by M. T. Miller
“I see,” the Nameless said. He turned to the sheriff. “The time has come, then. I want sixty percent of our total manpower ready by 6 A.M. tomorrow. Load them up with everything that will not impact their ability to march, and have them ready by the west gate.”
“My Lord,” the sheriff said, leaning toward the Nameless and letting his elbow rest on the table, crumpling the map that lay underneath the other papers. “I appreciate you making me sheriff. I really do. What you command, I will do. But I urge you to reconsider.” He raised his arm, and stuck his finger at one point of the map. The Nameless didn’t have to lean in to see that the man was pointing to Babylon.
“Again with that proposition?” he asked.
“Anything else would be foolhardy.” The sheriff pronounced the last word carefully. “We can shoot, bombard, and mock them from up here for months. Maybe years. Whatever the White City has dispatched, it can’t be armed with anything that could pose a serious threat to us here. There’s a reason no one’s moved on Babylon before. Now they think we’re weak. Let’s show them they’re wrong, and they’ll have no choice but to step back.”
He wants to minimize risks. “And what if they do not?”
“They will,” the sheriff said. “No man wants to die, Lord Nameless. Even fanatics have their breaking points, however high up they might be. Their casualties will be significant. Ours will be nonexistent.”
“Our food overconsumption problem hasn’t improved,” the Nameless said. “Am I right, Governor?”
David nodded. “Trade is becoming more and more of a problem, and the cult isn’t helping. Not going to tell you what to do with it, just stating the facts. Only a handful of independent settlements to the north still maintain pleasant relations, and we won’t even be able to count on their help in the case of a siege.”
The Nameless took a moment to collect his thoughts. As one went further and further north, the population became more and more scarce. “No large and powerful city states there. Because of the Mist.”
No one said a word. Everyone always avoided speaking on this topic. It had taken weeks for the Nameless to first hear of it, and when he did, he had to force out the details. The entire Northeast and Midwest of what was once the US was effectively gone; engulfed within a thick fog that had swallowed cities whole. No one had ever ventured into the Mist and been seen again. Worse off, sudden onslaughts of winds occasionally carried it around in unpredictable ways. Wherever it passed, population (and sometimes even pieces of the geography) disappeared without a trace. Over the years, most of the north was rendered almost wholly uninhabited.
As far as any reports that came Babylon’s way stated, no one had been into the Mist, let alone to New York City or Washington D.C., in fifteen years—or at least returned from it. The more one approached the East Coast, the thicker (and thus more difficult to avoid) the Mist became. Linking the former capital with this phenomenon became common, despite proof being circumstantial.
The Nameless forced his thoughts back on track, and continued talking. “So unless you know something I do not, or can offer up a solution, I do not see another way. Our people have suffered enough. Subjecting them to the horrors of a siege might just be their breaking point.”
The sheriff remained quiet.
The Nameless raised his hand and pointed a finger at a mountain range to the northwest, located about halfway down the Sierra Nevada. It was about five hundred miles from Babylon. “This elevation can serve as a good vantage point, as well as a defensible position. With sufficient supplies, we should be able to spray lead down on them for a long time. And should the enemy somehow reach us, they will we weakened enough for the melee to go our way.”
The sheriff stared at the Nameless’ finger, apparently measuring his words. “It can work. But not there.” He pointed to another part of the mountain range, just a little bit to the south. “The part of the Sierra Nevada you chose would have been good if this map wasn’t obsolete like every other. That position is now indefensible. Unlike this one here.”
The Nameless kept looking as Azarian withdrew his finger. The spot was just as elevated as the one he had pointed at. “David?” he asked.
“Earthquakes were common during and after the disaster,” David confirmed.
“I’ll trust your judgment, then,” the Nameless said, nodding at the sheriff. “Most if not all crime has been crushed. You should have little trouble holding the city with a skeleton crew.”
“There should be no trouble. Not on this end, anyway,” the sheriff said, still staring at the map. “Lord Nameless, you hired me because of my experience on the outside world, as well as inside, to give you my professional counsel. So I will say this once more: I don’t like this. I don’t think it is tactically viable. I’m going to shut up now.” He zipped his lip, turning his gaze to a once lavishly decorated wall.
“Thank you,” the Nameless said humorlessly.
I don’t like it either, but you do not hear me complain.
***
The Nameless slept like a baby. He was about to lead over four hundred men to their deaths, yet he was as calm as still water. He knew why. This was what he existed for: to wage war. And I intend to put myself to good use.
In full gear, mask on, he paced in front of Babylon’s opened west gate, the eyes of everyone on him. The men came from all walks of life, of various races and ages. Their outlooks differed as well. A lot were on edge. Others displayed a calm veneer. Some even seemed eager. Most were worried. All stood at attention, their rifles on their right shoulders. Or so it seemed at first glance.
“Men!” the Nameless shouted as he walked among them. The mask gave his voice an echoing quality, but did not muffle it in the least. “Why did you enlist? Was it for the money? The privilege? Did you become guards so you’d get to kill people?”
No one replied. The Nameless knew why: they weren’t certain of what to say. “I will tell you why! You have enlisted for of all these things, and more! You all wanted a better life, and this is not shameful! But in doing so, you have become something else. You are no longer civilians. You are now like me; protectors of the common folk, and your talents are needed!
“As are mine!” he shouted, removing his mask and letting them see his face as his hair fluttered about. “We are not so different, you and I! We all struggle, we all fight! We will all march out into the wilderness of what was once the States, and we will crush whatever the White City spews our way!”
The men started murmuring. The Nameless recognized the cue and pushed his voice to its limit. “We will show no mercy! We will rain death on the enemy! We will beat them back, and slaughter all who dare remain! For we have the firepower! We have the just cause! And we have a god fighting on our side!”
The roar of the men threatened to cause another earthquake. The Nameless allowed himself to smile, and a similar grin decorated the faces of those who could see it. These men will follow without hesitation, he thought, knowing that he was right.
Pleased with his work, the Nameless kept pacing, ready to lead the war band out. Just as he was about to put his mask back on, however, he caught of glimpse of someone vaguely familiar within the unit. He turned a couple of steps right, then proceeded forward, stopping only when he found himself face to face with the man.
A high forehead underneath a tuft of short, black hair. A wide face of vaguely Latin features, possibly mixed. A badly shaking right arm, apparently getting worse with each second.
“What is your name, soldier?” the Nameless asked.
“Tomas de Silva, my Lord,” the guard said, suddenly at attention. He tried to keep his rifle steady, but failed at it badly.
“We have met before, yes?” asked the Nameless. “Somewhere in battle. Unplanned.”
“Yes, Lord Nameless,” de Silva said. “The Grin hunt, my Lord!”
The survivor of the recent massacre, the Nameless realized. About to enter another one. “You survived the dungeon escape as well?”
&nb
sp; “I wasn’t there, my Lord! I was sent to the infirmary immediately because of all the blood. Turned out it wasn’t mine.” He tried holding the rifle with his left hand, but the shaking persisted.
Enough, the Nameless thought. “When I give the order, you are to march toward the gate with the rest. When you reach Sheriff Azarian, however, you are to talk to him. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my Lord,” de Silva said. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, soldier,” the Nameless said as he placed the mask on his face. “As a matter of fact, you are about to be rewarded.” Without giving the guard a chance of response, he turned around, heading toward the gate. The cheering did not seem to subside. They are out for blood. Good.
The sheriff stood to the left of the doorway. The Nameless wasted no time in speaking to him. “A guard will talk to you as we leave. His name is Tomas de Silva. He has a bad case of shakes. I will not be able to use him in this war, so I want him moved up to the third floor. Have him do what he can.”
“I didn’t know he had problems,” the Sheriff said. “His record was spotless. It has to be recent.”
“Do not worry about it,” the Nameless said. “You picked out the right men for the job. I can tell.” He turned back to the unit, and it roared. He said, “To victory, and a better life! For us and our loved ones!” He pulled out his revolver, turned, and took his first step out of the city. Hundreds of footsteps followed in his wake.
For an end to this madness, he thought, but kept it to himself.
Part Two:
The Battle of the Sierra Nevada
Chapter Seven
Though they left in good weather, a few hours into the march the sky opened up and started pouring, and stayed that way. The men marched on with their hoods up and zipped over their lower faces, but the Nameless refused to cover himself. What happened to them happened to him, worse.
He still wore his mask though, which helped with visibility. All his regular troops were on foot, with the occasional mare used only to carry supplies of food and ammunition. David had suggested that he, at least, go mounted. Of course, that was out of the question. Though the marching was tough in slushy sand and everyone was completely soaked with cold rain, the men’s morale was unfailing.
The scouts had horses and went ahead to do their work, returning every three hours barring any complications. Low visibility caused everyone to raise their sidearms momentarily when the first scout returned. He rode up to the Nameless and said, “Nothing up ahead.”
“Good work, you may proceed.”
“Yes, Lord Nameless!” he shouted. He turned and went ahead once more. The other scouts came over the next ten minutes and reported the same: nothing.
They did not stop to eat in the downpour; it would have been madness. They kept up their pace. Then, just as suddenly as it came, the downpour cleared. Bit by bit the clouds dispersed, revealing a warm golden light beyond. Though the sight was welcome, for a split second it caused a twinge of pain in the Nameless’ chest—it reminded him of the dead Sun God and the costs of that victory.
“We stop here!” he shouted, and it was relayed. In record time the entire force was sitting on their coats and enjoying their meals. Rations were not varied, mostly a dried version of Babylon’s usual meat. But it was well spiced and did not offend the taste buds.
Very soon the war machine was on the move again. This time, their enemy was the searing heat. The sun was free from its shroud, and burned mercilessly from on high. In an hour the desert was dry again, as though it had never rained, and the Nameless missed the downpour.
They didn’t stop again until dusk. The Nameless called for another meal. The men talked in between bites, but none dared speak to their god without being spoken to first. This was agreeable. It allowed him to focus on his thoughts. He pondered the logistics of the weather during the climb and the state of their gear. But mostly he thought about what had been bothering him all along—the fact that the One True Church of America, an offshoot of Christianity, would stoop to pardoning and recruiting Skulls.
He remembered Frank, a former member of the Skulls he had met in Babylon, and how his mutilated face forever prevented him from leading a decent life. The Skulls customarily removed the nose, lips, and sometimes even the ears of their members. How many of the enemy number are merely people who made mistakes, and now have nowhere else to turn? he wondered, but felt no hesitation. There was little difference between the Skulls and the gangs of Babylon, who barely weighed on his conscience anymore.
Yet the faithful tolerate the Skulls, and not me. The Nameless pulled out his revolver and looked at the skull engraved on the grip. He had read the holy book of the One True Church, the addition to the Old and New Testaments, the one they so pompously dubbed The Answer. He disliked the name. Questions would have been far, far more appropriate.
The book spoke of the making of the world, from the perspective of someone who had supposedly seen it alongside God. It painted mankind much in the same way most of Christianity did: as weak wretches, cursed with a horrible life and worse afterlife. Unless they did as the book said, and essentially lived their lives in service to the True Church. Salvation used to be secured by Jesus, but these were the end times, and his teachings were deemed obsolete.
Chastity, the nun he had met back in the Underbelly (the first city he had encountered after rising from the grave), had a profound hatred of Skulls, but even she had admitted she belonged to the minority in that regard. Racism, the fundamental trait of the gang, was not explicitly part of the Church’s doctrine, but was not discouraged either. After the Nameless had killed the Skulls’ leader, they’d been left thrashing like a beheaded beast. Unfortunately for him, the monster didn’t die. Someone had claimed the body and replaced the head. This time, I will kill it more thoroughly.
And what of the mysterious New Voodoo Movement? It had withdrawn from Babylon as well, but in a more discreet and infinitely less hostile manner. Emile Mounier, the houngan who had held sermons on the second floor, had closed up his shrine and asked to leave. The Nameless did not forbid this. He hoped the gesture would send a friendly message eastward. The only response was the sound of crickets. Communications were just as dead as the bodies the Movement supposedly animated.
The Nameless thought about politics often, and now was as good a time as any. Even though he had never seen a corpse walk, there were enough witnesses for him to believe the rumors. If Emile’s words were to be trusted, this was the power of their gods, the Loa. Unlike Babylon, New Orleans did not hide that it served inhuman forces. Yet there was never any outright war, not until one side grew powerful enough to start it.
This is my mess. All of it, he realized unrepentantly. Had he died after rising from the grave, there would have been no war. Yet he had fought, struggled, and somehow come out on top. Things were the way they were, and he would not back down. He would have to end this horror, fight whoever came for him. And only when there was no more opposition would the Nameless be able to lay down his arms. If even then…
He turned toward the camp, noticing that the men were mostly idle. With a shout, he called them back into the moment, rising to his feet. We will use what’s left of the day, and then rest. The guards responded admirably, most of them bored by now. Underneath his mask, the Nameless allowed himself a mild smile. Azarian picked well indeed.
***
Getting good elevation proved more annoying than difficult. The sheriff’s words were true, and various peaks of the Sierra Nevada had suffered some damage. The mountains’ ridges were now sharper, lower, and covered with sparse growth. The men found them easy to climb. Not so much the pack mares, so they were bound near the start of the winding path. In case of an emergency, they would serve as food.
The sun was up again, burning as mercilessly as the god the Nameless had killed. It signaled the middle of a new day; one where they were to claim their position and set up camp. The first order of business was already behind them, an
d the Nameless was crouching on a large, protruding rock.
Such beauty. Even though their position was nowhere near the mountaintop, the view did not fail to amaze. He turned around, feasting his eyes on the desert to the east, then on the more lush lands to the west. Green mixed with gold, accentuated by the blue from above. He breathed in, his lungs basking in the glory of actual clean air. The Nameless had forgotten how much he’d missed it.
His men were everywhere, putting up barricades and looking for choke points. Weapons were being set up for easy access, and tents were being raised. He strained his eyes, looking all over for some, any sign of an upcoming force. Nothing so far. He wasn’t worried; he had scouts out for that—those from this unit, as well as the ones up ahead. Wherever the enemy moved, the Nameless would be alerted, and his army along with him. And by latest reports, the approaching army was moving along predicted routes. Everything is proceeding according to plan.
The time between the scouts’ reports had been extended to six hours due to terrain. When the night fell, they would start communicating with light signals, but this was a long way off. For nearly an hour, the Nameless remained perched on his platform, looking around as well as hopefully acting as an example of vigilance. It was only when he noticed a black spot moving on the horizon that he allowed himself to rise.
“Scout incoming!” he shouted, and the camp stirred. Even though the enemy would probably not arrive for days, no one was indifferent to news. After all, they meant the difference between a favorable battle and… who knows what, really?
The Nameless leapt off the rock, landing several feet lower on solid ground. As he waited for the scouts to arrive, he pondered what was to come. The only real way for the Church’s army to get the better of him (at least in the short term) would be to not fight at all; go widely around to the south hoping for a better pass through the Sierra Nevada, and proceed to directly siege Babylon. But this would take weeks, and he’d be notified in time. If that happened, he would have no choice but to admit Azarian was right.