by M. T. Miller
Over the course of the following minute, the lieutenant ascended the top of the stairs. Rush gave him a good look from afar. He didn’t have any visible weaponry. Turning to the balcony, he spread his legs and allowed himself to be searched.
“Nothing!” shouted a security member.
“Let him in,” Torres said, leaning back slowly.
Rush didn’t take her eyes off the lieutenant. Even though he did his best to appear as if everything was fine, it was clear to her that nothing could be farther from the truth. The way he held himself, his walk, the pale skin and unusual dilation of his pupils… every detail signaled trouble.
“Not looking too good,” she said as the man pulled out a chair. Just like everything else he did, it was done sluggishly. “Been hitting the bottle, huh?”
“Excuse me,” the lieutenant grumbled as he slowly lowered himself onto the seat. His expression was one of the dullest Rush had ever seen, and she’d spent a good deal of time in Khalid’s company.
Painkillers, she concluded as her muscles tightened. A buttload of ‘em. Far more than Torres is on.
“Had enough?” Torres asked. “Or do you need more time to realize how insane what you’re doing is?”
“This is a complex issue,” the lieutenant said. He talked slowly, taking the time to roll every word off his tongue. “Can’t be decided too quickly.”
Not paying any attention to the way Torres looked at her, Rush leaned in closer to the lieutenant. Every shred of attention she had to spare was focused on the sounds he was giving off. There was no doubt that he’d been drugged, yes. But why?
“The more you wait, the more the people will hate you,” Torres said. “You’ve got guns, sure, but how much will they help against a tide of hungry people? You’re running on borrowed time down there, and the bill will come due soon.”
“Borrowed time, yes. Perhaps,” the lieutenant mused out loud.
There’s something about his voice, Rush noticed. It was irregular, as if his throat was letting off another faint sound. Then, the man stopped talking, and her eyes were about to pop when she realized that it didn’t stop. Without something else to disguise it, she recognized it for muffled ticking.
“Hit the floor! Now!” she shouted, leaping on the table like a cat about to pounce. Torres’ expression started to change. His security began to move with all the speed of a pair of walruses. The bottle of water to her right was just about to tip. Both eyes focused on the lieutenant, Rush darted toward him, landing on the floor to his right. Unlike the rest of them, his reactions weren’t slow. They were absent.
“We had you by the balls, fucker!” she screamed, lifting the man like a potato sack and going for the secret passage. She committed a full hundredth of a second to checking if she was about to crash into someone. Luckily, her screaming seemed to do the trick. Normally blocking the exit, both “guards” were in the clear.
To everyone’s eyes a violet blur, Rush flew through the opened wall and to the top of the staircase. As if she were dunking a basketball, she flung the man’s hulking frame over her shoulder and toward the depths.
“You shouldn’t have moved!” she shouted as she leapt away from the balcony.
A silent second passed, possibly the longest of Rush’s life. She’d almost started getting up as well, when a monstrous rumble started to echo from below. The floor began to vibrate; faintly at first, then growing more and more horrifying as moments went by. The pair of security volunteers clutched the balcony, staring down in obvious shock.
Rush braced one hand against the floor and leapt to her feet. Careful of any sudden quakes, she approached the men and joined them in their gaping. Black smoke ascended from the base of the pillar, obscuring most details. As much as she tried straining her enhanced vision, even she could make out nothing at all. Another rumble came, followed by a series of moderate tremors.
“Get away from there!” Torres shouted from back in the room. “You want to die?”
The civilians didn’t need to be told twice, and vacated the passage immediately. Rush did the same, albeit much slower. Now back in the meeting chamber, she straightened the now-late lieutenant’s chair, put it close to the table, and let herself fall into its embrace.
“Crazy fucker swallowed some explosives,” she mumbled to herself.
“I see that,” Torres said, on his feet but using the crutch. “Either that or had it surgically put in. Azarian’s gone completely mental.”
“Bomb in gut,” Rush kept talking. “Tick, tock, boom. Who does that, Torres? Who in their right mind does that?”
“Madmen,” Torres said. “Or desperate. Men threatened with things worse than death. This changes things, Rush. I thought this was something we could negotiate with. This brand of insanity, we can’t pressure into concession.”
“So, what now?” Rush let both feet drop on the table, one by one.
“Honestly?” Torres took a moment. “I have no idea.”
“Friggin’ brilliant,” Rush said as she went back to her new favorite pastime: staring at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.
***
Where am I?
The first thing the Nameless was aware of was an awfully dry throat. He opened his eyes, not noticing any difference from when they were shut. The lights were off. He stretched his arms and legs, confirming they were still there but surprised by how heavy his body was. He wiggled the fingers of his right hand, then rolled it to the side and looked for a light switch.
He flicked it as soon as he found it, regretting the idea when the flash started burning through his retinas. I need to stop doing this, he thought as he covered his eyes with his forearm and rolled to the other side. It was only then that he noticed that something was wrong. Instead of his nose on his sleeve, the sensation was more akin to having his sleeve invade his nose.
On the verge of panic, the Nameless felt for his lips. Unsurprisingly, he had none. Hurriedly, he upped himself in a sitting position, almost tipping over in the process. There was no sticking of hair to the side of his face, no extra weight to his motions.
“Ah,” he said as his memory slowly caught up, “the phlan.” Hearing himself speak almost made him break into a laugh.
I must see. He rose from the bed, almost falling flat on his face in the process. Like a stumbling drunk, he hobbled toward the door. A bathroom. Some water. A mirror. There had to be one close by. Rather than grabbing the doorknob, he let his arm fall on it. Slowly and steadily, placing his legs apart for maximum stability, he turned it and let the door slide open.
The corridor before him was lined with a thin, red carpet. The walls were black, as was the ceiling. Illuminating everything was an unusual green light. Paintings hung on both sides, depicting imagery of death. Corpses. Skeletons. Coffins, graveyards, and more. At the hallway’s end, there was a sofa. Sitting on it was Emile, relaxing and enjoying a book. It didn’t take long for his eyes to turn to the Nameless.
“Friend,” he said, closing the book and rising. “I’d like to say ‘looking good,’ but I’m afraid that would be a lie.”
The Nameless took another step forward, then one more. “Wirror,” he mumbled out. “Need wirror. And wwater.”
“What do you need?” Emile took a small bell off the table by his side and rang it. “Sorry, you’re still unintelligible.” He put it back down and started to approach. “Say it again, slowly, and I’ll try to help.”
The Nameless breathed in deep, surprised at how quickly the cold air ran into whatever now passed for his nose. “Wathroom,” he said.
“Bathroom?”
The Nameless nodded.
“Of course!” Emile put his hand over the Nameless’ shoulder and started leading him down the hallway. “Step carefully, now, you’re still full of medicine.”
“Where?” the Nameless asked while doing as he was told.
“You’re in the Supreme Houngan’s mansion,” Emile said while leading them both to the right. “He had you brought here af
ter the work on you was complete. They’ve done an excellent job, by the way. You look horrendous.”
“Great,” the Nameless mumbled.
Emile opened the first door to their right. After making sure that the Nameless could stand on his own, he turned on the lights. “The help should be arriving any minute now, but feel free to freshen up until then.”
The Nameless went for the mirror. Aside from the tap beneath, he needed nothing else. His gums were so dry, he was afraid they’d crack. How the Skulls managed to live like this, he had no idea. No wonder most of them go mad.
Ignoring the mirror for now, he went straight for the running water. Tilting his head to the side, he wrestled with the current, trying to prevent as much as possible from escaping his mouth. It was only when his stomach was about to burst that he allowed himself to back away. Slowly, now.
Grabbing both sides of the sink, he prepared for the inevitable shock as he slowly raised himself up.
The shape of his face was the same, as well as the skin color, but that was about all that remained. The horrendous grimace that stared back from the mirror would haunt anyone’s dreams, and he would have to bear it for three months. Perhaps more.
Could be worse. They could have taken my ears as well, he thought as he turned back toward Emile. The priest feigned composure, but his posture betrayed just how tense he was.
“I’ve had worse,” the Nameless muttered.
“Doesn’t count if it heals quickly,” Emile said, relaxing somewhat.
“True enouff,” said the Nameless. I have recovered from death. I will recover from this. “What now?”
“Now…” Emile pressed his index finger to his ear, “now we take some time off. Watch TV. Bond, if you will. We’ve only got a little time to get you used to this condition, and there’s no point in wasting it.”
A girl in a pleasing-yet-modest white dress came in from Emile’s left. Instead of saying anything, she merely stood upright, hands behind her back.
“Coffee,” Emile said without giving her a look. “Enough for six people, but only two cups.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a light nod. At one point, she almost looked at the Nameless. “Any food?”
“Of course. We need to teach my friend to eat with this handsome new mug of his, after all! What say you, Lord Nameless? Chicken roast?”
“Phine,” said the Nameless.
“You heard the man, honey,” Emile said, finally facing the servant. “Make it happen.”
The girl nodded, disappearing behind the doorframe as quickly as she’d appeared.
“You can come out now,” Emile said. “You could’ve come out before as well. The servants here have seen things.”
But are they loyal? the Nameless wondered. How loyal is anyone, really?
“Well, come on,” Emile clapped his hands. “Or do you want to look at yourself all night long?”
No, thought the Nameless as he went toward the door. No one should ever have to see this.
***
The sun rose, and Emile and the Nameless were still up and about. Sitting on an opposed pair of chairs on different sides of the Nameless’ quarters, the two men talked about whatever came to mind. Or at the very least tried; for the first several hours, communication was only somewhat successful. By the time dawn graced them through the ornate window on the nearby wall, Emile almost understood every word.
“Emile,” the Nameless said, pronouncing the priest’s name to the best of his ability. “Tell me about mortal magic.”
“Not much to tell, I’m afraid,” Emile said. “What Bondye allows, we do. What he teaches, we learn and apply. In turn, what he communicates through the Loa, we obey. It is a well-oiled machine.”
“You are granted sorcery for your service?” the Nameless asked, slobbering over himself just a little bit. Even though he had cleaned himself thoroughly after the meal, the act disgusted him so much he loathed having to do it again.
“I’ll have you know I dislike that word,” Emile said. “I am a priest, Lord Nameless. My magic is here for a purpose. To call my work sorcery would, put bluntly, be an insult.”
“There is a difference?” the Nameless asked, this time carefully pronouncing the words.
“All houngan are bokor,” Emile said, turning to the window and staring into the sun. “Sorcerers, if you will. But not all bokor are houngan, Lord Nameless. To be a sorcerer is to use magic, which we all do. But to use magic granted by a higher power, that is an honor unlike any other. To use it of your own will, for your own selfish goals…” Emile’s fingers buried themselves into the arm of his chair. “That is inexcusable.”
The Nameless considered his words. “Where does their magic come from, then?”
“From anything and everything!” Emile rose from his chair, arms at his sides. “Mankind is an eternal wellspring of power. Whenever a human being desires, it prays in some way. Whenever it prays, it releases faith. This energy is either taken by Bondye, by some intermediate being like you, or it floats around the world, used or unused. Godless sorcerers train themselves to tap into this free power, twist it, and use it for whatever their skills allow.”
“Is it harmful?”
“Maybe,” Emile said. “I wouldn’t know. Sorcery is hard, Lord Nameless. Without something powerful backing him, a man can only do so much. Besides, from what his Excellency Hillaire says, all the good schools have been extinct for centuries. A gift to us from the witch hunts of old.”
Actions of major religions, the Nameless thought. “I see.”
“What about you?” Emile asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Amnesiac or not,” Emile said, “there is no doubt that you’re some kind of deity. I understand this comes with perks. Feel like sharing with a friend?”
“I must kill people or perish. This, you know,” the Nameless mumbled. He took a half-dry napkin from the table at his side, and wiped both sides of his face.
Emile raised an eyebrow. “That isn’t a perk.”
“It isn’t,” the Nameless confirmed as he laid the napkin down.
Emile was just about to answer when the sound of footsteps reached both men’s ears. Apparently knowing who it was that descended the stairs, the priest turned toward the entrance. The Nameless did not move from his chair. If anything, they should be standing at attention for me.
The footsteps kept getting closer and closer, until finally the door swung open, letting in Hillaire and Tarantula. The Supreme Houngan was in his usual extravagant splendor, while the goddess was adorned in dark, stretchy silk.
“How are you adapting?” Hillaire asked, one hand resting on a gold-decorated cane, while he held a somewhat large, rectangular black box with the other. “I hope that Mr. Mounier provided you with adequate company.”
“Emile was helpful.” The Nameless tried his best to sound coherent.
“You sound better than expected,” Hillaire said, his expression unreadable.
“Not good enough,” said the Nameless. He had heard Skulls speak before, and even though it was far from perfect, it was head and shoulders above what he was able to spit out.
“It’s passable. A lot of them never turn coherent again,” Hillaire said, stepping forward. He placed the box on a table near the Nameless’ seat and turned to Emile. “Excellent work.”
“The ritual went by without any trouble?” Emile asked.
“There was no problem. The weapon was meant for this.”
The Nameless’ eyes leapt from one man to the other, then back. “Excuse me?”
“I could tell you,” Hillaire said, turning the box toward the Nameless. “But I know you’d like to see for yourself.”
Impatiently, the Nameless leaned forward and opened the container. If he wasn’t locked into it already, he probably would have smiled. Resting within was his revolver, cleaned and polished, the engraved skull gleaming in its grip. Mesmerized, he took the weapon, spun it around his finger, and held it up toward the ceiling. The way
the other three looked at him indicated they were pleased by the way he was handling it.
“From the camp?” he asked.
“Yes,” Emile nodded. “I’ve liberated it along with you.”
The Nameless held the revolver in his hands, turning it around several times. Why? he was about to ask. He opened it up then, and found a lot of his questions answered. A greenish tint colored the room, originating from the six gleaming bullets the gun had been loaded with.
“More questions. Infuriating, I know,” Hillaire said. “This, Lord Nameless, is for you. Or rather, it will be waiting for you. When the hour strikes to take the battle to the enemy, the revolver will be back in your hands. Only this time, it won’t fail to bring its target down. The cursed bullets will make certain of that.”
The Nameless slammed the cylinder back in, causing the light to fade out. “The bullet you put inside me, where is it?”
“Somewhere it won’t bother you,” said Hillaire. “And it is not a bullet. It is a small leather pouch.”
“Not unlike the charms I showed you back in Babylon,” Emile added.
“I want to know,” the Nameless insisted. Necessary or not, I refuse to do this without a way out.
“Fine,” Hillaire said. “It’s been glued to the upper part of your large intestine. The original intent was to get it to float freely, but this ran more risk of damage if you were taking hits. Which I presume you will. We’ve been thorough, so it shouldn’t separate.”
The Nameless nodded.
“Think long before you decide to try and remove it,” said Hillaire. “The pain would be immense, and the risk of bleeding out would be very real. And then there is our bargain.”
“Noted,” the Nameless said, placing the revolver back in the box and shutting it.
“We’ve had word from our scouts,” Hillaire said. “The Holy army has turned around. Babylon is safe, at least for a while.”
Discreetly, the Nameless sighed in relief. “When are we commencing the plan?”
“As soon as you think yourself able,” Hillaire said. “Your speech is decent enough; if you measure your words, you shouldn’t arouse any suspicion.”