Ascent: Second Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “And when can this be arranged?”

  “As early as the day after tomorrow. Night time, of course,” David said. “It was supposed to be booked up, but they’ll make room for this. Everyone loves a good show.”

  “Deal,” the Nameless said, extending a hand.

  David shook it without a word.

  ***

  A strong blow to the face pulled him out of his nightmare, and into an equally unpleasant reality.

  “Wh-what?”

  He was lying in his bed. The nightlight was on, but in his disorientation, he was barely able to tell what was what.

  Another punch followed, this one to the gut. The Nameless’ first instinct was to roll to his side, but he was stopped in his tracks by a sharp blade pressed against his throat.

  “Good night to ya, shithead!” The man holding the knife showered him with his spit. Little by little, the Nameless’ vision grew clearer, and it became apparent that his attacker’s hair was green.

  Of course!

  “Fireball has something to say to you,” another man said, his own yellow hair gleaming in the light. “He’s lonely down there, and he wants you to join ‘im!”

  In tandem with the yellow-haired man’s words, Green slowly increased his pressure on the blade, causing the Nameless’ neck to bleed. He is taking his time. Therein lies my chance!

  Not even trying to do it inauspiciously, the Nameless shoved his right hand underneath his pillow. As expected, Green cut deeper. What Green did not expect, though, was for the Nameless to pull a revolver out and place it against his left temple.

  The gunshot was deafening. An explosion of blood and brain matter splashed all over the bed, and the rest of Green followed suit before the body collapsed on the floor. Holding his throat and choking on his own blood, the Nameless straightened up, pointing his revolver toward Yellow. The Nameless tried to speak, but his wound had not closed yet.

  Whatever he was going to say, Yellow had no desire to hear it. With only six feet or so between him and the door, he chose to try and make a run for it. The Nameless would not let him. The shot popped the cap right out of Yellow’s knee, and he wound up on the floor in a less than dignified position.

  “Where is your leader?” the Nameless shouted in a coarse, barely understandable manner. “Where is Contrast, you piece of refuse?” He kept his gun pointed at Yellow’s head, fully intent on questioning him. However, Babylon’s own law enforcement had different ideas. The sound of too many people running through the corridors reached his ears quickly, and he knew that the interrogation was over.

  The guards are always near, he remembered. Alerted by the gunfire and dangerously close, they would be bursting inside within moments. No wonder no one bothers to smuggle weaponry between the floors. Hiding a murder up here would be all but impossible.

  He squeezed the trigger, giving the door a fresh coat of red paint. Yellow had not even hit the ground when five armed guards burst inside, pointing their rifles toward the Nameless’ heart.

  “Freeze!” they all shouted in unison, mindful of their steps.

  The Nameless raised his hands and dropped the revolver, exposing a healed-but-bloody neck.

  That could have gone better, he thought as the men surrounded him.

  ***

  At least three hours had passed since the guards had locked the Nameless up in a small but thick-walled room. They were needlessly rough with him on the way, but that was not unexpected.

  He was alone, cuffed to one of the two chairs surrounding a sturdy-looking table. He had considered trying to free himself from the cuffs, but decided against it. This is different from the Manhunter camp. Besides, even if he found a way to somehow open the door, there was a whole station full of lawmen he would have to plow through, who, as far as he knew, were merely doing their jobs.

  No, he would hurt no one needlessly. Fireball had been just another monster. Why else would he still fight in the cages, even after stealing the Nameless’ money? The only ones missing him would be the remaining two members of his gang.

  And even they will not have much time to grieve. The Nameless rocked his arms unintentionally, causing the cuffs to rattle. Assuming I ever get out of here, of course.

  “I think you’ve had yourself enough time to think.” The voice came from the other side of the opening door. It belonged to an older man, but radiated the kind of confidence that only comes with authority. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Bones?”

  The Nameless measured the recent arrival. The man was quite tall, around six-foot-one or -two. He wore a cowboy hat, but it was apparent that his hair was as grey as it could possibly be. His nose would be the strongest feature on his long face, were it not for an equally impressive moustache. As he moved toward the table, a sheriff’s star gleamed, emblazoned on his dust-colored trench coat.

  “A little too much time, if you ask me,” the Nameless said. “I was hoping to get this over with as soon as possible. I am a busy man.”

  “So I’ve seen,” the elderly sheriff said as he pulled his chair out. As he sat, he put his left hand over the table, and littered it with a swarm of papers . “So we’ve all seen.”

  The Nameless squinted. Before him lay photographs, colored ones. Even though some were upside-down, he had little trouble recognizing whom they showed.

  My victims. Most, if not all, of them.

  “So, care to start singing, Mr. Bones?” the sheriff asked, his dark brown eyes meeting the Nameless’ green ones. “Or am I going to have to run this one as a purely instrumental piece?”

  “It was self-defense,” the Nameless said, fully aware of how unconvincing that sounded. “All twenty-two or so times.”

  “So the witnesses say.” The sheriff took out a thick cigar, lit it, and took a long whiff. As he did so, he placed a small ashtray on the table. “The ones we found on the ground floor, at the very least. Did you really think we wouldn’t put two and two together? You go down, criminals die. We do keep our books tight, you know?”

  Tobacco. The Nameless’ eyes narrowed when the scent got to his nostrils. Even though there was no good reason for it, just the smell of the substance angered him.

  “Not a fan, huh?” the sheriff said as he distanced the cigar from his lips. Then, moving just a little bit closer to the Nameless, he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke right into his face. “Well, too fucking bad.”

  The Nameless did his best not to show signs of discomfort. The other man’s expression told him that it wasn’t working.

  “As I was saying,” the sheriff continued, “the few witnesses we do have confirm your story. At least, a part of it. You were ambushed. You fought back. Right?”

  “What seems to be the problem, then?” the Nameless said in a coarse voice. He has an angle. Nothing ever blows over this easily.

  “Nothing, nothing,” the sheriff turned the photographs face-up, one by one. “Besides the fact that it seems to keep happening over and over again. Daily. And even if we ignore that, there is this little detail.” He put something on the table—a foot-long object wrapped in a black cloth.

  “Regardless of that the witnesses say—” the Nameless put on the most benevolent grin he was capable of “—I assure you, that cloth is not mine.”

  “Funny,” the sheriff said as he proceeded to unpack the item. “I bet people just die around you, right?”

  Old man, you have no idea, the Nameless thought. Then, he laid his eyes on the object in question, and his smile disappeared. It was his revolver. The fact that the Sheriff had hidden it along the way, while ignoring the rest of the Nameless’ arsenal, spoke more about this situation than words could.

  “So, here we have one wise-ass—” the sheriff let the gun rest on the table “—hiding enough weaponry to slaughter an island nation, caught with literal blood on his hands—and, best of all, in possession of the signature weapon of everyone’s favorite psycho. Shit, son, are you even aware of how much trouble you’re in?”

  The Nameless wanted to
quip again, but something about what the old man said caused him to rethink his strategy—if he’d had any in the first place, that is.

  He called me “son.” That indicates at least some form of affection. If I stop provoking him, he may yet show some leniency.

  “Not completely,” the Nameless said. “But I am guessing ‘quite a bit.’”

  “We’re getting somewhere, I see.” The sheriff took another whiff. “Question is, what are we going to do about it?”

  Let me off with no strings attached, and ignore everything that happened? the Nameless wanted to say, but stopped himself in time. “What do you propose?” he said.

  “In a moment.” The sheriff put his cigar back in the ashtray. “But before that, Mr. Bones, I’d like to tell you that I know exactly what you are.”

  He does? “You do?” The Nameless practically jumped from his seat. Come on, out with it, then!

  “A first-class killer!” the sheriff exclaimed as he leaned forward. “Am I right?”

  “Absolutely,” the Nameless said. Serves me right for even getting my hopes up.

  “You’ve really got it in for those gangbangers, right?” The sheriff theatrically rose from his seat. “You’ve seen what they do. Maybe you’ve even been on the receiving end once or twice. But that was then. Now you’re tough. Tough enough to take your own brand of guerilla warfare right to the bastards’ doorsteps down there. Tough enough to take out even the god-damned Boneslinger!” The sheriff slammed his hand against the table.

  “And that’s some damn impressive work in its own right. But here’s your problem: you lack vision. All you do is kill. You can’t just keep cutting down every plant in your god-damn yard; some of them are actually useful. You need to know when to strike, and when to stay your hand. And if you do it right and proper, yours will be the lushest garden in the whole neighborhood! Any of this getting to you, son?”

  “So… you want me to become an assassin of sorts?”

  “A hole in one!” The sheriff lifted his arms slightly. “But not an assassin, Bones. I want you to become the assassin.”

  “And the article change stands for…?”

  “Quite a few things,” the sheriff smiled. “But mostly for sanction. If you work for me—in secret, of course—you’ll be given the best gear. Much better living quarters. I’m talking third floor here. Hell, I’ll even make it so you don’t have to do any time for all the crap you’ve done. All I ask in return, is for you to off people on command. And make no mistake, I won’t ask you to lay a hand on anything other than utter trash.” He sat down again. “That’s why the unit is called the Cleanup Crew.”

  So, I am to be someone’s janitor, the Nameless thought. He stared into the ashtray for a few seconds.

  “That’s the longest consideration I’ve seen from anyone I’ve ever offered this job to,” the sheriff said. “What’s the problem? Not too keen about working with others?”

  “You might say that,” the Nameless said. “But I will adapt.” To hell with it. It has to be better than prison.

  “So, you’re in?” the sheriff asked.

  “I would shake your hand,” the Nameless said, “but I am shackled to this chair.”

  The sheriff laughed. He took his ashtray (along with the cigar inside), rose, and turned toward the door. “You won’t regret it, Bones!”

  “So, what happens now?” the Nameless asked.

  “Now I go and make preparations.” The sheriff looked at him sideways. “Someone will come and help you get back to your place. I will hold onto your weapons until the next meeting of the Cleanup Crew. Which you will, of course, have to attend. Any more questions?”

  “No,” the Nameless said.

  “Great,” the sheriff said as he went through the door. “Yeah, and this conversation didn’t happen. Got it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good to know,” the sheriff said as he exited the room. “See you around, Bones. Looking forward to our collaboration.”

  So am I, the Nameless thought. Third floor, he said? He smiled.

  Perhaps this day hasn’t turned out so bad.

  Third Level: The Crew

  Interlude Three

  “Well, well, look who decided to grace us with his presence!”

  The Sun God’s words echoed across the reflective surface of the mirror-paved room. He was seated at his table, as were the other two regulars.

  Instead of replying, the approaching man smiled. He was as thin as a stick, and his dark brown hair was quite messy. His chiseled face was striking despite his apparent malnourishment, and the business suit he wore mirrored his hair color perfectly. His eyes were not visible, hidden behind set a cheap-looking of sunglasses.

  “Anything to say for yourself?” the Sun God asked when the man reached the table.

  “For myself? Not a thing,” the man said as he pulled out a chair. “For this place in general, I have some complaints.”

  “Elaborate,” the Sun God said.

  “Your floor is functioning optimally in every way that matters,” the bald man said. “What could you possibly have to complain about this time?”

  “Someone was attacked recently,” the thin man said. “In his apartment. In his bed. I wouldn’t call that optimal.”

  “Ah,” the Sun God said, picking up a sizeable pile of papers from the table. “What a coincidence! I call a sudden meeting, to discuss that incident among other things, and here you are!”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? It concerns my domain.”

  “Listen here, you little shit,” the Sun God said. His face did not betray any emotion, but his voice most certainly did. “The fact that I’ve tolerated your insubordination up until now doesn’t mean that I will continue to do so. An enemy is in our midst, and if we are to come out on top, we will need to work together.”

  “An enemy?” the bald man said. “In here? Who would dare?”

  “Who else?” The Sun God placed a photograph on the table. Taken in obvious hurry, it displayed a mug shot of an oval-faced man with long, black hair. “Does this particular tyrant strike a chord with any of you?” He turned to the woman. “A thread, perhaps?”

  “That… that can’t be,” the thin man mumbled as he stared into the photo. “So… he is back.”

  “Right on schedule,” the Sun God said. “As foreseen and decreed by our lovely Tarantula here.” He pointed toward the woman. “The very same Tarantula who, for reasons unknown, chose to keep this vital information away from the rest of us!”

  “Wait,” the thin man said before she had the chance. “The time of arrest… he is the one who was attacked today, right?”

  “Your insight always was amazing, Coyote,” Tarantula said. “And yes, I have known that he was making his way here for a good while now. Helped him get inside, too.”

  The way the Sun God stared at her did not indicate charitable feelings.

  “Oh no, you won’t!” she said. “You’ve had your chance.”

  “Had my chance?” the Sun God shouted. “Tarantula, the only reason any of you have your chances at anything is because I allow you to! If I choose, I could destroy the lot of you right this instant and rule Babylon on my own. Except—” His voice turned serene again. “Except I don’t want to. There are so, so few of us left. If we don’t stand up for each other, then who will?”

  “Not to mention that you need us to run this whole pyramid scheme.” Coyote grinned.

  “Now, that would be absolutely true,” the Sun God said, “if you all actually did your jobs in the first place.”

  “Just what are you implying?” Coyote asked.

  “About you? Besides a severe lack of dedication, nothing we don’t already know,” the Sun God said. “But Tarantula here, I can’t really figure out what kind of game she’s playing.” He turned toward her. “And I think it’s about time you shared. Because I’ve got evidence up here, and it’s stacked up against you.”

  “What kind of evidence?” she asked with a flat expressio
n.

  “The best kind,” the Sun God said as he placed another photo on the table. “The murder weapon, if you will.”

  “The Boneslinger’s revolver,” the bald man said, after taking a quick look. “It all comes together.”

  “Like a jigsaw puzzle, Snake,” the Sun God said. “After he killed the Skulls’ leader and caused the chaos that still rages to the west, our friend expediently found his way here.” He looked at Tarantula again, his brow furrowed. “And she even re-armed him once he was in.”

  “You don’t see the whole pict—“ she tried to say.

  “And you won’t show it to me!” the Sun God interrupted. “Besides, I’m not done. You see, it turns out our friend’s been busy. Murders, mostly in your domain, Tarantula, but not limited to it. Cage fights. Murders during cage fights. The mayhem is already starting, and we don’t have a whole lot of time to stop it.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Coyote said. “We have him in custody? In the jail below?”

  “Like a rat in a cage,” the Sun God confirmed. “And I intend to pay him a visit within an hour or so. End this misery before it’s too late.”

  “You can’t do that!” Tarantula rose from her seat. Her shout echoed all around them.

  “See, I expected you to react that way,” the Sun God said. “Tell me why, and I might reconsider.”

  “He isn’t out for revenge,” Tarantula said. “Not predominantly. He wants answers.”

  “And I am ready to provide, right before I burn him to cinders.”

  “None of us would be able to prevent you if you chose to do that. But…” Tarantula’s forehead wrinkled up. Within a moment those wrinkles opened, and the woman had four pairs of green, glowing eyes on the upper half of her face.

  “Remember what I said the last time,” she said. “You took things into your own hands; tried to eliminate him instead of letting things proceed the way we planned. Now, everyone suffers for it. Their blood is not on his hands, but on yours!”

  “Or maybe he’s just picking up where he left off: causing destruction and carnage,” the Sun God insisted.