by M. T. Miller
“I didn’t think I would need to repeat myself to you,” Emile said. “But no matter. The Movement’s fault or not, you have no more, or very few, fighting men. The Holy Army, though likely stalled, will eventually descend on your city and claim it, whether you are there to defend it or not. Playing by our rules is the only way for you to win. This is absolute fact.”
And even if it were not, I am now in their territory, the Nameless concluded as he leaned back in. “This is not over.”
“Of course it’s not,” Emile smiled again. “As a matter of fact, it’s just beginning.”
***
As the limousine approached the widely opened gates of the city, so did the Nameless notice a peculiarity: there were no barricades, nor any guards. Men did not erect gargantuan walls to huddle behind or scan the area from. It was as if New Orleans had no enemies at all.
“This will take a while,” Emile said as he made himself just a little bit more comfortable. “No need to be on your toes. I’ll tell you when we’re there.”
The Nameless kept looking out the window, mesmerized by the city’s unique appearance. Streets, houses, and boulevards created in styles he could not describe (let alone name), came and went, changing faster than there was time to memorize. Short, colorful and thin constructions gave way to white, more grandiose ones. The road was straight, and then started to curve. Even the car seemed to move differently from neighborhood to neighborhood.
Many civilians moved freely along the streets. A woman and child passed close by, heading the opposite way. They were dark skinned, but adorned in bright clothing. A pair of men walked on the other side of the street. It took the Nameless a white to realize they were dead.
“You have these things walking around freely?” he asked.
“As I’ve mentioned before,” Emile said, “too useful not to employ. Without the right command, they are completely harmless. Knowing this, would you not have used them as manual labor, couriers, security, and everything else you could think of, given the chance?”
“Maybe,” said the Nameless. “Or maybe I would have kept those jobs for the living.”
“Babylon has one set of problems, New Orleans has another. You have a surplus of people. We have a lack.”
The Nameless kept looking out the window. The living passers-by became more frequent, but so did the dead. “And the citizens tolerate this?”
“They have no choice,” Emile said. “It’s either living here or in Babylon. Anything else is a death sentence.”
“Because of the Skulls.”
Emile nodded. “The White City used to be an option before the Skulls became huge. At that point, the Church had to make a sort of compromise with the gang, and everything changed. While black Christians weren’t in any way discouraged from settling in or around it, nothing was being done to stop Skulls from having their way. Over time, more and more people like me got tired of fearing for our lives. We figured ‘what could be worse than this?’ and just moved here. It took some getting used to, but it’s not too bad.”
The Nameless stopped looking out the window. “I thought you were born to this.”
“No one here was,” Emile said. “I used to be a car salesman. Turns out I have an aptitude for magic, so the Supreme Houngan took an interest.” He extended his arms. “And look at me now; sharing the company of one god while speaking for another. Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said the Nameless.
Minutes went by in silence before the car stopped moving. Emile looked out the window himself before smiling. “We’re here, my friend. It’s time to meet the boss.”
“The one you call the Supreme Houngan?” the Nameless asked.
“The one and only,” Emile confirmed, pulling a handle at his side and opening the door. The other men did the same. The Nameless was about to try as well, but Emile did it in his stead.
The limousine was parked in front of a massive, hedged yard. Beyond it was an old-looking white building. It was shaped like an angular horseshoe, and an unkempt hedge was allowed to climb its walls and even cover some windows. The Nameless squinted, noticing that unlike the rest of the city, this dwelling did in fact have guards. The fact they were dead changed little about what they are, and all four stood at the sides of the front door like grotesque statues.
“Please,” Emile said as he and the others started moving toward it. Even the drivers joined in.
The Nameless followed them without a word. Once they approached the door, Emile grabbed the knob slowly, as if to gauge the zombies’ reactions. They didn’t move, so he opened wide.
“I thought they were harmless unless ordered otherwise,” the Nameless said.
“They were ordered otherwise,” Emile said as he went in. The Nameless did the same, followed by the other men.
Much to the Nameless’ surprise, the building was actually well kept on the inside. Its white walls were clean, its floor polished to perfection. His eyes went in all directions, over the golden decorations, the hanging chandeliers, and the large organ behind the extravagant pulpit at the other end of the chamber. And if he somehow still had any doubts about the place’s purpose, the row upon row of seats on both sides removed them.
“This is a church,” he said, his baritone ending in an echo.
“Not just any church,” Emile said proudly. He took a step forward, and turned to face the Nameless with his arms outstretched. “Welcome, Lord Nameless. Welcome to the Old Ursuline Convent!”
I know of this place, the Nameless thought. Perhaps he had never been there in person, but it was in some way familiar. Most likely, he’d simply heard of it before. “It is named appropriately.”
“No better place to host this meeting of old and new,” Emile said, pointing to the seats behind him. “Feel free to take a seat while I go and get the boss.”
“I think I will remain where I am,” the Nameless said, standing near the center of the chamber. The position gave him a good view of everything, and there was no reason to change it. That is, apart from the weakening of his limbs, but that only gave him more of a cause to be careful.
“As you wish,” Emile said as he passed him by, returning to the door. “I will be back shortly.”
The Nameless waited for it to shut before he spoke to Basil. “Does the Supreme Houngan regularly take guests here?”
“No. I guess he wanted you to see this place. Why, I don’t know.”
But I think I do, the Nameless thought. The convent used to be a bastion of Christianity. To show that it was still being maintained meant that the Movement was willing to share space with other religious factions.
The Nameless turned toward a stained glass window. It depicted Christ on a crucifix. Behind it, he saw the outlines of a thick formation of vines from outside. If that is true, then why let it become overgrown like this?
He didn’t speak to the men. Emile had talked to him enough, and he was their superior. The chance of them having anything worthwhile to say was miniscule. Instead, he took the chance to inspect the finer details of the chamber. The way the polished gold glinted underneath the yellow-white light. The other stained glass windows, and the imagery they communicated. The way the smooth wood of the seats slid underneath his half-numb fingertips.
There was no reaction. No flood of sensation. No lost memories pecking at the back of his mind. I was never here. Not even in my previous life. Otherwise, I would have remembered it. The building is just old.
The convent’s doors slid open once more, drawing the Nameless’ attention.
“Welcome, Lord of Babylon!” a man shouted, the depth of his voice overshadowing that of the Nameless. He was tall and sturdy, with skin as dark as the night. Just like his priests, he wore a black suit, albeit his was lined with jaguar fur. When he smiled, several of his teeth gleamed the color of gold, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of round spectacles. Completing this image was an expensive looking top hat, also lined with gold.
The
Nameless was just about to respond in kind when he caught sight of the man’s chaperone. His fists contracted involuntarily. He bit into his lip, drawing blood.
Barely a foot away from the large man, Tarantula stood without a hint of shame. Just as beautiful as the Nameless remembered, her long hair had been tied back in a high ponytail. A (possibly too tight) black dress covered some of her, and showed much more. How she managed to move around in it was a mystery in and of itself.
“Hey, hey!” Basil and Leon stood in front of their boss, the worry evident in their eyes. “We’re supposed to work together, remember?”
“I remember,” the Nameless said, forcing himself into a more relaxed posture. He licked his lips, tasting the iron in his blood. “Make no mistake, I remember everything.”
Tarantula tried saying something, but the large man cut her off. “Can you control yourself, Lord Nameless?”
“I can,” the Nameless said, pulling his fingers through his sticky long hair. “Forgive me. I am not at my best.”
“I can imagine,” said the large man. “Can I rely on you not to injure Tarantula here? She is absolutely vital for what we are about to do.”
“What are we about to do, then?” the Nameless asked, inhaling deeply.
“I will tell you that, and more.” The large man stepped between his two priests and approached the Nameless. As he did, he extended a hand. Nearly every single one of his fingers bore a golden ring. “But first, let us officially meet. I am Jules Hillaire, Supreme Houngan and leader of the New Voodoo Movement.”
The Nameless’ stare met the man’s shades, then every other pair of eyes in the room, and finally fell on the hand again. “Nameless, Lord of Babylon,” he said as he shook it. What do you have planned. Tarantula?
“Splendid,” Hillaire said. “How are you liking the convent?”
“It tells me you are willing to coexist, yes. That shade of meaning is not lost to me,” the Nameless said bluntly. “I am racing against time here, Mr. Hillaire. We can save the civilities for another occasion. Right now, I am interested in one thing, and one thing only: stopping that band of lunatics back west from taking what is mine!” He looked at Tarantula as he finished his sentence. She didn’t react.
For the briefest of moments, Hillaire’s expression was surprised. He changed it to a smile soon enough. “So you are willing to cooperate. Good to know.”
“You are dancing around the subject. What do you want me to do? Name the task, and its completion will be that much quicker.” The Nameless looked around once more, aware that something was missing. “And where is Emile?”
“Doing his part,” said Hillaire, stepping aside and pointing to the exit. “If you will, Lord Nameless. Explanations lie ahead.”
The Nameless exhaled as he started moving. Why did I expect him to be upfront?
***
The city was wondrous, but the Nameless knew that already. Hillaire was courteous, but that was expected as well. Not unlike a reprimanded child, Tarantula paced behind the two men as they advanced down the middle of a wide street.
The Nameless interrupted the silence. “She works with the Cleanup Crew, a murderous bunch of lunatics. These people care about no one but themselves. When faced with the choice of whether to do good or kill me, they would always choose the latter.”
Hillaire smiled. “That’s exactly what she told me you’d say.”
The Nameless turned to Tarantula, then back to the man. “That does not make what I said less true.”
“You are right,” Hillaire’s smile dimmed a little bit. “And you will get my rebuttal within minutes, that I promise. I could just tell you, but I think it would be better if you saw it with your own eyes.”
“I cannot wait,” the Nameless grumbled as he kept walking.
A couple of detours later, Hillaire pointed to a single-story structure that covered nearly the entirety of the left side of the street. “Here we are.”
Knowing full well what it was, the Nameless slowed his pace. “You are taking me to a prison?”
“Not to put you there,” Hillaire said, having stopped moving. “I want to show you something.”
“Does it tie in to whatever you have planned?” the Nameless asked, standing face-to-face with the man.
“Not directly, but you should definitely see it. Otherwise, you may not fully trust us.”
I will not trust you anyway. The Nameless sighed. “Lead the way.”
“Excellent.” Hillaire turned and went toward the jail. The Nameless and Tarantula followed closely behind.
Unlike the convent, this place was manned by the living. The pair of guards at the door sported sabers, the only ones the Nameless had seen in the city. As if they were in the presence of a king, they knelt before the Supreme Houngan and unlocked the door immediately.
“We don’t keep many prisoners,” Hillaire said as he entered, gesturing for the Nameless and Tarantula to do the same. “After getting to New Orleans, folks are usually quick to decide whether or not they want to live here. Most who don’t, we exile. It’s only those who represent a security risk that we keep in here.”
The Nameless gave the hallway a quick scan before stepping in. It was as plain as it could be, leading to a mock reception that had obviously been modified from something else. Behind the desk, a pair of doors led to what were probably holding cells. A strong scent was in the air, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Rather, it seemed to be a kind of balm.
Once the pair had passed the doorway, Hillaire ordered it closed and led them to the clerk. “Everything alright today?”
“Yes, your Excellency!” the man practically kissed his desk. “One prisoner has had a couple of episodes, but this was not out of order. No damage nor relevant injuries.”
“Perfect,” Hillaire said before leading the group to the right door. As he pressed his hand against the handle, he turned to the Nameless. “Remember, you are not in danger here. Keep that in mind.”
The door opened, and it took all the Nameless’ willpower to prevent survival instincts from taking over. Beyond lay a narrow yet long hallway. On both sides there were cells, the vast majority of which were empty. However, in the walking space proper, tens of rancid, dead-eyed zombies kept walking in circles. Their motions were rigid, their skin stretched tightly over their failing muscles. A pair turned to the door, but Hillaire immediately raised a hand, causing them to stop in their tracks. They stared at it pathetically for a few moments before returning to their mockery of patrol.
“You cannot call them prisoners if they are dead,” the Nameless quipped.
“You know as well as I do that they are security,” Hillaire said, waving the hand to the right. Almost in unison, every single zombie approached that side of the hallway and stood there stoically. “They are more obedient, though, and just as deadly.”
Only one cell was occupied, the third one to the left. Initially unable to believe his eyes, the Nameless approached it to take a better look. He couldn’t help but grin. Deprived of any weaponry, all three surviving members of the Cleanup Crew languished within. While both men rested on their bunks, Divine was on her feet. If looks could kill, hers would dismember.
“Doomed to the wrong side of the bars, it seems,” he said upon seeing her face. Despite how eye-pleasing he knew that face could be, the grimace of rage it twisted into was the stuff of nightmares.
What came out of Divine’s mouth was not exactly words. The mixture of growls and pants she spewed had no definite meaning, yet didn’t fail to communicate fury. In between shrieks she tried to spit on the Nameless’ face, but was too uncoordinated to hit it.
“Keep at it. The next time we meet, you will be throwing your own feces,” he said, turning back to Hillaire. “This has improved my mood, but still changes little. A lot of good men have been lost over this filth. They should hang, at the very least.”
Divine’s mutterings turned into an ear-piercing howl, followed by her hitting the bars. Somewhere in there, there were sent
ences, but the Nameless did not care to hear them.
“And man should be decent to his fellow man,” Hillaire said, posing somewhat theatrically with his palms displayed. “The States should not be a shitty place. The Mist should not be eating away at the north, and fanatical lunatics should not be hunting for our heads. But the reality is never what it should be, Lord Nameless. Question is, what will we do to fix that?”
The Nameless straightened his posture. Even though he was still lethargic, the live music provided by Divine did wonders to lift his spirits. “You were right. I did need to see this. I still do not trust you, but I am now genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say.” If this cannot go any faster, the least I can do is try and move it forward.
“Good to hear,” said Hillaire, pointing at the door behind him. “If you will. We are done here, and can proceed to more… pleasant locales.”
The Nameless looked back at Divine, then to her comrades. “What is it with these two? One would expect them to wake from this racket. Contrast is missing as well.”
“The Grin is recovering from my venom,” Tarantula interceded. “Uncle is out on painkillers. He and Divine threw a fit after realizing who our benefactors were. Got injured in the resulting scuffle.”
Hillaire exchanged glances with her, seemingly displeased. “Helped me out with my decision to lock them up. The gate operators who assisted the Babylon escape were more collected, and are slowly integrating with the city. New blood is always welcome.”
“You forgot Contrast,” the Nameless said.
“You will never see him again,” Hillaire said, dragging his thumb over his own throat. “That man had a rotten heart. Too rotten for this world.”
Good riddance. “Have you… employed the body?” the Nameless asked after a moment.
“There is no body,” Hillaire said. He turned to his left, grabbing the knob. “You said you wanted to hurry up. Shall we?”