Strife

by M. T. Miller

  The Nameless entered the pew-filled nave and noticed that he wasn’t alone with the mysterious figure. Father Light was there, and Chastity. All three of them stared at him with the intensity a parent reserved for an about-to-be-punished child.

  He wouldn’t leave anything to chance. Flicking his wrist with the speed only a few gunmen had anymore, the Nameless pointed his revolver right at the mysterious figure’s forehead. He fired without warning, eager to see the bullet exit out the other end. If he had the right target, great. If he didn’t, he’d have three more shots.

  A flash of white light prevented the Nameless from observing his handiwork. It didn’t take long for him to regain use of his eyes, but once he did, he found it difficult to trust them. From behind his target’s back a pair of feathery, shining wings extended. As if the person was a swan, these wings crossed before their face, then extended backward, painting the picture of a heavenly angel.

  The Holy One. Right. The Nameless tightened the grip around his gun. All he needed to do was land a single bullet anywhere on the supposed angel’s body. Once he did, he would have free reign in executing it. Presumably.

  However, there was something deep within that found the idea unpalatable. To kill this heavenly creature, to erase it from existence; he could think of no worse sin.

  No! He rejected the thought as his eyes turned toward Father Light. It was his fault. He had inserted the idea into the Nameless’ head. Perhaps ending him would remove the hesitation.

  “Father, Sister,” the Holy One said in a pair of voices, perfectly synced. One was male, the other female. “Go out through the back door and leave us. It is not safe for you here.”

  “Holy One!” Chastity screamed. “Whoever this is, he is not worthy of your attention. I beg of you, do not stain your hands with the blood of filth. He is not worthy, and neither is anyone else!”

  Father Light remained quiet.

  “Is that disobedience I hear, my Saint?” the Holy One asked, giving Chastity a side-stare.

  The Sister was about to speak, but the Nameless acted in her stead. He aimed the revolver again, this time at the angel’s right foot. He squeezed the trigger, and the gun fired with a flash of intense green. The wings acted faster than the Nameless could register. Upon collision, the bullet evaporated, its magic dispersing into a faint, swampy vapor.

  Chastity stepped forward. The Father didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Once more, Sister,” the Holy One said, “is that disobedience?”

  Chastity lowered her head. “No.”

  “You know where the door is,” the Holy One said. “Under no circumstances are you to let anyone in. Is that understood?”

  Chastity hesitated.

  “It is, Holy One,” the Father said as he started walking away. The Sister followed behind, but turned every couple of steps.

  “What are you?” the Nameless asked once they were gone.

  “Is it not obvious?” the Holy One said, spreading their wings again.

  “I spent a good part of the last month presenting as a White Knight,” the Nameless said, “yet that does not make me one.”

  “So that is how you did all this,” the Holy One said. They did not gesticulate, nor make any expressions. If the Nameless had to guess, he’d say they didn’t breathe. “Yes, I see that now. The gun. The bullets. The Satanic Voodoo. It all makes sense.”

  The Nameless started circling around his prey. There was no reason not to. “Nothing makes any sense in this world anymore! An angel? I do not believe you.”

  “You do not believe in angels, yet believe yourself a god?” The Holy One kept turning to face the Nameless, but without a shred of hurry or distress. “Your hypocrisy is staggering, Nameless.”

  “If you knew who I was when I came with that head,” the Nameless said, “why did you not have me executed?”

  “I most certainly did not know who you were,” the Holy One said. “I was merely being expedient. Jules Hillaire was no issue, whether he was alive or dead. Questioning a single soldier about his head would have been a waste of my time.”

  Hillaire, not an issue? The Nameless stopped moving. “Explain.”

  “The Movement will cease to exist soon,” the Holy One said. “Their army will perish on the battlefield, and what is left will be extinguished by the nuclear devices we set near New Orleans.”

  The Nameless almost shot again. “What?”

  “Sending so many men out onto the battlefield is not wise,” the Holy One said. “It leaves the Movement’s heart undermanned. And an undermanned city is lacking in, among other things, scouts. Setting enough nuclear explosives to wipe it off the map was easy.”

  “When do they go off?” the Nameless said through his teeth.

  “Soon,” the Holy One said. “Had I ordered them detonated too quickly, your own forces might have retreated back to Babylon, forcing us into another potential siege. No, Nameless. Your pathetic rebellion against righteousness ends, and it ends today.”

  The Nameless forbade his hand from shivering. All those people… “Why did you not destroy Babylon, then? You certainly had enough nukes to do it.”

  “Unlike the demon-worshipping New Orleans, Babylon’s people can still be saved,” the Holy One said. “They can be led out into the light, turned back to the right path. They can start seeking the Answer, as Man is meant to.”

  “The Answer?” The Nameless almost laughed. “I see through your lies, angel. You are no different from me, the old Management, or the Baron. ‘They can still be saved,’ you say? Know what I hear? ‘They can be put to work, so that I can gorge myself on their worship!’”

  The speed with which the angel propelled itself toward the Nameless exceeded his ability to perceive. On pure instinct he hurled himself to the left, saving himself from being cleaved in two down his length. What he didn’t manage to save was his right arm. It flew across the room still gripping the revolver, landing somewhere between a distant row of pews. The Nameless leapt away from the Holy One, once again on instinct. Had the angel wished to, there was no doubt he could’ve pressed the attack.

  “Insolent wretch!” the Holy One shouted in both voices. “How dare you claim any similarity to me? I walked at His side when He forged the cosmos!” They stepped forward, causing the Nameless to respond by moving away. “I bore witness to the birth of Man! I witnessed you sprout like tumors from previously healthy flesh! When the Lord smote Satan in Washington, I fell to my knees and cried in joy! Always serving! Never doubting the Word once!”

  The Nameless didn’t have time to look at his stump. All that mattered was that it didn’t bleed; the flesh was instantly cauterized.

  “So you deny taking this power for yourself?” he asked.

  “And what if I took it?” the Holy One shrieked. “It is all means to an end, a small bump the river of history will even out over the course of eternity! Who else could do what needs to be done? You? You are an aspect of the Adversary, Nameless! Everything you do is cursed from the onset!”

  The Nameless wanted to debate, but stepped back instead.

  “An angel of the Lord, left behind in a world of the wicked?” the Holy One continued. “Nothing happens without a reason, and my purpose here is clear. This cesspool of heathens must be set right; this is my tribulation! My quest! My holy mission!” They swung both wings to the side, turning two rows of seats into smoldering ash. “But I do not expect you to understand that. You are nothing but a demon, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” the Nameless said. And you remind me of the biblical Lucifer, he wanted to add, but was not in a hurry to die.

  “This has taken too long,” the Holy One said. “I have given you more recognition than you deserve. Time for you to die, faith-tumor.”

  The light around the angel began to intensify. The Nameless’ mind raced at full speed. He was not looking for tactical options. Rather, all he intended to do was live. He almost failed to notice that most of the illumination was green.

 
Two gunshots ensued, with minimal delay in between. The Holy One staggered, then turned around with their inhuman speed. Even though the Nameless could not see their expression, it was bound to be priceless.

  The revolver was up in the air, still held by the Nameless’ severed hand. The body it was attached to, however, belonged to the Boneslinger. Composed of the same flaming, emerald mist that raged in the center of the Baron’s realm, the spirit stared the angel in the eyes and cackled like mad.

  The Holy One became a blur. Intact one moment, the revolver and the hand turned into confetti the next. In less than a second the Boneslinger evaporated. The last part of him to disappear was his left, spectral hand. Still possessed of some shred of will, it contracted all its fingers but the middle one before dispersing into nothing.

  The angel turned back toward the Nameless, spreading their wings. However, they did not fly. Instead, they stood in place, apparently confused.

  The Nameless knew what that meant. He would not waste his opportunity. Pulling out the saber with his left hand, he leapt over the pew in front of him and ran straight toward his soon-to-be sacrifice. Unable to comprehend what had just happened, the Holy One willed their wings to move in defense. Instead they evaporated, not unlike the Boneslinger’s specter.

  The Nameless swung widely, eager to draw blood. He expected some degree of resistance. A dodge, a counter, anything really. Instead, the angel merely covered their face with both hands, not unlike a child being kicked by a crowd of peers. The blade bit into the forearms, spilling a shimmering white liquid. A duet of pained cries erupted from the Holy One’s throat, piercing the Nameless’ ears almost as deeply as he pierced flesh.

  The Nameless was not dissuaded. He cut, cut again, and continued cutting. He stepped left, then right, stabbing and twisting the blade several times over. The Holy One fell into a pile of their own blood, but the Nameless didn’t stop there. He had to be certain. Whether this was an actual servant of God or not, it had to die.

  The angel may have seemed frail, but it did cling to life. By the time the Nameless judged it wise to stop cutting, the body was completely devoid of humanoid features. The way it mewled in agony reminded him of Babylon’s livestock right before the slaughter. It would suffer the same fate.

  The Nameless lifted his sword and pointed it at the chest. He drove it down with all his might, piercing through all the way to the floor. The broken creature let out one more tortured whimper before going silent, its singing chiming across the cathedral.

  Go to your maker. If he will still have you. The Nameless inhaled, taking a miniscule shred of the deceased Holy One’s life. It wasn’t that much; all he needed was his hand back. The rest he allowed to drift east. It would be needed soon.

  Assuming it is not too late, he thought, remembering the battle as well as the nukes. The words of the prisoner echoed in his ears: You will need me to stop it. Did he know? Maybe. The idea was mad, but there was nothing else to do.

  The Nameless looked at the mutilated, luminously white body. Now that he was no longer in fight-or-flight mode, a part of him wanted to weep. I wonder what will happen to these fanatics once they see it. He pulled out the saber, flicked off some blood, and sheathed it. He then took the body by the leg and started dragging it toward the entrance. He didn’t look at his own right hand. Judging by how much it itched, it was regrowing at a rapid pace.

  He flicked the switch, stepped back, and waited for the doors to open. As expected, there were over a hundred people out front. Even though they were mostly unarmed, there was little doubt that they were ready to charge him at a moment’s notice. That changed when he stepped forward and flung the body down the stairs. The dead angel tumbled down like a ragdoll, landing on its mangled head, then the backside, and continuing in a similar manner. It was grotesque.

  The crowd completely lost it. Hundreds of shrieks erupted across the city as collective hysteria gripped the people. Some got on their knees, begging in barely discernible gibberish. Others experienced something akin to seizures, dropping and convulsing as if they were possessed by demons. The Nameless expected some resistance from the Sister and Father, but they remained motionless. If he had to guess, he’d say they weren’t even looking at him.

  There was no telling how long this would last. Perhaps the Nameless had bought himself seconds. Maybe these people would remain insane forever. However much or little time there was, the Nameless would use it. He raced down the stairs, went around the den of madness, and set course toward the jail.

  ***

  The asshole-club Rush wielded was getting sticky with blood, but she didn’t mind. All that meant was she didn’t need to grip it as hard.

  She had no idea how long she’d been swinging Malachi now. Time flies when you’re having fun, she thought as she drove the chained man through two Knights, making them pop like a pair of water balloons. Gun and arrow fire sang in the air, each note threatening to drill a hole in her ears. She ignored it for the most part. There was no way anyone would hit her, not at this range,

  Rush swung Malachi again, sending a jackoff flying far enough to collide with a fuckface. She hoped it was not one of her own, but there was no way to tell. Regardless of skin color, everyone bled red, and there was a whole lot of blood in the air. For this reason, she was forced to decide on a very simple criterion: if they tried to kill her, they were bad. Seemed to work, so why change it?

  There were more and more hostiles around as she advanced, and less and less friendlies. The trend had been continuing for a while now. Any time now, Bones! she kept repeating in her head, but to no avail.

  The sound of searing flesh reached her nostrils, accompanied by a sinister chanting. The voice was that of a woman, likely as young as Rush. She swung again, sending more of these dicks up to meet their maker. The scent intensified. Something was burning, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what.

  It was then that she realized that the smell was coming from behind her. Rush swung Malachi again, mashing up another pair of enemies and using the momentum to turn around. She started running, ready to dodge any stray arrows that might come her way.

  What the shit? The priests were always black, but the way they’d been burnt made their bodies like coal. White, blinding flames still seared what was left of them while a white-haired woman strolled fearlessly among their remains. She was dressed in a white nun’s habit, though her silvery hair flowed freely in the battlefield wind. She held her hands away from her body, and it took a moment for Rush to process that they were ablaze as well.

  Only they weren’t burning.

  Someone was braver than Rush, or at the very least closer. A spear-wielding young man, most likely a slummer, charged the nun in desperation. He lasted a good second before she directed her palms toward him, unleashing a torrent of fire and engulfing his body. But unlike the rest, he didn’t die quickly. His face burned, as did the rest of his body. Piece after piece left him with each hobbling step he took, but he kept pressing on. The horrifying, flaming skeleton he left almost reached the nun before it collapsed.

  The nun looked at her hands in surprise. Rush did the same, and realized to her relief that, for whatever reason, the fire was dimming.

  She didn’t care what this nun was. She didn’t want to know how she’d done what she did, or why she was losing her power. Rush wanted to end her then and there, and that’s exactly what she did. Making use of her running start, she swung Malachi with all her might, making the woman’s body disappear with a disgusting crunch.

  Something’s wrong!

  Rush quickly turned to inspect her weapon, which was suddenly lighter. She was still holding Malachi by the ankles, but everything above them was missing. The bones, tendons, and other viscera that protruded were not a viable replacement.

  Wasn’t he invulnerable, or am I losing my mind again? she asked herself as a barely visible emerald spark flickered before her eyes. Another followed, and then more. It didn’t stop. Just as Rush considered the possi
bility that she had truly gone insane, the others started reacting to the phenomenon as well.

  The lights were everywhere, and they kept multiplying.

  A series of screams erupted across the battlefield. These were not shouts of rage or desperation; rather, the men were terrified. Rush twitched left and right, and wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or simply crap her pants. Subtly glowing in green, the bodies they’d strewn around were beginning to rise.

  She stepped to her side, casually evading a stray arrow. These things don’t even need to evade, she concluded as she watched a shambling skeleton advance on a hapless Knight. The man tried in vain to pierce it with his spear, but the attempt was as doomed as he was. To her left, a supposedly fanatical pair of ex-Skulls was trying to flee from three surprisingly quick zombies, only to be cut down by gunfire. A couple of bullets ended up in the stomachs of the dead, but they didn’t seem to mind.

  The recently deceased didn’t waste any time either. They rose immediately after death, their eyes gleaming in swamp-shade. Rush released her grip and let Malachi’s ankles drop. She almost laughed upon realizing that somewhere in the nearby chaos, what was left of him was clawing for his feet.

  “Stay resolute!” the deep voice of an older man boomed overhead. “These things are nothing! They are dead; we are alive! They are with the devil, while we stand with the Holy One! Hold your ground and fight! Fight like you’ve never fought before!”

  Rush scoffed. For her, pinpointing where the voice was coming from was easy as pie. She crouched, took an intact sword from an undead Knight who no longer needed it, and ran toward the source.

  You’ll be sorry you said that.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Descending into the jail, the Nameless found to his relief that no one had been there since he left. The bodies were right where he left them, and the prisoner was still in his cell. He approached his own opened door, pulled out the set of keys from the lock, and started testing them on the other cell door.