by M. T. Miller
The Nameless’ head went light. He took a step back. “What? How? Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But you did, and here I am. Here we are.”
The Nameless pressed his temples with his free hand. What was left of his reason was screaming in agony. Again and again, everything kept turning on its head. Was this the actual truth, or just another instance of him losing his mind?
“So I am God now?” he asked. “The God? I made this entire world? Is that what you are saying?”
“As much as I’d love it to be so,” Lydia said, “no, my Lord, you are not the only god. You didn’t make the whole world; just the people here. The rest was made by others.”
“What others?” The Nameless was almost foaming at the mouth.
“The Purple Lightning,” Lydia said. “The Matriarch Chastity. The Supreme Houngan. The Monster. And…” Her stare moved into the distance. “There is someone else, though I can’t name him.”
Of course you can’t. “SIM.”
“Maybe,” Lydia said. “I only know what you would know, my Lord.”
How can you recognize who made what, then? the Nameless was about to ask, but quickly answered his own question. Rush’s army, as well as herself, was composed of differently colored ephemera than the men from his camp. Lydia and the rest of his… creations had to know this by instinct.
The Nameless’ headache became worse. If Rush was indeed one of the makers of this world, then she was dead either way. And if his memories from before of their life together were real, then what made her act the way she did?
“If you are all my creations,” he said, “then why not tell me this right away? How many times did I ask for the truth?”
Lydia nodded. “You did ask. But did you really want to hear it? About the way you’d lost everything? I would think not.”
The Nameless’ jugular throbbed rapidly. “So that was real?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Again, I only know what you know. Consciously and subconsciously.”
The Nameless didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. If he didn’t have the distraction this camp, this war had created for him, he might have lost his mind for good. But now that has served its purpose, and I am ready for blood.
“Lydia,” he said. “I have a simple question for you. Can I, in any way, get to this sixth creator?”
“Of course you can, my Lord. You can do anything you want,” Lydia said. “But I hope you won’t.”
“If what you claim about yourself is true,” he said, “then you know my answer.”
Lydia exhaled deeply. It was the sigh of someone sentenced to death via firing squad.
“Just think about it, my Lord,” she said. “Concentrate on all of us, and visualize the power we represent. We are not individuals; not really. Instead, we are no more than motes of faith, of magic, for you to wield and expend as you see fit.” She pointed to the tent-wall that used to lead into the nightmare cave. Sometime after Divine expired, it had turned back to normal.
“This can be a piece of fabric,” she said, “or it can also be a doorway. Think of a door, think where you want it to lead, and simply step through.” She looked at him with glossy eyes. “Or stay with me.”
The Nameless wiped her tears. He then passed her by and continued on toward the tent wall.
“I loved you, Lydia,” he said. “The short time we spent together, it played a large part in making me who I am today.” He now stood before the wall. “This second chance we got, I am thankful for it.” He extended a hand and stepped forward. “But now is the time to say goodbye.”
Lydia didn’t say a word. She couldn’t. Both she, and the rest of the camp, had stopped existing.
The Nameless grasped the knob of the newly created door, turned it, and went through. He thought himself ready for anything.
What he wasn’t ready for was the butt end of the gun that smacked him in the forehead a moment later.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Wow!” someone exclaimed while the room spun around the Nameless’ head. He recognized the voice instantly.
“Just… just wow!” SIM said, four spinning images of his grinning face slowly merging before the Nameless’ eyes. The stare he gave off was beyond maniacal. “That was actually incredible. Good job, man!” He stepped away and clapped twice.
The Nameless turned his head around like a cornered beast, realizing that was being held down on his knees by several strong hands. They were in a grey, monitor-filled room. Various scenes from the Wastes played on them, from the soldiers’ boring daily routines to his fight with that world’s Rush.
“I’m going to kill you,” the Nameless mumbled out. He opened his mind’s eye, and noticed that SIM, the handful of men present, as well as the room itself, were all composed of the same greyish cloud of energy. He tried taking it for himself, to form spikes and impale them all. Not even a speck conformed to his will. His creations. Not mine.
“Completely wrong,” SIM said. “A man gives you a compliment and it immediately goes to your head. Figures.” He reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a gun. He pointed it at the Nameless’ forehead. “But no problem. You’ll get something right eventually. Maybe.”
His trigger finger moved slowly, as if he expected a reaction. The Nameless would not disappoint.
“The Mist,” he said bitterly.
“Excuse me?” SIM said, his voice brimming with excitement. “Mind repeating that?”
“We are in the Mist,” said the Nameless. “Correct enough for you?”
SIM stepped back. He still held his gun, but no longer pointed it at the Nameless. He had the grin of a father whose son had just finished first in a marathon. “I was amazed before, but this is… You are a magnificent piece of work, Nameless. Not many killing machines come with a brain like yours.”
The Nameless tried to move, but the men’s grip was as firm as iron. He realized why as soon as he looked at them: their metallic skin wouldn’t let them pass as human from afar, let alone up close. Their eyes were concealed behind shades as black as their suits. The Nameless didn’t want to know what lay beneath.
“Great help, I know. I made them myself,” SIM said as he took more steps back and sat on the large desk in the center of the room. It only had one chair. Apparently, these guards never sat down. “But yes,” he continued. “When we went up north to inspect the Mist—you, me, Rush, and Emile—it outmaneuvered and swallowed us up without us ever noticing. We never left. I assume both Annabelle and Chas, at some point, followed us in. I can’t put my finger on it, but I expect at least the last year of our lives was nothing but a fantasy we’ve all collectively created.”
“Why do all this, then?” the Nameless asked.
“Good question. I have a better one, though. It goes something like: Back in that van in the Underbelly, the day you and I met, were the nuclear commands really shot? Was there really nothing I could do to save New Orleans? The answer, of course” —he leaned forward— “is no.”
The Nameless struggled, but barely moved an inch.
“Which of course brings us back to your initial question. Why?” He rose, now circling around the room. “Why not, Nameless? Why not, say, capture Annabelle, keep her chained up, then release her into the envoys’ room, causing a diplomatic incident? Questions, questions.”
“You are playing with us,” the Nameless realized. “Making us fight among each other. Chase our tails.”
“Again you are correct,” SIM said. “And your little brain —well, compared to mine—hurts more and more with each revelation, right?”
“Not a single thing you did makes any sense!” the Nameless spat out. “I saved you from the grip of that angel. Aren’t you the least bit thankful? If it weren’t for me, you’d have been left there to be tortured for all eternity!”
“Of course I am thankful,” SIM said, his expression now serious. He stopped pacing and let one hand rest against the table. He still held the gun with the othe
r. “Being tortured is not enjoyable, Nameless. What kind of question is that?
“However, there is torture and there is torture. The flesh can sizzle, the veins may burn, but no agony imposed on the body can measure up to the sheer existential torment the mind can experience. That is something we can agree on, I think.”
“Agreed,” said the Nameless. There was no need to argue against SIM’s point. It was completely true. “But I still do not follow.”
“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t,” SIM said. “You weren’t there.”
“Where?”
“In D.C.,” SIM said. “Fifteen, or you might say sixteen years ago, I guess. Hard to say how time passes here, in regards to outside. As far as we know, we may even be moving backwards.” He smiled again. “Which would be hilarious. But let’s get back to my point. It wasn’t God who destroyed D.C., Nameless. It was me.
The Nameless kept staring. Murderous intent bled from his every pore.
“Well, not in the flesh, mind you. I launched some nukes. Everything was so chaotic at the time, with the Rapture and all, I may have bombed it with pink elephants and no one would have batted an eyelash.”
The stare the Nameless sent his way could have burned through a slab of steel.
“Put yourself in my shoes, man,” SIM continued. “While I was working for the government, keeping everyone safe from behind the scenes, I realized: the whole world moves along the same, predictable routes. It’s been doing so since you’ve known it, and it will continue doing so long after you’re gone. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, happened without me having predicted it. Can you imagine the stagnation? Can you imagine the boredom? I was shocked that none of my fellow artificial humans understood.
“But then…” SIM laughed manically. “But then… the fucking Rapture happens! Can you imagine it? Complete, unpredicted chaos, introduced into a world that was, up to that point, one hundred percent deterministic!”
“So you nuked Washington?” the Nameless asked. “To add to the chaos?”
“No,” SIM said. “Well, that was the end result, yes, but not the intention. At the time, you see, I wasn’t as wise as I am now; such unpredictability came as a complete shock to me. It had to be snuffed out immediately.
“Swirling lights fought over our nation’s capital after millions of people had disappeared. At best, this was something that had to be suppressed from the general public. At worst, we were facing the wrath of the Almighty, whom, I remind you, I never believed in. So, in sheer panic, I pressed the button, and ended that whole insanity. No more Rapture. No more God. No more Devil.”
SIM grinned. “Nameless, you are looking at the Nietzsche of the twenty-first century.”
“You cannot kill God, SIM,” the Nameless said. He wasn’t that certain he was right.
“Maybe,” SIM said, his smile disappearing. “But I definitely did something.” He extended his arms, still holding the pistol. “This Mist is proof of that! Raw power of universal creation, Nameless! The very magic God used to bring everything into existence lies at our fingertips!” He pointed to the monitors and the scenes they were showing. “Look at all this! I made it! Well, you all did your parts, but the lion’s share of work was, this time, mine.”
“So you want to be God?” the Nameless asked.
“No one wants to be God, Nameless,” SIM said. “I bet not even God wanted to be God; not after learning how much effort managing the universe and keeping it from destroying itself took. Trust me on this. I spent over a decade babysitting our world. It’s a headache no one would ever suffer willingly.”
He swung his arm as if he were swatting a fly. “But what if the world didn’t need saving? What if I could just sit back, enjoy the havoc, and let it destroy itself? And after the ash settled, what if I could just flick my fingers and have it all happen again, twice as insane and violent as it was before?” His eyes went wide. “What if, if I kept escalating this insanity, I could one day attain true, complete unpredictability?”
He is causing misery because he is bored? The Nameless was agape. He had to do something. But what? He had no hope of escaping these men’s grips, and there was no source of magic for him to use. Except… His stomach tightened at the thought. Merely thinking about it hurt, but there didn’t seem to be another way.
“Weren’t you afraid the others would stop you?” he asked as he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do, and then concealed a grimace as he silently began. “They aren’t aware yet, but some might get the idea in time.”
“Not if I keep scrambling their brains with each re-creation,” SIM said. “And not if I only do it once they’re all dead. You having memories from the previous reality wasn’t in the program, Nameless. That’s why it amused me so much. For a moment, you had me at the cusp of surprise.” His chuckle disappeared. “But here you are again, moving to the rhythm of your own drums without realizing it. Frankly, it’s getting tiresome.”
He raised his hand, pointing the gun at the Nameless’ forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll cut deeper when I retune you. This time you won’t remember a thing.”
There was no need for the Nameless to conceal his pain anymore. All he needed to do was keep as much control as he could. He breathed out, exhaling a cloud of red vapor composed of his own internal organs, the only material in this room he had any control over. The vapor swirled in front of him as it took on a new shape.
“Press him down!” SIM roared as he shot into the swirling mist. He stopped pulling the trigger the moment it took on its intended shape.
Checkmate, the Nameless thought as he fought for breath. Of course, with him no longer having lungs, this proved impossible.
“Stay away!” SIM shrieked, frozen in fear. “You’re dead! I know you’re dead! This fucker killed you!”
“My son,” the Holy One said in their usual pair of voices. “It has been so long since last we communed.”
Struggling to remain conscious, the Nameless knew his cue. With SIM in a state of shock, his control over his creations had wavered. Taking them over was now child’s play.
Turning red in his magic-sight, the iron-skinned guards released the Nameless. They both reached for their guns, pointing them at SIM. They showed as much mercy as their living counterparts would have.
SIM’s brain may have been fast, but it wasn’t faster than a bullet. The guards shot in unison, each hitting him in the forehead, then the heart. By the time he panic-squeezed his trigger, his body had already hit the ground.
Come back, the Nameless commanded, deconstructing both the angel-simulacrum and the pair of guards. He had literal skin in this game. It was only fair that he take some interest after winning.
The red mist entered his mouth and flowed through every other orifice he had. As always, the process of recovery wasn’t painful. Rather, it was invigorating. When he rose, alive and well, he found his steps more certain than before he’d entered the chamber.
“You are not going to give me any trouble, are you?” he asked the remaining guards, who were already turning red in his unseen eye.
“No, my Lord,” they said in a single, metallic voice.
“Perfect.” The Nameless approached the nearest monitor. It showed recorded footage of him fighting the most recent version of Rush. I need to find her, he thought as he turned away from the screen and approached the wall where the door he’d made used to be.
But will she even remember me? he asked himself. After what SIM had done to her, the old Rush had become this world’s Rush; a ruthless, maniacal madwoman. Was the woman he loved still in there somewhere, and if she was, could she ever surface? He most certainly didn’t have the answer.
But there has to be someone who does. The Nameless turned back to the iron-skinned guards. “You lot. You would be more than happy to help me find God, wouldn’t you?”
“Nothing would please us more, Lord,” they all said.
“Perfect,” said the Nameless. He turned back to the wall, where there now was an
old, wooden door. The handle was missing, and a stick of wood had been stuck in its place. The Nameless grabbed it without a single doubt.
Time for some answers, he thought as he passed through.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Nameless found himself in what appeared to be a wrecking yard. Horseless chariots, more commonly known as cars, were piled up around him in heaps that seemed tall enough to reach the sun. The sky was dark red, and somewhat blurry from the invisible vapors that accumulated over the yard.
One thing stood out among this mess, and not by virtue of its cleanliness. A used trailer, eaten away by rust, lay some hundred feet before him. It wasn’t attached to any vehicle, but there were multiple signs of it having been in use, not the least of which was the man sitting in front of it. The Nameless started moving toward him without a hint of hesitation.
Are you God? he wanted to ask, but the lump that formed in his throat when he came closer prevented him from speaking. Sitting behind a table and playing solitaire was the spitting image of Horace, the first friend he had made after rising from the grave, the main difference being that this man still had hands.
“Welcome, Nameless,” Horace said in a bell-toned voice. It wasn’t as coarse as the original, but was definitely recognizable. “My, my, you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
Have I recreated him as well? The Nameless took a better, more detailed look. “Horace” wore farmer’s overalls and a plain, brown shirt. His thin hair stuck out from under the straw hat that he had no reason to wear.
“Given what you’ve seen, I’d expect you to be less shocked,” Horace said as he turned to the barbeque grill on his right. Several pieces of chicken sizzled on it. He flipped them over with a tool, paying no heed to the Nameless’ confusion.
“If you tell me Horace is really God, I will kill you out of principle,” said the Nameless. He had had enough absurdity for a hundred lifetimes.
The host laughed. “I’m no Horace, my friend, though I did take his shape.”