Strife

by M. T. Miller

  Pious Pete kept praying.

  This man sounds reasonable in his madness, the Nameless thought. Perhaps he will be a useful source of information.

  “Pherhaps you are right,” he said, trying to hide his displeasure over his imperfect speech.

  “Damn straight I am,” said the spitter. He seemed to consider his thoughts before he spoke again. “So, what band were you a part of?”

  And here I was worried about the small things, the Nameless thought. “I was part of no unit. I joined before the Boneslinger’s death.”

  The spitter snorted in surprise. “You tellin’ me you’re not a full member? No rite of passage? Nothing?”

  Careful, now. “No. If such a thing even exists. I got… this,” he tilted his head, “right before that,” he nodded in the general direction of the Underbelly.

  “That’s some shit luck,” the spitter said. “You missed some good days, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I would not… I wouldn’t know,” said the Nameless.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” the spitter said. “So… did you join a faction afterward, or…?”

  “I went on my own,” the Nameless said. “One mistake was enough. I was finished.”

  “Oh, come on,” the spitter said, “Going alone? Looking like this?” His expression changed, but it was impossible to tell into what. “How’d you survive?”

  “By doing what I had to do,” the Nameless said flatly.

  The spitter went silent for a few seconds. “Understood. Not gonna ask what that was.”

  “Thank you,” said the Nameless.

  A minute passed without a word before he chose to revive the conversation.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?” asked the spitter.

  “Since when were you a member?” the Nameless asked.

  “Too damn long,” the spitter said. “Joined the Charred Bones, back before the Slinger put the gang back together under his banner. Never got the chance to see the First Skull. He was dead by then.”

  Abruptly, the man to the Nameless’ right interrupted his prayer. “Blasphemy! The First Skull lives!”

  “Does he, now?” the spitter asked. “No way for that to be an impostor, right? No chance of it being just another way to get more of us to join?”

  If he still had any lips, Pious Pete would’ve bitten them off. “The First Skull’s been given life eternal by the Almighty, and he is here to show us the way! How dare you doubt him?”

  The spitter didn’t speak. His laughter wouldn’t allow it.

  “He can’t be harmed!” Pious Pete ranted. “He can’t be stopped, for he and the Lord are of one will! Salvation for believers, and damnation for everyone else!” He started foaming at the mouth. “The Answer is here, my brothers, and this is our last chance to learn it! Repent! Repent! Repent!”

  The spitter laughed and laughed, getting louder with every moment as he tried to overpower the preaching.

  Cannot be harmed, you say? The Nameless stared into the dirt. This madman had just described Malachi. But was he really the First Skull, or was it merely a ruse? He certainly seemed to possess something close to life everlasting.

  He looked up, becoming aware that every single pair of eyes was directed their way. Out of the other men, most were annoyed. Those who weren’t had joined in the insane ranting.

  One thing is certain. I will not make many friends here.

  It took a quarter of an hour for the madness to subside.

  “Can you talk?” the Nameless asked the spitter.

  “I can,” the spitter grumbled. “Doesn’t mean I will.”

  “I would like to learn of this gang,” said the Nameless. “For now, I know nothing at all.”

  “You know enough,” the spitter said. “You bash heads like the best. Nothing more you’ll ever need.”

  Waste of effort. The Nameless was just about to resume staring at the ground when the spitter spoke again.

  “Besides one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “My name,” the spitter said. “I’m Greg. Greg Baker. Consider yourself welcomed into the Skulls, Whatsyourname.”

  The Nameless had a name ready, that of Babylon’s librarian. “Stanley Lem. I would shake hands, but our hands are tied.”

  “Course,” Greg said. “What’s that, Polish?”

  “I do not know,” the Nameless said. “I was born here.”

  “You’re not a Jew, are you?” Greg’s brow furrowed.

  “I believe in no deity,” the Nameless said. Besides myself.

  “Not what I asked,” Greg said as what passed for his expression slowly brightened. “Guess it doesn’t matter, though. Can’t tell without a nose.”

  Assuming this was a joke, the Nameless smiled. Whether or not it appeared genuine was another thing he didn’t know.

  ***

  Almost one more day the Nameless spent bound to the trunk, the occasional insane gibbering waking him up from his attempts at sleep. From time to time he’d converse with Greg, but the man’s morale was deteriorating rapidly, and he kept becoming less and less wordy. The Nameless understood. With no food or water, even he was approaching his limits.

  It was at the break of dawn that this agonizing monotony finally ended. Initially finding it hard to believe, the Nameless stared in dull surprise when about a hundred white-clad men surrounded the field of his suffering. They started closing in, and his heart began to beat like mad.

  Are they going to execute us? the animal in his head whispered. He had to shake the thought out. If the Holy Army wanted them dead, they’d either have done it by now or left them to suffer until expiration. In the latter case, the Nameless could slip from his cuffs and risk fleeing the camp alone. However, both outcomes were unlikely. The Church needs an army. Executing willing recruits would be detrimental.

  With the corner of his right eye, the Nameless detected movement. He turned toward it and noticed some ten people moving toward him. He could barely make out any details at first, but as the seconds passed, it became apparent that one in the group’s center was a priest. Strangely enough, he seemed familiar.

  Old man, white beard, the Nameless noticed. Could it be…?

  The tormented Skulls who still had the strength to yell started doing so. Water, food, death, they asked for it all, but gained nothing. Ignoring their plight, the group pressed on. Once it came near the Nameless’ pillar the men spread out, surrounding it fully. Within this circle stood the priest, holding a piece of paper.

  It is him. The old man who had preached at the True Church’s shrine in Babylon, back before the Nameless took over. Just like Emile, he’d packed his bags and left right after the change in Management. Apparently, he hadn’t been wasting any time.

  The Nameless tried to swallow, but found it impossible due to his throat being dry. Did he recognize me somehow? The idea seemed ludicrous. They’d never even been face-to-face.

  “M186 and J054,” the old priest read from the paper. “Which is which?”

  The Nameless spoke first. No use in extending the agony. “I am M186.”

  “J-whatever,” Greg added.

  “Good.” The priest scribbled something on the paper. “You’re strong, gentlemen. Quite strong. Just the kind of strong the Holy Army needs.”

  “The tent was a test,” the Nameless realized.

  “One of many,” said the priest. “The two of you, as well as a handful of others in this field, happened to pass this one. Rejoice, for your ceremonies of initiation are nigh.”

  Abruptly, the Skull to the Nameless’ right started rocking in his spot. “Take me, your Holiness! Please, take me! I’ll serve, I’ll worship, I’ll kill! I’ll do whatever is asked! Please!”

  The priest rolled up the paper and made it disappear into one of his long sleeves. “There are many ways to make the cut. For you, I’m afraid, the answer is patience.”

  “PLEASE!” the Skull kept screaming. “Please, please, please!”

&n
bsp; “Should I silence him, Father?” a hooded guard asked in a muffled voice.

  “No, there will be no need for that,” the priest said as he took a step toward the Nameless. He took the white satin glove on his right hand, removed it, and revealed a set of long, thin fingers. Unlike his face, his hand was almost unnaturally pallid. “Recruit M186, do you denounce the sins of your past? Do you swear on all that is holy to serve the One True Church of America in all things, and persist in your duty until you are no longer needed?”

  “I do,” the Nameless said without hesitation.

  “Then, my son,” the priest said as he laid his hand on the Nameless’ bald head, “I, Father Light, hereby bid you welcome.”

  Each finger was like a knife, biting into the Nameless’ brain until it came out the other end. He tried screaming, but his body refused to listen. Wracked with pain, his muscles tensed as far as they could take, then kept going. And what happened to his mind was worse.

  Again and again, the Nameless relived key moments from his short past. He rose from a grave on the edge of the Underbelly. He met and old man whom he later had to kill. He found Babylon, took it for his own, and lost everything in the process.

  Chaos, the Nameless tried to think, but the spikes in his head cut that conclusion to shreds. The events unfolded once more, exactly the way he remembered. However, this time they were shown in a different light. The madness, the strife, the loss; it was all there, but instead of hopelessness, they now inspired a strange sense of order. How could this all happen if it wasn’t planned out?

  But the Nameless’ thoughts ran on their own. No, he thought. There is no order. No plan. No greater good, aside from the one we create.

  As if insulted by his refusal to cooperate, the knives bit deeper. The scenes repeated, shown in a light that betrayed an even greater influence of some unseen force. The Nameless rejected this. He was a god. No one controlled his fate, and woe be to those who tried.

  Still embedded into the core of his being, the spikes tightened their grip. The replays kept coming one after another, each faster and more blunt in its message. Your life has been planned, the thoughts drilled into his head. There is a higher power, and it has been watching you all this time, preparing you for your ultimate fate.

  This time, the Nameless was certain that he screamed.

  He opened his eyes, body rocking, hitting the back of his head against the wooden pillar. His eyesight was blurry, and the lower half of his face sticky. He blinked rapidly, becoming aware of the taste of salt and metal in his mouth. He had been crying, and his nose-hole was bleeding more than a little.

  “This one is also strong in mind,” said the priest as he withdrew his hand. “He will serve us well. Or will you?” His deep-set eyes met those of the Nameless, who still found it difficult to move.

  “I…” he mumbled, fighting with the coagulating muck in his mouth. “I will serphe.” He licked his teeth and swallowed. Speak now, gather pieces of mind later. “I have seen the truth. I was made for this.”

  “As were you all,” said the priest as he turned to a nearby guard. “Wash him, and make him wait at the exit. I need to initiate the rest of the list.”

  The Skull to the Nameless’ right was still screaming, intensifying the Nameless’ headache. I am Nameless, he repeated as a pair of white-clad men approached. I am the Lord of Babylon, Terror of the underworld, and beheader of the Skulls. Nothing they do to me will change that.

  His shackles rattled as they came undone, and the guards helped him up. One of them even offered up a skin of water, which the Nameless gladly accepted. Even though he spilled nearly half, it was nevertheless the most refreshing drink in his memory.

  “Follow me, brother,” a hooded man said as he walked away from the trunk.

  The Nameless briefly turned toward Greg, whose forehead was just about to be touched by the priest’s hand. Nothing to be done. He turned away and started following the guard.

  ***

  Led to a fence made of wooden bars, the Nameless was offered a worn-out piece of cloth.

  “Until you are properly cleaned,” the hooded guard said.

  The Nameless took the cloth, pressed it against his nose-hole, and blew. Are my thoughts in one piece? He conjured his memories again. Despite an ephemeral presence looming over all he’d ever done, everything seemed to be fine. His temples began to hurt when he thought of his cult, though, so he directed his thoughts to more immediate matters.

  “The rest?” he mumbled after wiping his jaw. “What will happen to them?”

  “They’ll be fed soon, then put back on the waiting list,” said the guard.

  “Into the tent?” the Nameless asked.

  “Yeah,” the guard confirmed. “Don’t worry. They won’t die. The ones who aren’t sick, at least.”

  A well-oiled war machine has no place for worn-out cogs. The Nameless extended his arm, still holding the cloth.

  “Keep it for the rest,” the guard said. “The Father should be done soon.”

  Still holding the cloth with his right hand, the Nameless pressed the other against his aching forehead. What was just done to me? he wanted to ask, but chose not to. Father Light was obviously a Saint like Malachi, and his touch offered a form of enslavement. Every event from one’s past, whether pleasant or traumatic, became an anchor for the compulsion to serve. Whether it was the Nameless’ divinity or his lack of strong memories that spared him that fate, he couldn’t tell.

  The guard didn’t comment. After all, he had been tasked with managing men whose minds had been jumbled. He was obviously used to all sorts of reactions.

  “Am I a member now?” the Nameless asked.

  “Not yet,” said the guard. “You have been reborn. Now you must be cleansed and shrouded. Only after that will you be considered a Knight.”

  Something about the title was endearing to the Nameless, even though it was a downgrade from the one he held in Babylon. However, the fact that it would be bestowed by a band of lunatics significantly diminished his fondness toward it.

  The sound of nearing footsteps soon reached them, followed by the lumbering figure of Greg and his own keeper. Unlike the Nameless, he wasn’t covered in blood, yet his eyes were so red a nosebleed might’ve been a blessing.

  “Welcome, brother,” the guard said.

  “I was blind,” Greg mumbled to himself. “It was there all this time, everywhere around me.”

  The Nameless came dangerously close to asking what, but held his tongue.

  “I’ve wasted my life,” Greg said, now standing before the two other men. “I could’ve prayed. I could’ve helped. I could’ve done genuine good.” Tears started rolling down his cheeks, and his limbs began to shiver “How did I fuck up this bad?” his words echoed across the camp.

  “I’m no priest, but I know a thing or two about messing up,” the guard said. He grabbed his hood, removed it, and gave Greg a short glimpse of his own mutilated mug. He covered it again in less than a second. “Whatever you’ve done, my brother, you’ve done for a purpose. Whatever was done to you, was done for a purpose: to bring you near, so you’d serve the Lord in the war to end all wars.”

  Greg nodded, and almost lost his footing. The Nameless grabbed his bicep just in case, but found himself stumbling as well.

  “Be careful,” the guard said. “You are overwhelmed. It’ll pass; just give it a day or two.”

  The Nameless straightened himself back up, and Greg did the same. Turning back to the field of shackled Skulls, they waited. It took some time, but in half an hour everyone was there. Aside from the Nameless, only the last arrival was bloody.

  “No need to give the cloth to him,” the guard said, turning toward the fence and fumbling for something. He rose, holding the end of a particularly long fire hose. “Stick together! It’s time for your bath! Turn it up!” he shouted, turning to the camp and then back.

  Neither the Nameless nor anyone else showed a single sign of hesitation. The men lined up next
to each other, allowing the spray of water to hit them head on. After two days of exposure to the elements, deprived of both food and water, the bath was truly a blessing.

  “As the water cleanses the body,” the priest chanted while the hose kept spewing its liquid crystal, “so does faith cleanse the spirit. You have all sinned, yes; this was inevitable. Hard times call for hard decisions, and in these times of strife, no one can be harder than the One True Church of America!”

  The guard halted the flow, but the old man continued speaking. “Rejoice, my sons, for you have survived. Smile, Heaven’s servants, for you are forgiven. Frown, Lord’s soldiers, for you are needed in battle!”

  All six of the men’s handlers moved in unison, approaching their charges and grabbing the white capes they wore. With synchronized swipes, they removed those pristine shrouds and wrapped them around the men’s shoulders. Then, reaching inside the small pouches that hung at their sides, each guard produced a pair of items: a white cloth and a short curved knife in a bleached, leathery sheath.

  “The blade is yours,” the priest said. “Use it for personal grooming, as well as bloodshed. Keep it as honed as your own body; to neglect one is to neglect the other.”

  The Nameless took his blade. Unsure of what to do with it, he kept it close to his body.

  “The hood, however, belongs to the Church,” the priest continued. “While wearing it, you are no longer mere men, but rather instruments of divine punishment. Men can do wrong. Men may sin. But the Holy Army’s White Knights are beyond such trifling matters!”

  The guards (or Knights?) stretched their cloths out, revealing that each had round eye slits. Then, they slid these hoods over their charges’ faces, shrouding them both literally and officially.

  “Welcome, brothers,” the veteran Knights said to their charges.

  The Nameless looked left and right, adjusted his eye slits then did so again. The rest of the men acted similarly.

  “Come, brothers,” one of the handlers said, “the ceremony is concluded. Let’s get you up to speed.”

  As the twelve White Knights moved away from the field of wooden pillars, the Nameless turned around for the briefest of moments. Near the fence, looking at him with eyes as grey as his hair, the priest stood still like a statue.