignoring how impossible that was.

  Why am I doing this? The question crept up on her. As far (or as little) as she knew, nothing depended on her preventing whoever this was from fleeing the city. If anything, they’d be someone else’s problem. If all she wanted to do was kill time… well, she could kill far more than that if she went where all the fighting was.

  In the five months she’d spent as this newly made-up Champion, she’d wanted for absolutely nothing. There was enough action and excitement to keep even her sated. Oh, sure, she suffered from the occasional nightmare, but even Bones got those. Right?

  She was getting close enough to see that the twenty foot-tall garage to the left was wide open as well. Am I doing this cause I promised Bones? she asked herself, and nearly broke into a laugh. God, madman, or cheese-grater, not everything is about him. She tried to remember the way cheese felt on her tongue. It had faded away, along with her memories of every other taste.

  This is not for Bones, she concluded. I’m doing this for me, and only me. It might have been brought on by someone else, but Rush had genuinely learned something new about herself. She now knew how to make her own chems, grasping control over her life. There was no need for her to rely on anyone else, and for that, she was grateful. Even if something happened, even if her new drugs abruptly stopped working one day, she had more hope for the future than she ever had before.

  And if I, of all people, got that by working with Bones—she started decelerating, seconds away from the garage—then so can everyone else, whether they want it or not!

  She approached slowly, mindful of every sound. A dog ran by, some twenty feet behind her. Two hearts, ticking slower and slower. A distant roar of engines. I’m late. />
  She was about to take another step when something else gnawed at her ear canals. A slight hissing, almost inaudible. What little hairs she failed to shave from the back of her head stood up on end. A snake? No, this was different. She sniffed the air again, and every muscle in her body tensed.

  Burning chemicals.

  She took a step back. The explosion that expanded before her was much, much quicker. It was the most vibrant thing she’d seen in her life.

  ***

  “Victory!”

  His shot-up coat flowing, the Nameless screamed at the false sky. He was brimming with energy, satiated by the recent slaughter. It was probably a new high. Or low.

  An ecstatic roar answered, coming from the throats of a hundred men.

  The Nameless inhaled deep, his eyes closed. The smell of blood and gunpowder was strong, and would likely remain potent for a good while. This pleased him. Considering the ground floor’s usual aroma, it was an improvement.

  He opened his eyes, still surprised by the amount of red everywhere. It covered the ground, the walls, and even most of the roofs. What was left of the house he stood on was no exception. He looked around, his eyes meeting those of his men. They were tired and bloody, most of the red not their own, yet they moved as if they could fight again, if need be.

  Yes, he told himself. This was it. This was what he was looking for. Put himself at risk, dazzle them with what he could do. Let them know that he would bear the brunt of their injuries. Only then would they truly follow.

  “Lord Nameless!” they shouted in repetition, the ground shaking from the sound.

  He raised his revolver, discharging all three remaining bullets into the sky. Even if they flew high enough to hit the ceiling, it would still be worth it. Leadership was about the theatrics. So the books said, and the Nameless’ instincts agreed.