by M. T. Miller
“I’ll rest once I know we don’t have an emergency,” she said.
“Fair enough,” he said as he went for the door.
He squinted when he opened it, but recognized the guest instantly. He was distinctive enough to know even without full use of sight.
“Yes?” the Nameless asked, his fingers shading his eyes.
“I came to apologize,” Emile said. The suit he wore was well-used, but unlike the one from last night it didn’t have any visible damage. He didn’t have a tie or top hat, instead wearing a plain t-shirt underneath. Whether or not he’d washed his hair was difficult to say.
The Nameless was about to speak, but Rush was quicker. “Good thing ya remember anything, you drunk!” she shouted from the bedroom.
“She is direct,” the Nameless said with a faint smile.
“She also has a nose,” Rush added, “and this one reeks like a goddamn distillery!”
Even though he didn’t want to, the Nameless couldn’t help but inhale. She was right. The deodorant didn’t hide it; Emile exuded alcohol from every pore. His sagging eyes were bloodshot, and on both sides of his once-smiling mouth were deep wrinkles. Over the course of the last year, the man had aged a decade.
“She is all that, as well as correct,” Emile said. “I went overboard last night, Nameless. Drank far more than I should have, and made a lot of unnecessary messes.” He smiled, letting the Nameless see the ugly pit where one of his front teeth used to be. “So now the sober me needs to fix them, starting with this one. How about a drink, friend? Re-bond over some hooch and let bygones be bygones?”
“No need to apologize. As long as you refrain from repeating the incident, you and I are good. Besides, I do not drink anymore.” Without regular reaping to purge his system, the Nameless found himself at the mercy of intense hangovers. The small cult he still had was enough to keep him alive, but didn’t help with headaches and nausea. Eventually, he quit all kinds of alcohol and never looked back.
“You can watch while I drink then,” Emile said. “Order milk, or whatever it is that boring people do.”
The Nameless’ smile faded. He did enjoy milk, and the thought that Emile got it on the first try was insulting.
“It was a joke,” Emile said.
“Of course it was,” the Nameless said. He turned toward the bedroom. “Are you alright in there, Rush?”
“Go and make friends, Bones!” she shouted back. “Or hang with old ones, whatever. I’ll be around.”
The Nameless faced Emile again. “Deal. But I have a condition.”
“Of course you do,” Emile said. “Never easy with you. What is it?”
“You are not allowed to drink for two,” the Nameless said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Emile said. His smile was slight, but it was still there.
***
The harsh Nevadan sun was always intense, but the now-inescapable concrete of the Circle had made it worse. Everything was heated to such a degree that thinking was almost as difficult as breathing.
Sitting on a pair of chairs underneath the porch roof of an unassuming little bar, the Nameless and Emile gazed off toward the far end of the street. Besides the two of them, the whole neighborhood was in shades of grey.
“A lively little district.” The Nameless removed his black cowboy hat and put it on the table near his soft drink. He had grown fond of those sugary beverages. If they weren’t so expensive, he’d have drunk them all the time.
“Cheap neighborhood in a cheap city,” Emile said. In front of him was a shot glass that smelled of something foul. “Not everyone can afford decent deco, Nameless. I hope you’ve realized that by now.”
“I know,” the Nameless said. If memory served, this part of the Circle was mostly peaceful. There was little need for a sheriff’s frequent visits, so he wasn’t used to the sight. Especially during daytime.
“Is that all you have to say?” Emile asked.
“That depends,” the Nameless said.
“On what?”
“On you.” The Nameless looked Emile in the eyes. “You have called me here because you have something to say. If it relates to business, fine. If it is of a personal nature, even better.” He took a sip of his soda, then continued. “But I will not have my time wasted on some ham-fisted attempt at humbling or guilt-tripping me. That, I can do without.”
Emile blinked several times. He downed his drink in one go. “I…” He tried to maintain eye contact, but quickly resumed facing the street. “See how messed up I am? I call you here to set the record straight and apologize, then I end up escalating.” He raised his hand, extending one finger. Instantly, the waiter appeared from behind them.
“You are frustrated and disillusioned,” the Nameless said. He leaned back, letting the waiter pour Emile his drink. “That is understandable.”
“Is it?” Emile grabbed the glass without as much as looking at the bar employee. “We’ve all been through the grinder, Nameless. I don’t see you or the purple woman showing any signs of wear.”
The Nameless gestured for the waiter to leave. “I am not human, Emile, and whether Rush is by this point is also debatable. You should not try to compare yourself to us.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Emile took a sip and put his glass back on the table. “I’m no mere man, after all. Or have you forgotten?”
The Nameless downed his soda, but didn’t say a word.
“They still call me by my title, you know?” Emile smiled bitterly. “The Supreme Houngan. Chief servant of the Loa Baron Samedi. Head of the New Voodoo Movement.” He seemed to hesitate, but emptied the glass down his throat anyway. Less than a second passed before he called the waiter again.
“Do you know what that means?” he continued as his glass was refilled.
“They still look up to you,” the Nameless said.
“They still think I can save them, yes,” Emile nodded. “They still believe in me, in the forces I used to represent. And this would be fine—if I was still representing them.”
The Nameless silently rejected a refill from the waiter.
“Can you imagine what it’s like?” Emile asked. “To fail your people in every way, yet still be considered a leader and potential savior? To ascend in service of something greater—something divine, then lose it all in a single moment?” The muscles in his face twitched as his eyes gravitated between the Nameless and the glass.
“To become completely powerless and irrelevant,” he mumbled, extending a hand toward the drink.
He didn’t reach it. The Nameless snatched it before he had the chance.
“Give that back,” Emile grumbled.
“No,” the Nameless said. He considered letting Emile know just how much he understood. Better done once he sobers up, he concluded. Right now, the best course of action would be to talk business.
“What can I do to help?” he asked.
“For starters, you can give me that drink,” Emile said. His eyes followed the motions of the Nameless’ hand.
“Letting you kill yourself would not be helping,” the Nameless said.
“Debatable,” Emile said. He turned to the waiter and started gesturing for him to come.
“My offer stands,” the Nameless said. “I plan on making good on it. If I can help you in some doable way, all you need to do is ask.”
Emile stopped moving. His stare still drifted between the glass and the Nameless. “What can you do?”
“What do you need?” the Nameless asked. “I had thought that both you and your people were given equal rights and opportunities as those who came from Babylon. Whether or not I was right, I will leave for you to say. Now, I no longer hold any official administrative power anymore, but I am still on good terms with those who do. Tell me your troubles, and I will see that they are addressed.”
Emile remained motionless for a second or so. He then pressed his back against his chair. He stopped looking into the glass and fully focused on the Nameless.
“You’re not
far off in your assumptions,” he said. “Life is as good as it could be, I guess. Not as good as we had it back in New Orleans, but that place is dead and buried. There’s Movement people in agriculture, industry, as well as the police force and your pyramid’s administration.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
“Nothing concrete,” Emile said, lowering his gaze. “It’s just… It’s hard to put into words, really.”
“Try.”
“In short, we’re powerless,” Emile said. “The mirror’s destruction made sure of that. Me and the other priests, we can’t do parlor tricks, let alone any actual magic. But that doesn’t mean the people have given up hope.”
He leaned in. “There’s experimentation, Nameless. People are praying together, alone, in their houses, or out in the streets. Attempts are being made to recapture the magic. New rituals are being invented each day, and a lot of priests are trying to construct a new mirror to reestablish contact with the Dark Side.”
The Nameless leaned in likewise. “Have they succeeded?”
“Of course not,” Emile said. “Doesn’t work that way. Creating something like that would require a steady supply of magic—something we don’t have. And without a way to contact the Baron, he can’t send us any. We’re basically stuck in the middle of a freeway with an empty tank.”
“I cannot do anything about that,” the Nameless said. “You know why.”
“I do,” Emile said. “Interesting as they may be, those attempts are all doomed from the get-go; that’s no secret. But…” He leaned back slightly. “That doesn’t make them worthless. The Movement was never that big, Nameless, but the people genuinely believed in it. To expect them to just quit wouldn’t be realistic.” Emile sighed. “With time, my people might change their ways. Assimilate. For now, though, they need this.”
The Nameless’ forehead wrinkled. “I am not certain that I follow. Are you saying you are being denied your religious rights?”
“Not exactly,” Emile said. “That’s why I told you this would be hard to put into words. No one is forbidding us anything, at least as far as I know. But we are, for lack of a better term, under surveillance.”
“I was not told to keep you under watch,” the Nameless said.
“Of course you weren’t!” Emile said. “I don’t think anyone was. The cops, they just do it on their own, most likely. Still don’t trust us fully, which I do understand.”
“But?”
“But that doesn’t make it easier for my people to go on with their lives,” Emile said. “Imagine having someone hover over you at all times. That’s what this is like for my people. Again, I personally don’t care, but there are those who do. If you could make this go away, make these guards give us just a little bit more privacy, you’d be taking a hefty load off my shoulders.”
The Nameless leaned all the way back. “That should not be too difficult. I can talk to Torres as early as this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Emile said.
“Think nothing of it.”
“Can I have my drink back now?” Emile smiled nervously. “Please.”
“No,” said the Nameless.
“Oh, come on.” Emile frowned. “You’re not going to drink it yourself, so what’s the problem?”
“I am the sheriff of this city,” the Nameless said as he poured the glass’ contents over the fence and onto the street.
The way Emile’s expression contorted in the reaction was nothing short of disturbing. “And that gives you permission to be an asshole?”
“If it means saving a life, then yes,” the Nameless said with a wry smile.
Emile didn’t seem to find the quip funny.
Chapter Four
The Nameless hadn’t been to the pyramid in weeks. Excluding the string of unsolved murders, the Circle was a peaceful place. Whenever he needed to send a report, he’d give it to a policeman and send him up. On the other hand, Rush’s visits to the gigantic structure weren’t rare—ever since Khalid died, they were nonexistent.
The Nameless advanced along the wide, beaten path that led to the entrance. For the briefest of moments, an image flashed before his eyes, of the same entrance at a different period in time.
A mere pair of guards, the Nameless observed, comparing security to what it used to be the first time he’d seen the pyramid. Even the weaponry these men bore was indicative of an altogether different state of affairs: instead of rifles, they were armed with pistols and batons.
“Sheriff Nameless,” they said in unison.
“At ease,” said the Nameless as he stood before the doors between them. He tried to recall the guards’ names, but they eluded him. Whether they were new recruits or rehabilitated veterans, neither their faces nor their voices rang a bell.
“Going in?” one of them asked, his finger hovering over the control mechanism.
“Yes,” the Nameless said. “You can tell whoever is in charge of the central pillar to prepare a lift. I will be heading all the way to the top.”
“Yes, sir!” The guard pressed the button, and the gate began to open. “Should we notify the governor too?”
“You may.” The Nameless stepped forward, entering the pyramid. A long time ago, a set of drapes made of flowing silk would have obscured his view of the structure’s bowels. There was no need for that anymore.
Once a rotting heap of waste, the ground floor of Babylon was now very different. The endless rows of derelict houses and attempted structures had been torn down for raw material, and replaced with absolutely nothing. Excepting the dungeon and factories, the ground floor was almost completely empty. As far as the Nameless knew, only the hanging mansions still had any residents, and those were often the richest of the rich. Even the people who worked the factories didn’t live in these former slums; they either descended from the floors above or commuted in from the Circle.
As he advanced toward the central pillar, the Nameless breathed in deep. Free from the relentless onslaught of sweat, blood, and overall filth, the slum-air was actually not too bad. There were still hints of industrial aromas in there, along with slight staleness, but compared to the way the place used to be this was more than bearable.
A lot more to be done, he thought, looking left and right and noticing mostly empty space and the occasional smoke-belching structure. He had definitely done his job. The future of this world now rested on the backs and wits of men like David Torres. And SIM.
The man the Nameless had saved had proven himself a priceless asset. SIM’s ability to absorb knowledge quickly was nothing short of phenomenal, and the way he was able to apply that knowledge was even more impressive. He worked well with Torres.
When those two put their minds together, the Nameless thought as he approached the central pillar, there is nothing that cannot be done.
There was no need to say a thing to the guards at the central pillar. An elevator was in position and waiting for him. The Nameless waved to the pair of guards, stepped inside, and waited for it to close. In a moment the gears began to turn, and the machine moved.
The Nameless didn’t feel like visiting the second floor. Besides being less crowded than before, it was more or less the same, the main difference being that gambling and nightlife had mostly replaced trade. Even if he wanted to partake, this early in the day that floor was mostly quiet.
The lift passed the second level, then slowed down as the gears stopped turning. Another mechanism rumbled, opening the door and letting in the vivid yellow that lit up what was once the richest part of the city.
“Welcome, Sheriff Nameless!” another pair of guards shouted from the pristinely white hall that served as the elevator hub.
“At ease.” The Nameless stepped out. It never ceased to amaze him how clean this place always was., especially after at least two bloodbaths. Hopefully there will not be more.
“The Governor is waiting in his office,” one of the guards said.
“Thank you.” The Nameless approached the
closest door, appropriately marked with a 1, and entered without knocking.
The empty hall beyond led either left to the office, or straight ahead to the penthouse of the defeated sun god who had once ruled Babylon. The Nameless wasn’t in the mood to have his skin scorched, so he went left. This time, he did knock.
“Go ahead!” the voice of David Torres echoed from within.
The Nameless turned the knob and pushed the door carefully. It wasn’t rare to find a mess inside, and stepping on a stack of papers and scattering it across the room would help no one.
This time, however, the office was not only tidy, but clean as well. Besides the thick piles of papers on both tables, there was no trace of disorder.
Perhaps their jobs are getting easier as well, the Nameless thought. He inhaled, and immediately noticed a faint, perfume-like scent that seemed to permeate the room.
“Could’ve visited during our break, you know?” David said from behind a foot-tall stack of papers. He rose, letting his dark eyes meet those of the Nameless. He had recovered well from having his leg broken, and was, aside from a few additional pounds, as good as new.
The Nameless grinned. “You are never on a break. We both know that.”
David pointed at the stack in front of him. “And I wonder why that’s so. More work here than most people do in a lifetime, and we need to get it finished in…” He turned to the other desk, and so did the Nameless.
“By tomorrow morning,” SIM said from behind his own pile of papers. It was at least twice the size of the one on David’s desk. Judging from the pencil-scratching sounds that came from his general direction, the man was still working.
“Exactly,” said David as he faced the Nameless again. “So excuse me for being a little on edge.”
“Think nothing of it,” the Nameless said. He was about to continue, but the aroma took over his attention again.
“It’s a mild stimulant,” SIM said in answer to the unspoken question. “Helps keep us alert and focused. Why work at half capacity when we can give it a 110%, right?”
“Is it safe?” the Nameless asked.
“Perfectly!” SIM said as he rose. Like David, he wore a black suit with a white shirt. His previously ragged beard was gone, exposing his partial Asian ancestry. His jet-black hair reached past his similarly colored eyes and all the way down to the base of his neck. He was smiling. “For you, me, and the governor at least. Killed every stray bug in the room, though, but I personally see that as a bonus.”