Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  I, for one, was not. “You are welcome, then. Now, what is this about?”

  “Here,” Emile gestured for them to turn right where the yard ended. The path went on and on, leading between habitats and piles of junk alike. Mortal remains were everywhere. “We have come here to save you, Lord Nameless. And as I’ve said before, you are to do something for us in return.”

  “You being the New Voodoo Movement?”

  “Of course! Who else would I be working for?” He pointed to a bunch of roaming zombies. “These fine gentlemen won’t rise on their own. For that, they need our help.”

  The Nameless kept staring into his eyes. “You are doing a lot of selling, and zero explaining, friend.”

  “Fine,” Emile said, his smile dimming somewhat. “We didn’t storm this place. We didn’t lead legions of dead across the States. That’d be madness, and would most certainly catch everyone’s eye. Instead, we came here a bit more than a month ago, got everything ready, and waited.

  “There wasn’t a lot of us, so food wasn’t a problem,” he pointed forward. “There’s a cave a few miles out there. That’s where we hid when we weren’t out here, digging.”

  The Nameless raised an eyebrow. “Digging?”

  “How do you think we managed to take the whole base out?” Emile’s faint smile became a grin. “This abandoned town, so innocent and cozy-looking, was in fact the deadliest trap ever sprung! One body here, another there; we had a lot of time to make it as inconspicuous and unassuming as possible. The seeds of this victory were planted long before the battle ever began.”

  The Nameless took a moment. “Where did you get the bodies?”

  “This town had a graveyard. A sizeable one, as a matter of fact. Capable of overpowering a small army, especially after catching it off-guard.”

  “But those bodies were likely skeletal by this point. Unusable.”

  “Not exactly,” Emile said. “The magic of the good Baron can animate skeletons as well, although this is more difficult and doesn’t last as long. The dead raised in this manner demand constant concentration, or they will crumble into lifeless piles immediately.”

  That explains the bones.

  “Few houngan are capable of controlling more than one skeleton at a time, and most never even try. Me and the esteemed gentlemen I came here with have broken the record. Together, the six of us moved over fifty-seven dead last night. Still less than an army, I already hear you say, and this is absolutely true. However, this is where the next phase of our plan came into effect.”

  Emile extended his arms. “As our skeletons fell, so did a lot of their own. Once we used up the initial wave, we started raising from the graveyard. And when that approach started giving diminishing returns, it was time for the final gambit: still hiding in our cave, me and my colleagues joined hands and performed the killing blow! Every single soldier who fell by the skeletons rose to un-life, eager to fight and kill at our command! And as more fell, our army became larger and larger, culminating in what you’re witnessing right now: a complete and utter victory for us.”

  Rendered speechless, the Nameless looked around once more. It was easily the most brutal sight of his life.

  “And all this for you!” Emile said. “Far better than a red carpet, I’d say.”

  “You work with Tarantula,” the Nameless realized. “The entire Movement does.”

  “Times have been tough for a long while,” Emile said. “Desperate measures were just around the corner.”

  “And what exactly is she trying to achieve?” asked the Nameless. He sniffed the air. It smelled of oil.

  “Would you believe me if I said peace?”

  “No,” the Nameless said. “Someone else told me the same thing back in that cellar. He then spoke of genocide. You will have to do better than that.”

  “You don’t really have an option here, my friend,” Emile said, stopping before a sizeable ball of stale hay. Turning to his right, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a pack of matches. It was plain, as if it had been homemade. He pulled one out, and lit it.

  “Capable of raising the dead or not,” the Nameless said, “you cannot force me into anything, Emile. Not if there were ten of you.”

  “Of course I can’t.” Emile tossed the match, and the haystack before him went ablaze along with the yard it was in. The fire expanded rapidly, engulfing everything: the tents, the house, the barn. Within minutes it would spread to the one next door, and it won’t stop soon.

  “If you want, friend,” Emile faced the Nameless, “you could leave right this second, and I won’t be able to stop you. But where would you go? Oh, the Holy Army will certainly turn back once it sees these flames; it will come back here and investigate, but what would that achieve in the long run? Nothing! You’d get weeks, maybe months. And during that time, they’ll keep adding more and more Skulls to their war machine! Within a year, no one will be able to resist this insanity. We will all die, Lord Nameless! Every single one of us.”

  “From what I see here, you can put up a good fight,” the Nameless argued while he wrestled with his thoughts. I killed the Skulls’ leader, and gave the True Church an enemy to rally them against. My fault, all of this.

  “This ambush was made possible by using Tarantula’s knowledge, as well as some tricks our enemy didn’t know we had,” Emile said. “We won’t be able to make them step into the same bear trap twice.”

  “I thought Tarantula’s knowledge stopped being usable the moment she acts on it,” said the Nameless.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Emile said. “Houngan or not, I am but a humble foot-soldier in this war of magic and gods. I was told to bring you to New Orleans, and I will do so to the best of my ability.”

  “Is that where she is?” the Nameless asked. “If so, it’s more than a thousand miles away.”

  “Not a problem,” Emile said, pointing theatrically to the far end of the road. A pair of white lights was visible in the distance, and they kept getting closer.

  “Horseless chariot…” the Nameless mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” the Nameless said as he tried making out the details of the incoming vehicle. It was black, angular, and from what he could see, quite long. “I have never ridden in a car before.”

  “Then allow Emile to expand your horizons, my friend.”

  The Nameless clenched both fists. This will be unpleasant.

  ***

  For three hours now, Tomas de Silva had stood in front of Lord Nameless’ second floor statue. He had done many things in service of the law, but this was perhaps the most ridiculous: he and three other guards were to prevent any and all worship. The fact that this duty was deemed important enough to have men assigned to it confused him to no end.

  Working under torchlight didn’t help, especially considering there was only one allowed per patrol unit. Anything more than that, and the air would slowly turn un-breathable. For two days now, everything below the third floor was completely dead. There was no work, no gambling, and no way to keep the populace pacified. And now, thanks to Tomas and his team, there was also no scratch for the religious itch. If the supposedly liberating Holy Army were not on its way, the people would have probably started to rebel.

  Tomas remembered the words of his superior: The virtuous are en route to save us from the tyranny of a satanic monster. He sighed, relaxing as much as his posture allowed while he looked around for the umpteenth time. Save for his group, the permanently crowded streets of Babylon were now completely empty.

  Was Lord Nameless such a monster, though? he couldn’t help but wonder. Tomas used to despise the self-proclaimed god. His war against crime was unforgiving for both sides. It had cost Tomas his friends, his health, and everything else he could think of. However…

  He raised his right hand, clenching and releasing. With the threat of imminent death gone, the shivers disappeared as well. Slowly, he was healing. The supposed monster whose worship Tomas was preventi
ng had, out of the blue, chosen to save his life. In contrast, Sheriff Azarian put him to work immediately, disregarding how much of a nervous wreck he was.

  I thought Lord Nameless was mad. But in reality, he probably saw things in black and white. Tomas had time to tense his fingers once more before the sound of multiple footsteps made him wrap them around the grip of his rifle.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted as he turned toward a nearing circle of light. The torch was being held by another guard, who walked surrounded by four more men. All but one of them were in uniform.

  “Your relief,” a familiar voice said.

  Tomas tried remembering who it was, but failed completely. After all, he had stopped memorizing details about others long ago. “We have one more hour to go.”

  “We know,” the torchbearer said as his entourage approached the statue. “This’ll take a while.”

  It was then that Tomas realized that these guards came equipped with sticks of dynamite. He looked up to the statue before turning back to the recent arrivals. His hand twitched again (the first time in days) when he laid eyes on the face of the civilian: emaciated, pale, and tattooed with a large white cross over the eyes, nose, and mouth. No! No way that’s him!

  “Who is that?” he asked, pointing to the tattooed man. He already knew the answer, but hoped it somehow wasn’t true.

  “This is our new reverend,” said the torch-bearing guard. “He is known as Ashes. You may have heard of him.”

  Jesus. H. Christ. Tomas’ hand twitched once more. This time, the others noticed.

  “Seems like we’ve arrived at the perfect time,” the torch-bearer said. “Go and rest, de Silva. God knows you’ve earned it.”

  Tomas prepared to take the first step. Seconds passed, and still he didn’t move. “You’re about to demolish the statue, right?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  It is when you replace it with a complete madman. The hunt for Ashes had been an ugly thing. The serial killer had become active in the transitional period before Lord Nameless had full control of the city. His cult was a budding thing back then, and people were slow to embrace it. Ashes had decided to slow it down further. Like an urban predator, he stalked worshippers before and after their rituals, sometimes waiting for days to strike. In the end, it was his crime spree that had caused the guards to fully commit themselves to the Nameless’ cause. And now, they were ready to work with the madman. Complete and utter insanity.

  “Not at all,” Tomas said, gesturing for his men to move. They nodded, and took their places at his side. “Any news? When is the Holy Army arriving?”

  “They are delayed,” said the torchbearer.

  Delayed? “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. Somewhere halfway, they turned around and returned the way they came. An envoy arrived an hour ago. Insists that nothing has changed. We are still to surrender, only at a later date.”

  A force like that, turning around for no reason? Unlikely. “Do we have some info on that?”

  The torchbearer was about to respond, but Ashes cut him off. “The One True Church of America does only what is best for everyone. Though its actions might seem inexplicable on the surface, I assure you that they are by no means random.”

  Complications on their end. Got it, Tomas thought. This explained a lot. The sheriff needed to distract the commoners with something. Religion was cheap, and Ashes was the only remaining preacher in Babylon.

  “I understand,” Tomas said, taking his first step, his squad following in his wake. “Good luck to you, then.”

  “We don’t need luck,” Ashes said.

  You have blessings. Yes, I know, Tomas thought. He didn’t say a thing.

  Chapter Ten

  A full day passed on the open road. Most of this time the Nameless spent in distress.

  He clutched the handle to his right, despite the vehicle barely shaking at all. He avoided resting against the door for fear it would open and spew him out. Even though he knew Emile, the presence of three more voodoo sorcerers unnerved him to no end. And that was not counting the two in the driver and co-driver compartments. From the leather to the men’s suits and skins, everything on the inside of the car was black.

  He coughed, opening the darkened window to let out some of the incessant tobacco smoke. The smell never failed to get under his skin.

  “Hooch?” asked one of the men, a burly, overweight priest sitting opposite the Nameless. Back in the massacred camp, he had introduced himself as Basil.

  “No, thanks,” the Nameless said while staring out the window. The scenery was unfamiliar. “Are we going north?”

  “Only a little bit,” Emile said. He pulled out a shot glass from a compartment to the side, and presented it to Basil. “We need to avoid this so-called Holy Army. Fast or not, this vehicle can get surrounded and flipped over. If that happens, this all goes to waste.”

  “I understand,” the Nameless said. “Much less people there. Because of the Mist.”

  Emile nodded. “Yes.”

  “I must say I found it peculiar that you did not mention it back when we first spoke,” said the Nameless.

  “You came to me in search of answers.” Emile smiled, sipping on his drink. “It wasn’t right to give you more questions.”

  Maybe. The Nameless kept staring out the window.

  Another day passed. The car only stopped for them to pour more gas from the storage, and for the drivers to take turns at the wheel. The Nameless drifted in and out of sleep, wrestling with his slowly worsening lethargy. When it was time to dine, he had to force himself into taking a bite of the dried, salted meat.

  “How did you feed yourself all this time? Did you hunt?” he asked.

  “Yes and no.” Emile seemed to enjoy showing his teeth. “As with anything else, the first step was the hardest. We hunted down a cougar, and raised it from the dead. After that, game literally hunted itself. Only thing we had to do then was dry and salt the meat it brought us.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Hear that?” Emile said, waking Basil. “A god is impressed.”

  “He hasn’t seen a thing yet,” Basil mumbled as he drifted back into his slumber.

  The sun set, then rose again. The car changed direction, heading southeast. Slowly, the scenery turned from dry to verdant. The Nameless paid little attention, being preoccupied with his condition. He was neither better nor worse. Somewhere in the city of Babylon, people were praying to him in secret. It was less than scraps, but he welcomed their gift. It meant not needing to reap.

  “So, Mr. Nameless,” a young, thin priest sitting next to the Nameless spoke for the first time. “What’s it like being a… a god?”

  The Nameless considered his answer. “What is your name, boy?”

  “Leon,” the boy said, barely preventing himself from adding ‘sir’ at the end.

  “Well, Leon,” the Nameless said, turning to the boy after making sure that all eyes were on him. “For me, being divine was a lot like being punched in the face for seven months straight.”

  The boy seemed confused. “But it’s no longer like that, right?”

  “No, it’s not,” the Nameless grinned bitterly. “Now I am getting punched in the groin.”

  Emile laughed. “Come now, Lord Nameless. I’m certain you’re used to all sorts of riches, but you can’t say we’ve treated you wrong.”

  “For now,” said the Nameless.

  “True enough,” Emile nodded.

  As night approached, so did the landscape change in a subtle manner. Previously bright green, the trees and grass around the road slowly got darker. With each passing hour, the growth became wilder and more invasive. In some places it enveloped the road, and the limousine had to slow down. Then came the swamps. Covering both their right and left, these pockets of sludge sprawled out of control. Within a year they would probably swallow the road whole.

  The Nameless shut his window. The smell was not outright bad, but he did not need a
nother source of nausea.

  “There she is,” Emile said, pointing behind him with his thumb. “New Orleans. The Big Easy. The Birthplace of Jazz. The Crescent City. All this, and so much more.”

  “The cradle of the New Voodoo Movement, for instance,” said the Nameless, peering out the window. A grey blotch of concrete was in the distance, slowly getting closer.

  “Not the least part of its importance,” Emile said. “Regardless of what you think of it, Lord Nameless, the fact remains: alongside Babylon, New Orleans is the last sane city in the States. That makes us natural allies, I’d say.”

  The Nameless frowned. “Is that why you waited this long to extend a helping hand?”

  Emile’s smile disappeared. “Put yourself in our shoes, my friend. The only other religion that existed before yours had been calling us devil-worshippers for over a decade. You spring out of nowhere, massacring the old Management and demanding worship. A new cult appears, essentially putting people on welfare. How were we to compete?”

  “You did not need to compete,” said the Nameless.

  “Do you really think that?” Emile asked. “You’ve seen the walking dead up close. The things are foul, but far too useful not to employ. They don’t do much to attract new people to the faith, and a religion is nothing without the people. The joined wills of a collective is what gives birth to power, my friend. Without it, we would have nothing.”

  The Nameless considered his words. “Are you saying that you are drawing directly from your worshippers?”

  “Of course not,” Emile said. “In the economy of magic, man is the creditor. It is Bondye who gets to use these assets, and distribute them further down the line. From him to the Loa, from the Loa to the priests. And round it goes, this wheel of mutual worship. Everything has a place, Lord Nameless. Even you.”

  Hopefully not in a grave, the Nameless thought. “So this is why you left Babylon and ceased all dialogue? Because you thought us a threat?”

  “We needed to assess you,” Emile said. “So essentially, yes.”

  “People have died because of that,” said the Nameless. “Good men have been tossed into the fire because I thought we were on our own. And now you tell me you could have helped me all this time?” He leaned in, staring Emile down. “How and why should I trust you?”