by M. T. Miller
“Yeah, wait ‘til I rip his head off!” Malachi shouted, stepping forward. “That’ll show ya amazing!”
“That would be a waste,” the masked old man rebutted, still pacing with his back straight and fists closed. “A man of such skill would have a place in any army.”
Malachi didn’t take another step. “He molested a nun.”
“And how many of you haven’t done worse?” the old man said, now near the arena.
No Knight said a word, and neither did Malachi. Surprisingly, even the corpulent nun remained silent.
“Let’s reward him, then,” Malachi growled, turning to the Nameless. “Your tent, plus seven new recruits, picked by yourself. Melee against me in a week. You’re so good, you should be able to win easily.”
Unsure of what to say, the Nameless turned to the old man. The mask didn’t communicate. He had to guess. “If that is what you command,” he said.
“So be it,” said the old man.
Seemingly pleased with the outcome, Malachi finally stepped out of the ring and allowed the Nameless to do the same. The way the Knights peered at him reminded him of the populace back in Babylon. To them, what he’d just done was unthinkable.
I did come here to advance in rank, he thought as he started to move. A row of people parted to let him through. Having men to train was not far below having men to command. And getting men to command would be a quick way of getting the Holy Army’s trust. With that out of the way, only one question remained: how would he deal with what was to come?
***
Sitting on a closed toilet seat in her apartment’s bathroom, Rush prepared to give herself a hit. She pressed the injector gun containing her chems against the side of her neck, eager to shoot. It was at that moment that the sound of someone banging against her front door reached her ears.
“WHAT?” she shouted as loud as her lungs allowed, while drawing the injector away from her skin.
“You’re needed in the elevator hub, Champion!” a woman shouted back from outside her front door. Despite the distance, Rush heard her perfectly.
“Yeah? What for?”
“It seems something is happening down on the second floor,” the woman said. “Something violent. There’s screaming and shooting and… more or less anything else you could imagine!”
I can imagine a whole lot of stuff, Rush thought. “Alright, here’s what you’re gonna do: you get back there and tell them I’ll be comin’ soon!” She pressed the injector against her neck again. “Yeah, and one more thing!”
“Yes, Champion?”
“If I don’t hear any pink elephants down there, I’m gonna be disappointed!” Rush quipped. If the woman had anything to say about that, she kept it to herself. She’s just jealous she can’t tell a thing’s color by the sound it makes. Pleb.
She hit the trigger and her neck started to burn pleasantly. As the mind-and-body altering substances slowly flowed into her, Rush couldn’t help but look back at how positively this newer stuff had influenced her. The half-lives of these new drugs were extended significantly, allowing for an incomparably more evened-out existence. No more hyper/dead girl; no more ultra-libido/frigid bitch. She was her own person again, as much as taking the shit allowed. In a way, Khalid’s meltdown a few months back was a good thing.
Back to her senses, Rush rose and stretched her neck and shoulders. Now let’s see what’s going on, she thought as she left her bathroom, then the apartment.
There were easily over twenty people at the elevator hub, yet they all moved to let her through. As she approached one of the forced-open shafts, Rush found herself faced with the crutch-bearing figure of Torres. By his side and holding his hand stood his daughter Patricia, a sweet-looking black-haired child in a white dress. Kids tended to gross Rush out, but she had nothing against this one. A little bit, she reminded Rush of herself.
Just as she was about to ask for clarification, an echo of distant gunfire came up the shaft. Rush turned her neck aside, pointing an ear toward the opening. Even she had difficulty painting a picture in her mind of what was going on down there. For better or worse, the second floor was in absolute chaos.
“Seems like Azarian’s having trouble keeping it together,” she said with a grin. No pink elephants though.
“People are dying down there, Rush!” Torres said as Patricia grasped his hand even firmer. “This isn’t a laughing matter!”
“People are dying all the time!” Rush snorted. “If you can’t deal with that, then you might as well have killed yourself a looong time ago.”
Everything went quiet, at least for a couple of seconds. Then an ear-piercing explosion came from below, no doubt some of the guards’ last supply of explosives.
“So…” Rush leaned against the side of the shaft, picking her ringing ear, “anyone got any popcorn?”
***
The Nameless spent the week following Malachi’s challenge conflicted. He had picked the fittest new Knights he could find and dragged them (as well as Greg and Kenneth) through a crash-course of his own design.
Even though he detested letting the Holy Army use his skill and experience, he nevertheless took comfort in the fact that what he was teaching did not have too wide of an application. Ten-against-one tactics, if one could even call them that, were unlikely to see any use outside of fighting the so-called First Skull. Unless I end up facing these men someday. Then, they would use it against me.
Each day, after the morning ritual of eating and shaving their heads, the Nameless and his men took to the training yard and occupied one of the larger circular arenas. In it, he would take the role of Malachi and they would practice taking him down together. The Skulls’ savagery was both a bad and good thing: the stray punch or kick he took was no laughing matter, but this meant that their muscle memory would not falter when the real fight came. These men, the whole lot, were killers, and the Nameless was making them better at it, at least when it came to big game.
Having been on the receiving end of Malachi’s blows, the Nameless knew something few did: the man was invulnerable, but his strength was still within the range of a human. He was no Rush; he needed weapons or weak spots to execute a man. If the men attacked him rather than cowered, some semblance of a victory might be achievable. At least in the ring.
From time to time, the masked old man would stroll by the arena and observe the Nameless with bespectacled eyes of red. General Cranium, he was apparently called, and he ran the whole operation. Considering that he wasn’t shaving his head, the Nameless assumed that the man didn’t bear any mutilations. The Church is preying on these people’s memories of the Boneslinger, he concluded.
Compared to what the Nameless expected, the life of a White Knight was more that of a soldier than a man of god. Rituals and benedictions were in short supply, and mostly from the priests and nuns who occasionally paced around the many arenas with burning incense and echoing chants. Aside from giving lip service to whatever was being shoved down his throat on any given day, nothing was expected of him. Sometimes Kenneth did that for the entire group.
“You’re killing us, Stan,” Greg said on the evening of day five. Somewhere along the way, he’d decided they were on a first name basis.
“Better me than the… First Skull,” the Nameless said before chugging a cup full of water. Resting against a wooden fence, the two men observed the rest of their team as they exercised grappling techniques in teams of two.
Greg crumpled a piece of paper that used to contain a small bread bun before tossing it over the fence. It was an offense punishable by whipping, but only if one was caught. “So… what are we gonna do?”
“I went over it before, several times. Every day,” said the Nameless.
“Bringing ‘im down, yeah. What then?”
“Then we keep him pinned,” the Nameless said.
“For how long?” Greg moved his shoulders up and down, creating a slight crackle.
“For as long as it takes.”
“And if it takes five minutes? Ten? What if he grabs one of us by the junk and just tears it off? There must be something more to it.”
“No,” said the Nameless. He liked to have an ace up his sleeve, but fact was that he genuinely didn’t. There was no assigned protocol for ending a melee without one side either becoming unable to fight or giving up. This was a fine rule when men faced other men, but Malachi was unlikely to do either of the two.
“Amazing. Absolutely amazing,” Greg muttered.
“You are going to do your part, yes?” the Nameless asked. He handled talking without lips better and better each day, but still refrained from sentences that were too long.
“’Course,” Greg said as he started moving toward the arena. The Nameless did the same. There was no time to waste.
Days passed, and the time of reckoning came. That morning, the Nameless and his team ate lightly. They stood around the centermost arena, ready and willing. Whether or not they were able, they would find out soon.
Standing at the opposite side of the circular arena, just outside its borders, Malachi locked his eyes on the Nameless. His posture was upright, his arms spread wide; every move the man made was part of the show.
“Someone’s about to get a lesson in humility,” he said, stepping in.
I agree, the Nameless thought as he brought his foot forward. Almost immediately, his team followed his lead. Now that he stood within the ring the Nameless looked around discreetly, searching for the general. He was nowhere in sight, which was by no means a good thing.
“Begin!” Malachi shouted theatrically as his muscles tensed. He did this in every event he was in, and today was no different. He lurched ahead, somewhat ponderously at first, before dashing forward as if he were propelled by an explosion.
“Spread!” the Nameless shouted as he lightly retreated backward. He knew full well what Malachi intended to do, and presenting himself as bait was the most efficient means for the plan to proceed.
Doing as they were told, the men were (to Malachi’s glee) no longer viable targets. With full force, he slammed into the Nameless, pushing him back and sending him flying to the ground. Had his target not been moving backward, the impact might have knocked him unconscious. But the Nameless was not only awake, but ready to bark more orders.
“Arms!” he shouted, right as Malachi sat on his chest in preparation to start punching. Greg stepped in immediately along with three more men. Coming from both left and right, they grabbed Malachi from under the armpits and yanked him back with all their might. If he were a regular-sized man, they might have yanked him off the ground and lifted him up into the air. The way he was, all they managed to do was slam him onto his back.
“Legs!” the Nameless shouted as he got up, ignoring the pain in his chest. He would worry whether anything was broken later.
Following his command, the remaining five men scuttled over and grabbed Malachi by both calves and knees. Rocking and heaving like a shark out of water, he struggled, yet still remained in their grasp.
Just one more thing, the Nameless thought while he ran around the whole spectacle and toward Malachi’s head. Once the neck was immobilized, the madman would have no means of causing anyone any harm. After that everything would come down to keeping him pinned for as long as possible.
He didn’t manage to reach it before things went south. The way the men held Malachi down was flawless. Any attempt at escape would have resulted in grievous self-harm on his side. But Malachi was incapable of suffering any harm at all, and it didn’t take long for him to start using that edge.
Paying no heed to the way his joints twisted, he pulled to the left at full strength. The men endured for as long as they could, but faced against something as hard as diamond, their fingers gave way. Within the blink of an eye the formation broke, and so did the Nameless’ plan.
No! Instead of Malachi’s neck, the Nameless grasped nothing but air. The men dispersed as Malachi rose, his eyes glinting with pure murder. Fear overcame Kenneth and his legs went limp. Instead of getting any distance he fell flat on his back.
“Guess I’ll start with you,” Malachi said as he wound up his torso, preparing to kick Kenneth in the face.
The Nameless had no love for Kenneth. His neophytic fanaticism was an obvious morale hazard. His combat performance was good, but that alone did not make a good soldier. No, Kenneth’s life or wellbeing was of no concern to the Nameless.
So the Nameless’ decision to run into Malachi’s back and smack into it shoulder first took everyone by surprise. Pushed by the impact, the huge man buried his fingers into the ground, preventing himself from kissing it.
The Nameless gritted his teeth, just barely keeping himself up. Pain in his right shoulder seared through his every nerve, discouraging the use of that arm. Dislocation… or worse? He let it hang, taking a step back as Malachi rose and took one forward. The madman’s gaze sent a clearer message than his words would; he was pleased by the Nameless’ agony, and eager to add to it.
Stepping back again, the Nameless looked at his men. After fleeing for their lives mere seconds ago, they were now willing to lay them on the line again. Even Kenneth rose with both fists closed, but what he intended to do with them was a mystery.
“Self-sacrifice is an important virtue,” a voice cut through the roar of the camp effortlessly. As if someone had pressed the off button, everything went silent. Turning to his right, the Nameless noticed not one but two old men: Father Light and the general, standing side by side.
“By the authority vested in me by the One True Church of America,” Father Light said once he had everyone’s attention, “I hereby declare this melee over.”
Malachi stood frozen in place. His eyes, blazing with fury but moments ago, became soulless husks. The muscles in his neck contracted several times, as if he were trying to cough out a loogie, before relaxing alongside the rest of his body.
“As you say,” he spat out, then turned away from the old men and separated the crowd to walk away. There was neither an oration nor a groan of disappointment. The event was over, and that was that.
Holding his shoulder, the Nameless looked into the priest’s eyes, uncertain of what to do. He hadn’t noticed it in the dark, but they were identical to those of Malachi: grey and metallic, almost like chrome. A common trait of Saints?
“Amazing work,” the general said, interrupting the silence. In his usual, ageless gait, he stepped into the ring and started walking toward the Nameless. “Everyone, resume your activities. The rest of the day is to go as planned!”
The echo of countless footsteps resounded across the camp as the general reached the Nameless. “Follow me,” he said, before passing him by and proceeding toward the city beyond the camp.
“Stay here,” the Nameless told his team as he went after the general. Be right back, he wanted to add, but there was no way to know if it would be true.
Chapter Eighteen
The general didn’t speak along the way, and the Nameless didn’t force the issue.
If the Underbelly was badly off during the Nameless’ first stint there, now it was an absolute disaster. Roads, houses, and buildings, previously only showing signs of decay, were partially or completely destroyed in the meantime. In fact, the only structure that didn’t seem to show any wear and tear was the all-too-familiar cathedral in the center.
And the Nameless was being led right to it.
The mishmash of styles was the same. Gargoyles still peered down from the rooftops, fashioned from the same white marble that made up the whole building. It was, at the same time, ominous and inviting, grandiose and bland. There was but one detail that distinguished it from the last time the Nameless it was there: the widely opened front doors.
“Step inside,” the general said without turning. “I’d tell you to behave, but you seem to have yourself under control.”
Silently, the Nameless ascended the stairs and followed the General inside. Even though the church was intact, he coul
dn’t help but wonder about Chastity. Hopefully she survived whatever happened here.
The red silk carpet was still in place, and the hallway it lined was unchanged. Once they reached the nave the Nameless noticed to his relief that not only was it pristine, but still possessed its most important decoration: the white-clad nun.
“Welcome, General,” Chastity said with minimal movement of her silver-colored lips. She stood behind the pulpit and read from the book for what was likely the millionth time. Everything about her was the way the Nameless remembered, including the chrome-colored shades that obscured her eyes.
“Greetings, Sister,” the general said as he approached, and the Nameless walked behind him. “I’ll be needing your talents now.”
The corners of the sister’s lips moved slightly downward. “Cranium, why did you bring this filth into my cathedral?”
The general ignored her tone. “This man is a White Knight, initiated and sanctioned by the Church. He’s as much a servant of God as you or me. Must we do this every time I bring someone in?”
Closing the book, the sister descended the pulpit. “No, General. We don’t have to.” She pointed to the hidden operating room located in the south transept, the same place the Nameless once took Horace.
“Can you just do him right here and now?” the general asked. “No need for theatrics or secrecy. We’re in a hurry, and it’s only a dislocated shoulder. I think.”
The sister sighed as she turned toward the Nameless. She approached, placing both hands around his aching shoulder. “This isn’t just dislocated. The bone’s shattered in several places,” she said.
“Do we need the surgery room, then?”
“No. The sooner I’m done with you, the sooner you’ll be out of my hair.” Chastity withdrew her hands, contracting and releasing all ten of her fingers in synchronicity. This went on for a second or two, before an array of brilliant white sparks started to emerge from her fingertips. The sparks multiplied, forming a cloud that suddenly ignited, covering both her palms in something that could only be described as white fire.