Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “I surrender!” the Nameless shouted, tossing his revolver to the side. There has to be a way to hurt him! he reasoned. Whether or not it was true, he would not find it if he were dead.

  “Didn’t know you were French!” the bald man shouted as he brought his arms down. What followed was a whole lot of pain.

  Thankfully, the Nameless lost consciousness halfway.

  Chapter Eight

  A tremendous force hit Rush in the face and sent her flying. The awakening was rude, as if she’d fallen a hundred feet and crashed back-first into something soft. Eyes wide, she contracted herself up into a sitting position and covered her ears with both hands. They rang and hurt so much, she barely resisted the urge to tear them off.

  Her arms stung. Hesitantly, she separated her palms from her ears and realized that her hands were covered with what looked like smooth cracks of dark blue. She grabbed her left sleeve and ripped it all the way to the shoulder. The whole length of her arm was marked, as if the skin had cracked and bled profusely, many times. She contracted her fingers and released. There was no pain.

  Confused, she looked around, pressing her palms against the white bed sheet. She was in a hospital room, one on the prestigious third floor no doubt. To her left there was a table, empty and just as pristine as everything else. The right wall had a door, next to which was an IV stand. From its top, a total of six empty bags hung. Rush blinked several times, making sure that she wasn’t seeing double. More chems than I need. Why?

  A loud, echoing thump came from outside, followed by what seemed like… screams? Just as she was about to get up, Rush found herself covering her ears again. Outside of the room several people were screaming. There were even some dry thumps, as if someone was getting clobbered with something blunt. The words were unintelligible, but this didn’t prevent them from drilling into the sides of her skull.

  That’s it, you’re coming off! she thought as she grabbed both ears. But just as she was about to start pulling, the pain pierced something within her mind. Memories broke through, as if she’d opened up a floodgate. She remembered the insurrection, the vehicle gate, the explosion… especially the explosion.

  Did we lose, then? she wondered as she slowly lowered her hands to her lap. No, if that had happened, she wouldn’t have been in a third floor hospital. Or any hospital. The shouting continued, this time giving her only a moderate amount of pain.

  “Anyone else want some?” a man said. He seemed to be stood a mere few feet away from the door. No one replied. “Good. I don’t want to have to hurt any doctors.”

  “This doesn’t concern you. Step aside and it’ll be over quickly,” another man said.

  Their clothing tightened over their muscles as they moved toward the door. Parts of their gear rattled. Rifles clicked. Rush knew because she heard all that, and more. She had no idea what was going on, but for the moment nothing more was needed. She forced herself up with the agility of a wildcat, crouching on top of the bed. There was some pain, but the cool breeze that touched her nude backside soothed it a little bit.

  Hospital gowns are dumb, she thought as she coiled herself and waited for the door to open. She didn’t have to wait long. The lock clicked, the knob turned, and the smug, baggy-eyed face of the first guard was in sight.

  He didn’t get the chance to react. As if she’d been fired from a cannon, Rush collided with him before his eyes met hers. With a sick-sounding crunch, they rammed straight into the second guard, sending him tumbling down to the bottom of the heap.

  Rush didn’t waste any time. While the first guard was still stunned from the impact, she grabbed his rifle with both hands. Noticing that its strap was still wrapped around his body gave her the idea of the century. Still holding it with one hand, she pressed her other forearm against his chest and tightened her grip. Ignoring his gasps, she turned the barrel toward the face of the pinned second guard, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered over her gown, the floor, and her face, but she didn’t mind. It smelled better than the hospital.

  Panicking, the first guard started punching her side. His face was turning blue.

  “Quit it!” she shouted as she rocked the gun upward, her forearm still holding the man down. A grotesque crack ensued, followed by his body going completely limp. His eyes widened for a moment before the fire inside them gave out.

  Huffing and puffing, Rush shoved the body aside, freeing the gun strap from underneath it. She was just about to take the other guard’s weapon as well when the sound of several people breathing caught her ear. Straightening herself out and allowing the hospital gown to hide at least some of her indecency, she turned around, pointing the barrel wherever she looked.

  Two men and a woman, apparently hospital staff, huddled against the wall to the left of her door. They weren’t familiar, but that didn’t mean a thing. Rush never had need of hospitals.

  She spoke her thoughts out loud. “What the shit happened?”

  The woman tried saying something, but choked at the sight of the bodies. The man to her right took over.

  “They wanted to kill you,” he said. “We wouldn’t let them. Then they started beating us…” He averted his eyes. “Sorry, Champion.”

  “I see that. Why? Besides hating my guts?” Rush tilted her head to the side. She expected to see her long violet hair slide before her eyes, but instead, her face was tickled by a row of bangs. I must look like a strangely colored chicken.

  “The battle of the Sierra Nevada has ended in failure,” said the woman, her throat now clear. “Lord Nameless has been killed.”

  The lump in Rush’s throat almost made her lose balance, so she straightened her neck. “What?”

  The woman cowered, so the second man had to speak. “Lord Nameless has died, Champion. Sheriff Azarian has issued martial law. Apparently, he didn’t want you around.”

  Rush’s thin eyebrows almost fused above her nose. Her temples were drumming like mad. “What’s with Torres? The governor? He alive?”

  “The governor has supported the sheriff,” the first man said, “but no one’s seen him since. He might not even be alive.”

  Gun to the head, or just sleazeball? Rush wondered, taking the other man’s rifle. She turned to the hospital entrance, both guns in the air. “Anything else I should know? Like how many guards they’ve got stationed at this floor?” Last I remember, there were at least thirty.

  “A pair patrols this side, another pair the other. There are also three in the elevator hub. These don’t move around as much,” the second man said. “Also, you might want to change.”

  “Naw,” Rush said, well on her way to the exit. “They’re about to die. Least I can do is give them a show.”

  ***

  The third floor’s hallways were always kind of empty, but never to this degree. If Rush wasn’t able to hear the people murmuring behind their locked doors, she might have thought them dead. Trying to remain quiet, she proceeded to the pyramid’s center. The distant sound of the guards’ breathing confirmed what she already knew: she was getting close.

  Rush slowed her steps as she neared an intersection. Once she went through it, the enemy would be in sight. Back pressed against the wall, she looked into both rifle barrels. Maybe they’ll shit their pants and surrender? she wondered for a moment. The possibility was there.

  It was for that exact reason that she started shooting the moment she left cover. Both weapons set to automatic there was no need to aim—the spread assured that everything would be shot eventually. Guards always hung around the same, predictable positions. This time there was little difference. Death was upon them before they had any idea. Pieces bent, bled, and broke off, and still Rush didn’t release. It was only when the weapons started clicking that she smashed them against the floor, running forward to re-arm herself at the expense of the deceased.

  Busted? One rifle was in as many pieces as its wielder. She shoved her hand inside another pile of viscera, feeling for another gun. She grabbed the barrel, pulled, a
nd snorted in anger when she realized it wasn’t connected to the rest of the weapon.

  Fuck! She heard footsteps from the far end of the pyramid. They were closing in very, very quickly. Like a pig in a bloody gutter, she kept digging through gore until she finally stumbled on another piece of metal. She yanked it free, pushing some goo off.

  This is in one piece, right? Rush wondered as she turned the rifle over. She was no expert, and there was too much blood to tell. On first look, everything seemed to be fine, and she didn’t have time for a second one. After shaking the thing to make sure it wasn’t going to fall apart, she grabbed it by the grip and started running toward the intersection opposite.

  She slowed down, stopping completely as she reached it. She closed her eyes and tried to get a feel of where the footsteps were coming from. Aaaaaaaand… now!

  Certain that both guards were close enough, Rush ran out into the intersection. Unlike the rest, these men were aware of what was going on. It made no difference.

  Automatic fire tore through their bodies like a hot knife through butter. Their blood, so intensely red, splashed through the air in slow motion. It was a wonder only Rush would ever be able to see in its full glory. The experience was hers and hers alone.

  The bodies twitched for a few seconds, then gurgled for just as long. None were alive by the time Rush turned back toward the center. She left a trail of sticky, crimson footprints.

  She pressed her ear against the door to Room One and remained still for a moment or two. The only movements from within were those of one man, and he seemed to be shivering. Crapped his pants from the gunfight. Not feeling like trolling the gore for keys, she took a step backward and kicked the door in. The hallway on the other side didn’t show signs of struggle. As always, it led to the penthouse through a stairway up front and to an office through a door to the left.

  The sound of shaking told Rush where she needed to go. Swaggering up to the door, she braced both palms against it and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Hey! Noodle-arms! You gonna open or do I smash it in?”

  It took a second for Torres to speak. “Rush? That you?”

  “Maybe,” she said, “or maybe I’m the ghost of Christmas beatdowns! Either way, you don’t open, I declare you naughty!”

  “Then naughty it is,” Torres said in a lethargic tone. “I can’t get up. You’ll have to force it open.”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice. The door flew in as if it were propelled by dynamite, smashing against the wall to the left. Rush’s eyes scanned left and right as she ran in, until they finally focused on the pale, nauseated face of Torres.

  “What’d they do to you?” she asked while checking if he had any hidden guns. “You’re not tied up.”

  “No need for it,” he said while slowly pushing himself away from the table. Something heavy dragged on the floor, and within a second a large, white mass stuck out from the side of the table, resting on the floor.

  “They broke your leg?” she asked, stepping in closer. The cast went all the way up to and over the knee, where his suit continued.

  “I didn’t want to play ball,” he said as he slowly worked himself into a less painful position. “They said this was a warning. Doesn’t hurt too bad when I don’t move. Or when I’m doped up on painkillers, like now.” He looked her in the eyes, smiling when he saw her blue tattoo-scars. “So… you okay?”

  “I’m a bit cold but the blood helps,” she said, lowering her naked backside into another chair. “Least it did while it was fresh. So…” she tapped her fingers against the armrest, “what’s up with Assholian?”

  “Bones died,” Torres said, his voice dull from the medicine. “We’ve lost most of our men, too. The Holy Army is arriving and Azarian wants us to surrender. The more… colored parts of the populace disagreed, so now we have martial law.”

  Rush’s stomach turned, despite being empty. “Surrender? To the Church and Skulls? He’s madder than a bag of ferrets!”

  “He wants to avoid casualties,” Torres said. “With what we’ve lost in the Sierra Nevada, we have no chance, holed up in here or not.”

  “He tried to off me in my coma,” Rush said. “That’s what he sees as ‘avoiding casualties.’”

  Torres stared off in the direction of the busted door, apparently deep in thought. “And you’ve cleared the floor?”

  “I was told there were seven,” she said, “so I wasted seven. We should have peace, at least for a while.”

  “Until the elevators bring in more,” Torres said. “Shouldn’t be too many. All they’ve got left is some two hundred guards.”

  Rush turned to where he was staring, then back to him. “Be right back,” she said as she rose. Halfway up to the busted-in door, however, she stopped. “Your brat okay?”

  It took a moment for Torres to speak. His tone betrayed a mixture of surprise and resentment. “Patricia’s back in our place. Safe for now.”

  Rush looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Not that I’m complaining, but why hasn’t she been taken downstairs? As, y’know, a hostage?”

  “Why?” Torres asked. “Not like I was going anywhere.”

  “True that,” Rush nodded before heading back to the center.

  Once there, she pressed her ear against the metal doors, taking in the buzzing and vibrations. The contraptions were active, but none of them were going up. The changing of the guards was recent, and more wouldn’t come for a while. In all likelihood, there was enough time.

  She spread her legs for stability, burying her fingers into the steel of the elevator doors. Tensing her muscles, she exhaled potently and wrenched the doors apart wide enough for a person to step through. The shaft was expectedly empty, save for a pair of cables that moved up and down.

  Looking left and right at the other doors, she smiled. I’m gonna need a strong set of shears.

  Chapter Nine

  A splash of cold water roused the Nameless from unconsciousness. Less than a second had passed since he opened his eyes, and already he missed whatever nightmare he’d been having.

  Blinking to keep the water out of his eyes, he assessed the situation: he was being held inside what appeared to be a cellar. He was in his regular clothing, minus the coat; handcuffed behind his back and tied to a large and sturdy chair. In front of him stood two figures, the larger of which was holding a now-empty wooden bucket. There was only one source of light: a torch that hung off the wall to the far left.

  “Incredible,” an older man said in a rough, deep voice. “He really does come back from death.”

  “Or maybe I just didn’t beat ‘im enough,” the bald man said as he let the bucket drop.

  “Don’t feign stupidity,” the old man said. “He stopped breathing and his lungs were sticking out of his mouth. I’d say those were lethal injuries.”

  “My men,” the Nameless mumbled as he came to. “What did you do with them?”

  “I must congratulate you on the morale you’ve managed to inspire,” said the old man. “Most fought ‘til death.”

  No… the Nameless strained his eyes to get a better view. Even though there was little doubt of this man’s advancing age, his wide shoulders and thin waist showed that he was in remarkable physical shape. His black pants and combat boots contrasted with the white, buttoned-down jacket he had on. His face was hidden by a metallic, skull-like mask that hid his eyes behind a pair of red socket-lenses. It wasn’t a helmet; his grey crew-cut was in plain sight.

  “In other words, they died like Indians,” the bald man said.

  The Nameless turned toward him then. Aside from the white tabard with a red cross on the chest, he seemed to wear nothing. Not even shoes.

  “Should I show you my good side?” the bald man said, unable to stop grinning.

  “Where am I?” the Nameless asked, turning to the old man. He seemed the more reasonable of the two.

  “In a cellar, under a house in the middle of nowhere,” said the old man. “If you’re anything like the rep
orts say, you’re planning an escape as we speak. Don’t. The entire Holy Army is holding this area.”

  The Nameless straightened himself out as much as the bonds allowed. “Now that you have me, what do you want?”

  “What we want,” the old man leaned in, “is peace. The States back in shape, dispensing justice and freedom for everyone! Like old times. Perhaps even better.” He took several steps back, turning toward the torch. “We can’t have every major hub establishing their own religion; every madman proclaiming himself God. Although admittedly in your case, there seems to be some legitimacy.”

  “There is but one God,” the bald man said in a hostile tone. “Or is your faith faltering?”

  “I am leading this Army, aren’t I?” the old man said. “No, Malachi, my faith isn’t faltering, but neither am I denying what I’ve seen. How would you explain it?”

  “Satan!” Malachi said. “Or his work. His brood. Like the whole rotting Movement!” He spat, hitting the Nameless square in the forehead.

  “Whatever it is,” the old man said, “it is not for you or me to decide. We will know once the Holy One has gotten a chance to speak with the prisoner. Or we will not. His is to command. Ours is but to do and die.”

  Malachi laughed, his disposition apparently improving.

  “We have come to deliver a formal greeting, Nameless,” the old man said. “I thought it fitting for us to speak before we head out.”

  There is only one place he could go, thought the Nameless. “You are about to besiege Babylon.”

  “Not exactly,” the old man said. “Babylon is going to surrender. This is already arranged. I must say, for someone who inspires such ferocity among the rank and file troops, your choice of commanding officer was certainly disappointing.”