Strife

by M. T. Miller

  The Nameless pressed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, trying to subdue an upcoming headache. “There is a difference?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me,” the Baron said. “How do you manage the faith of your worshippers? How are your miracles working out? Besides making use of your body and the skills it gifted you with, what magic did you pull over the course of this time?” He tilted his head to the side, and held an arm over his nonexistent ear. “Do I hear zero?”

  Damn it. “Zero it is,” the Nameless said.

  “What further proof do you need?” the Baron asked, raising his glass. “As the walking dead are to the living, so are you to us who are divine: a moving shell, unbelievably deadly, but ultimately a lesser thing. You kill and you don’t die, but that’s about the extent of what you can do.” He was about to drink, but the Nameless lifted his own glass. The Baron waited for him to tip it, but the Nameless emptied his without offering that courtesy.

  “Fucking rude, you are,” the Baron said.

  The least of my problems, the Nameless thought, disappointed. His divinity was something that set him apart from the rest, the only good thing he could claim about himself. Without it, the validity of his existence was no longer in question. Rather, it was debunked. However, this conclusion did nothing to change his stance about death. It still terrified him to no end, and in all likelihood it would continue to do so.

  “You think you’ve got a problem, do you?” the Baron said, finally downing his drink and refilling it. “Think of how much of a big, festering fly this is in my soup. Hillaire fucked up again. Without a divine sacrifice, even all this magic won’t be enough for what I need to do. And believe me, I have been stockpiling.”

  “I was to power something?” the Nameless asked.

  “Keyword were,” the Baron said. “You’re useless to me. Less than useless in fact, because now I’ll need to spend some power to send you back. So in the end, you being sent here is a net loss for me.”

  A part of the Nameless sighed in relief. The rest wondered what he’d do once he was back. “What did you intend to do with all this power?”

  “Raise the most gigantic bunch of bones anyone ever raised, then shove them up the shithole of whoever it is that’s spurring this Church my way. But that plan’s fucked, so now I must think of something else. Unless you know of an actual god I can use.”

  The Nameless clasped both hands in front of his face. “How does one offer you sacrifice? Would I need to bring it here, or could I do it anywhere?”

  The Baron went silent for a second. “Shit! You do know someone!”

  “I am not certain,” said the Nameless. “What do you make of this Holy One? Would he be a sufficient offering?”

  The fire in the Baron’s eyes dimmed. “Fuck you. And to think I even had my hopes up. Yes, he would certainly serve the purpose. Look what he can do! These Saints, I haven’t seen anything this nuts in centuries, and I have seen things. Yes, Nameless, you could just kill him, think of it being done for me, and it would work. Question is, how does your diminutive little brain think it would be able to pull that off?”

  “I have an idea or two,” the Nameless said. “But first some more answers. Then I will tell you my plan.”

  “You are the most unpleasant guest I’ve had in a while,” the Baron said.

  “I assume your only other guest is Hillaire, and he is obligated to kiss your bony ass,” the Nameless said.

  The Baron laughed loudly. It was thoroughly unsettling, both in sight and sound. “I do have bitches here from time to time, you know. But very well. Ask away. Just keep it quick. I’m intrigued.”

  “What is going on?” the Nameless asked. “What caused the world to end, or at least break to this extent?”

  “Ah, the universal question,” the Baron said with amusement. “I wish I knew, Nameless. I really do. But fact is, I only see the result, and it confirms what everyone else suspects: man killed himself after a whole lot of good and important people disappeared during a Rapture-like event. There was a huge war for power, and eventually it all ended up like this; shitty for everyone.”

  “Your worshippers think that you work for God. The God.” the Nameless said.

  “And I do,” the Baron said.

  “And He did not tell you a thing about this?”

  “My relationship with my boss isn’t exactly a two-way street,” the Baron said. “You see, a shit-ton of years ago, back when we Loa still ran a solo operation, this mild-mannered fellow called Metatron appeared out of the blue. Real civil guy, you should get to know him. Anyway, he opened his mouth, and out came a message. Along with some environmental destruction, but who cares about that anymore, right?

  “’Serve the Lord and thrive,’ he told me and my family, ‘or die and be forgotten,’” the Baron said. “Some resisted, and were smitten on the spot. No drama, no real fight; just a flash of light from above, and they were ashes. The rest of us fell in line pretty quickly after that. So yeah, God basically outsourced his business into Africa.”

  “And this did not happen anywhere else?” the Nameless asked.

  “Not that I know of,” the Baron said. “The Native pantheon here worked for itself. You came with some mishmash of outcasts from who-knew-where. We were the only ones who worked for the actual God, and let me tell you, he sure as hell didn’t offer any aid.”

  “Where are the other Loa?” the Nameless asked. “Did Bondye not save them from whatever it was that happened?”

  “He didn’t raise a metaphysical finger,” the Baron said. “When your MOABs, FOABs, nukes, and other beautiful things touched down, everyone was out for themselves. A lot of us ran very limited cults anymore, or were worshipped by a select few faithful. Others found themselves at blast sites. I’m the only Loa left, Nameless, and this is fact. I’m not even sure if I can call myself that anymore. As far as I know, Bondye has quit his job.”

  The Nameless found it difficult to believe, but the skeleton’s expression was almost sad. “When was the last time you were given any instructions?”

  “Right before this… Rapture,” the Baron said. “He told me not to be alarmed, and that everything would proceed according to plan. Then he went silent, and never spoke to me again. So much for that, I guess.”

  The Nameless didn’t speak for ten seconds or so. The Baron welcomed it, but neither smoked nor drank anymore.

  “The organization of the Holy Army is chaotic,” the Nameless said. “If they run any sort of recruit list, it is being done extremely shoddily. A number of their men died in the attempted siege of Babylon, and we have their commander. The men are fanatical, and the whole system relies on the infallibility of their head priest. If you do something like the curse-bag operation on me again, I think I would easily be able to return just by lying.”

  “And what then?” the Baron asked. “We’d have one silent mole in an army of ten thousand. Useless.”

  “Not exactly,” the Nameless said. “While in the Underbelly camp, I overheard them speaking of the arrival of this Holy One. Why, I cannot say for certain, but it stands to reason they would want him—or her—closer to the men. As a morale boost for the upcoming conflicts, perhaps even to speed up their empowerment of these Saints. If Father Light needs time to mess with the men’s heads, then maybe the Holy One does as well. And even if this is not the case, taking potential recruits up to the White City had to be slowing the process down.

  “So, taking into account their initial setback, it would not be unreasonable to assume that they wanted to set up a forward base. Add to it their more recent retreat, and this becomes a necessity. The Holy One is, without a doubt, in the Underbelly by now.”

  “Tell me more,” the Baron said.

  “Correct me if I am wrong,” the Nameless said, “but I assume the bullets in my revolver, as well as the revolver itself, would have the same effect on me as the curse-bag?”

  “We can’t use the revolver,” the Baron said. “The thing’s fucked bey
ond usability, and I’ve expended far too much power to make another one.”

  The Nameless leaned in, his hands again covering the lower portion of his face. “Who did it? Why?”

  “It’s still in one piece, it’s just that using the damn thing will be impossible. One more of Hillaire’s fuckups, the gun ended up being haunted by a bad spirit. Grab it, you get possessed. Useless.”

  “I thought the magic was in the bullets.”

  “It was, but the revolver ended up soaking it up like a sponge. That weapon has history, Nameless. It has taken a lot of lives. Things like that sometimes end up giving unexpected results, and this is one of them.”

  “Can this spirit be reasoned with?” the Nameless asked.

  “You can try,” the Baron said. “While it inhabits the revolver, it exists in its own reality. I can’t reach it there. An exorcism has been attempted, but it failed. That fucker is holed up in there, and he’s holed up tight. No getting him out. But who knows, he might listen to you. But I guess you’d want to lock yourself inside a room before you try.”

  Exactly what I will do. “In case that doesn’t work, can you make another curse-bag?”

  “It’s an investment,” the Baron said, “but a lesser one than making a weapon. It’s possible.” He paused. “Hey, wait a minute. What did you intend to do with the revolver?”

  “I plan on having it implanted into my gut instead of the bag,” the Nameless said. “On an easily-reachable place, where I can cut it out with a knife when the need strikes.”

  “That is…” the Baron leaned back. “That is just nuts. I like it. It would most likely be uncomfortable, though. It might even hurt.”

  “And we would have to wrap it beforehand so it is not wet and unusable immediately after I take it out,” the Nameless mused out loud. “Anyway, my plan goes like this: you march out your army, taking everything you have. Send it out to defend Babylon. The Holy Army will not take this sitting down. This will send them into a panic. Babylon’s firearms and your magic; these can bring even their war machine down. United, we pose an actual threat.”

  “But we don’t,” said the Baron.

  “Not initially we won’t,” the Nameless said. “But we will. As the Holy Army marches out to meet you, so will I reach the Underbelly, scars in place. I will toss the head of the enemy commander before whatever scraps of security they leave there, and say it was done under the orders of the First Skull. General Cranium will no longer be there; he will have to command the battle, so that leaves us with only one outcome.”

  “You expect to be taken before the Holy One,” the Baron sad.

  “Precisely,” the Nameless nodded. “The only other choice is their head priest, but he is not in charge of military operations. At the end of the day, their leader will want to see what I have to offer.”

  “And what is that?” the Baron asked. “Your own head? Mine?”

  “That of Jules Hillaire,” the Nameless said coldly.

  “You are not serious,” the Baron said.

  “Think about it,” the Nameless said. “Hillaire is your face in the outside world. If I could bring the enemy his head, that would absolutely demand an investigation of the highest order. They do know his face, yes?”

  “Of course,” said the Baron.

  “Then that settles is,” the Nameless said. “Unless he is completely irreplaceable.”

  “He isn’t,” the Baron said. “Although I would have to name a replacement. A new face of the Movement.”

  “I have someone to suggest,” the Nameless said.

  “I will consider Mounier,” the Baron said, “but I make no promises. The new Supreme Houngan must be capable. Unlike the last.”

  The Nameless smiled. “Does this mean you agree?”

  “I do,” the Baron said.

  “Shake on it?” asked the Nameless as he extended a hand.

  The Baron hesitated.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “No.” The Baron accepted the handshake, and the room went greener. “I just hate the touch of skin on my bones. Unless I’m fucking, and no offense, Nameless, but you don’t do it for me.”

  The Nameless laughed. How he made this work, he had no idea.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Twenty black-clad men stood at attention, all gathered around the black mirror in the Supreme Houngan’s cellar.

  “That’s everyone,” Jules Hillaire thought out loud. The Baron’s voice had ordered him to gather the priests immediately. Why, he hasn’t been told.

  The men stood straight as arrows. They were just as much in the dark as Hillaire, yet remained patient.

  “Baron, we stand ready,” Hillaire said into the mirror while he extended arms. “Tell us of your will, so that it may be done.”

  The mirror murmured, and the cellar darkened. The torches didn’t seem to help.

  “Hillaire, I will be frank,” the Baron’s voice spoke from the other side. “Your performance has, for lack of a better word, been shit lately.” The mirror started emitting a faint black mist.

  The men got down on one knee, practically in unison. The only one not to do this was Hillaire. “My Lord, what do you mean? I’ve done everything you asked, whenever you asked it!” He set his eyes on the mist and took a step back.

  The mist thickened and expanded until it covered the entire floor.

  “Did my sacrifice not please you? Is that it?” Hillaire swallowed and forced himself to step closer to the mirror. “I can find another one, I just need time!”

  “Time—” he mirror’s surface now bubbled as if it were a pot of boiling ink “—s something you no longer have.”

  The pitch-black surface exploded like a tar pit that had swallowed a stick of dynamite. It covered the entirety of Hillaire’s face, his torso, and a good part of his legs. The Supreme Houngan struggled like a worm on a hook, fighting in vain for as little as a single step back. Muffled noises tried to escape his suffocated mouth while the mass slowly retreated back into the mirror, pulling him in. The sounds were almost as grotesque as the sight. Squirming and mewling accompanied the wet shuffling as the tumor-like thing disappeared into the opening along with Hillaire.

  Almost five full minutes passed, during which none of the priests dared to move or say a thing. Then the mirror’s surface burst open, spitting forth a tall, muck covered man. He wiped his face with a forearm, letting everyone know that his skin was not black. His other hand was busy as well, and the men nearly lost their lunches upon realizing what it was.

  “The price of failure!” the Baron said from the other side of the mirror as the muck-covered man raised Hillaire’s head for all to see. “Hillaire skirted the lines of his obligations to me, abused his authority, and broke vows made in blood. This is what happens when you overstep your boundaries, only to produce zero results! Learn from this man’s demise, my servants, so that his successor doesn’t suffer the same fate!”

  The men didn’t say a word, but all kept staring into Hillaire’s ink-covered eyes.

  “The next Supreme Houngan will be named within the hour,” the Baron continued. “In the meantime, you are to give this man what he asks. By no means is he to be harmed! Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Baron Samedi!” the men shouted in unison.

  The mist retreated back into the mirror, which ceased its bubbling and froze into a solid, smooth shape. The muck-covered man stepped forward, approaching the priests.

  “Emile, we need to talk,” he said to one of them in a coarse baritone. He raised the severed head. “Also, I will need a bag for this.”

  ***

  Wiped clean and in a new set of pitch-black clothes, the Nameless progressed down the long, rocky hallway. Emile was a mere few beet behind, matching his pace.

  “You have questions,” said the Nameless, tightly holding Hillaire’s bagged head.

  “You think?” Emile asked, his voice shaky for the first time. “What was that back there? Why did the Baron execute his Excellency?
What happens now? I can keep going, you know.”

  “The Baron did not execute your boss,” the Nameless said. “I did. It was most pleasurable.”

  “Why?” Emile asked with subdued anger.

  “He betrayed me,” the Nameless said. “I tried to negotiate, and Hillaire responded by offering me as sacrifice. The Baron was not pleased with the offering, so the two of us reached an altogether different arrangement.”

  “And that is?”

  “It will take too long to explain, but I assume either he or Hillaire’s successor will tell you what you need to know. I have work to do here, and it has to be done as soon as possible.”

  “You can do whatever you want to it,” Emile said, pointing to a door to their right. It was made of metal, and reinforced around the edges. “We’ve tried everything. Exorcisms, spirit-negotiations, threats, even had someone hold the damn thing while restrained. No use. Whatever’s in it keeps muttering nonsense and trying to kill everything in sight. Although…”

  They stopped moving, and Emile produced a set of keys. “Being a god and all, you might have success where we didn’t.”

  I am not a god, the Nameless wanted to say. There was nothing to gain by telling the man what he was, so he remained silent. He waited patiently for the lock to click and the door to slide open, and when it did, he barely contained his surprise. The room did not have any active illumination, but the ominously gleaming handgun would have made it obsolete. Left alone, it lay in the center of a thick wooden table, itself in the middle of the stone-paved chamber.

  “Lock the door behind me,” the Nameless said. “I do not know what will happen when I grasp it, but in all likelihood I will be hostile for at least a while. Wait for me to subdue it, and if I do not succeed within a day, you have my permission to cut off the hand I hold it with. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Emile said, now in his usual confident tone. He didn’t smile.