by M. T. Miller
“You don’t think we’ll be able to squeeze a dime out of this one, right?” David said. He didn’t even have to see the Nameless’ face to know his answer. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Take,” the Nameless said as he pointed to the contraption. “Take two.”
“Now’s not the time for my dose,” Rush said, “though I can call the two of you when it is, if that’s your kind of thing.”
“No,” the Nameless said. “I. Take.”
“Oh, no!” Rush shouted. “That shit won’t work! Took me a long time to work myself up to these babies, and I’ve just barely survived.” She inhaled to calm down. “No, dude. You inject yourself with one, you’re a cripple at best. You take two or more… well, it’s all over.”
Not if I kill enough people to heal through the process, the Nameless thought. “Blue and yellow. Give.”
“You’re committing suicide, you ‘tard!”
“As much as I don’t like agreeing with this woman, Bones,” David said, “she’s probably right. In your state, you’d probably be dead within hours.”
I lack the luxury of not trying, David, the Nameless thought. “Give,” he said again.
“Your funeral,” Rush said. Out of the stand, she took out a small pistol-like device, and loaded two vials into it. “Press this end against your skin and shoot. Knock yourself out.” She put it down on the floor, and gently pushed it toward her guests.
The Nameless took it without a word, gesturing for David to follow him out.
“Yeah, it’s been a blast,” Rush said.
No one replied.
“Bones,” David said once they closed the front door and rejoined the swarm. “Reconsider this.”
The Nameless merely started shambling toward the exit.
“I’m being dead serious here! You’re not thinking straight!” David followed behind him. “I don’t know if all the glory got to your head, or if you’ve got brain damage, but this is suicide!”
I have considered that as well, the Nameless thought as he pressed on. Then, all of a sudden, David grabbed him by the shoulder. Despite the people that kept bumping into them, he did not let go.
“What?” the Nameless said as he slowly turned around.
“Before, I thought you were only a highly competent but disturbed cage fighter.” David lightly tapped the Nameless’ pistol-holding hand, causing the latter to partially pull it out of his pocket. “Now, I’m certain that you have no idea what you’re doing!” He pointed his finger at a small gun-part, right above the grip. “Your safety was on the whole time. You’re lucky that junkie back there seems to know even less about firearms than you do.”
Safety? The Nameless traced his finger along the switch. He pressed hard, and it clicked.
“Now you can actually fire the thing,” David said. “That enough to prove the futility of whatever it is you’re trying to do?”
“No,” the Nameless said as the grip disappeared back into his pocket. He turned around and continued moving. “Go. Home. Thanks.”
For whatever reason, David did not follow him out of the apartment complex. At least, not directly.
The guards around the elevators did not seem to be in a state of alarm. Relieved that no one seemed to be after him just yet, the Nameless told them he was going down. The sheriff probably does not expect me to be able to walk just yet.
The doors opened. He stepped in, and proceeded toward the slums. Good thing they only ask for a pass on the way up. I will worry about that later.
He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.
Chapter Fifteen
Still in his hospital coat and gown, the Nameless sat in a narrow space between two derelict houses, hiding within a pile of rubbish. His eyes were set on a pair of gang members, some two hundred feet ahead. High above them was a hanging mansion, unreachable by itself and built into the Pyramid’s internal wall. From the balcony in its center, two more men stood out. Just like it was said in the meeting.
If only I was certain that I have the right place. The sheriff had not been specific about Zhang’s residence, but the Nameless reasoned it would be the largest hanging palace in the eastern district. I reckon I will find out soon enough.
He had been lying low and fighting for fresh air for well over an hour. The rifle was carefully balanced on top of a pile of rocks, its safety (hopefully) unlocked. Several times, the Nameless checked if he could still move and point it toward the mobsters in front, as well as upstairs. He had been successful every time, but there was nothing else to do, so he did it again.
I will have to be horribly fast. He let the weapon rest, and pulled Rush’s pistol-thing out of his pocket. Even faster than I would be if I were not broken. He pressed the thing against the side of his neck. It should be about noon. The time is ripe.
He squeezed the trigger. A sharp, stinging sensation expanded from the contact point, spreading all the way through his body.
Perhaps I should have taken three? he wondered, but quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous. If two vials equaled certain death, then three would be beyond stupid.
Not that what I am doing is clever in any way. The Nameless separated the device from his neck, letting it drop in the trash. He grabbed the rifle again, readying himself for action. The rope ladder should drop soon.
Seconds passed, turning into minutes. The concoction that ran through the Nameless’ veins soon started showing signs of working. Colors sharpened. The details on the bodies of gang members became more apparent. He cycled between all four targets once more, this time with unparalleled ease. So—this is but part of what Rush used to defeat me. A part of him was relieved.
But why are they not lowering the damn thing yet? His gaze kept leaping from one Asian to the other. And why are they not moving? He focused on one man, high up on the balcony. Despite the distance, every single vein on the man’s scrawny chest was clear and visible. Unnaturally still, he stood his ground in a way no sane man ever would.
Then, a small piece of him moved. Ever so slowly, his eyelashes started lowering. Hypnotically slow, the thin black hairs touched with no rush at all. They did not open up all that fast, either. Did he… did he just blink?
This cannot be! The Nameless turned his attention toward the other one. He appeared to be in the process of moving his arm. Several seconds of subjective time later, the Nameless could not bring himself to witness that mundane action all the way to its end. The men downstairs were just as comically slow.
Incredible! The Nameless looked around. The filth that surrounded him, no more nor less disgusting than before, now smelled simply unbearable. Along with the accelerated breaths he had to take, he considered trying to change his vantage point. Nothing would be of any use if he puked or suffocated.
A loud noise came from above. Distorted, and deeper than the deepest baritone, it turned out to be the voice of the arm-moving mobster. Below him, the rope ladder he had dropped was slowly unfurling. One rotation after another, the thing kept spiraling, in no visible hurry to hit the ground.
Finally! The Nameless took hold of the rifle again. With certainty unbefitting of one who had never used such a weapon before, he pointed it toward the blinking guard and pulled the trigger.
Damn it! Despite how sure he was of his aim, the bullet missed the target’s head by a full inch. The balance is off on this thing! He squeezed the trigger again, this time missing the man by a whole foot. After taking another quick breath, the Nameless gritted his teeth and tensed his muscles. The rifle handled strangely—an unusual realization for a man with no memory of firing one before.
Calm down.
Slow as molasses, the men were barely even aware they were being shot at. You can do this. Give it a second to adapt to the kickback. He blinked. When he opened his eyes, absolutely nothing had changed.
Now!
The Nameless squeezed the trigger again. A red mist came out of the other side of the easterner’s head. Agonizingly slowly, his eyes started rolling backwards. Th
e Nameless neither had nor wished for the time to enjoy the sight.
Directing the rifle toward the other target, he fired again. This time, his aim was only slightly off. With a disgusting gush, a chunk of neck flew away from the man. He had been in the process off pulling out his knife, which was now floating downward. His palms, however, were just beginning their journey up. With another shot, the Nameless made sure they would never make it there.
His gaze flew down the still-unfurling ladder, and reached the men down below. Having heard the gunshots, both had their weapons at the ready.
Swords. I almost feel bad.
The Nameless squeezed the trigger a total of four times. By the time the men were dead, the final shell had not yet hit the ground.
That concludes the easy part. Vigorously, the Nameless leapt to his feet. He was just about to strap the rifle back to his torso, when a hefty dose of sharp pain hit him in the chest. Holding his side, he fell down on his knees, gasping for breath. I… I went too fast. Fighting the agony, he forced himself up, and paced toward the descended ladder as quickly as his lungs allowed.
I am not healed yet. Once he had reached it, he let the rifle hang over his shoulder, grabbed the rope with both hands, and started ascending. But I should be soon. Four men is a lot.
Bit by bit, as he got closer to the top, the pain slowly subsided. But just as he was getting within ten or so feet of it, a blood-curdling scream froze him solid.
Wh—what?
Both hands gripped around the rope, he tensed his body for stability and looked downward.
The men were not dead anymore.
On their feet and shaking unsettlingly, they stared up toward him, their talon-like teeth bared. Instead of eyes, they had gaping sets of holes. Blood kept dripping from those holes, despite the fact that they hadn’t even been shot there.
How?
The Nameless had to look away, his enhanced perception not making their appearance any more bearable. With renewed strength, he advanced upward, not even considering getting into a fight with those things.
Almost there. He got within grabbing distance of the balcony. Despite his better judgment, he allowed himself one more glance downward. It did not bode well. Halfway up to the Nameless in such a short time, the things seemed even faster than he was.
“You like fighting!” one man-thing screamed, in a tone so piercing the Nameless had to resist the urge to cover his ears.
“Yesss!” the other one shrieked. “Why run from usss?”
Why not?
On the verge of panic, the Nameless propelled his body upward, grabbing the ledge and pulling himself up. The ladder! Without even trying to rise, the Nameless grabbed his rifle and fired it against a rope. A split second later, he did so on the other side. Like a serpent, the ladder slithered out of his sight, and down into the slums.
He leapt to his feet. The pain in his jaw and lungs was gone; replaced by a somewhat tolerable aching sensation at the sides of his skull. Carefully, the Nameless approached the ledge, tightened his grip around his weapon, and looked down.
The ladder had not finished its fall yet, but the man-things had. Flattened as a pair of gruesome pancakes, their intestines were splashed all over their bodies. But despite this fact, the creatures still moved.
What in the world is going on here? The Nameless’ temples kept pulsating in tandem with the still-beating hearts on the ground. The only thing he knew of that could have possibly caused this was the magic of the black voodoo priest, Emile Mounier. But why would he even work with the easterners? Perhaps he knew more than he’d let on.
Have I been betrayed?
It wouldn’t be the first time. The Nameless’ fingers twitched, discharging a round somewhere in the open. Damn. If the masters of this place somehow didn’t know he was there, they most certainly did now. Then, the Nameless remembered something, and turned around before his brain even articulated the thought.
The other two guards! He squeezed the trigger, expecting to face another pair of misshapen monstrosities. Instead, the bodies lay where he’d struck them dead.
Strange, the Nameless thought, not considering the absurdity of his conclusion. Why would some rise, and others not? He approached the bodies, knelt before one, and prepared to inspect it. The racket that was spreading from inside the mansion, however, prevented that from happening.
Five of them, judging from the footsteps, the Nameless concluded as he rose. The entrance to the mansion was open, the only thing covering it an especially thick layer of drapes. More out of reflex than any real need, he squinted. The rifle firmly in his grasp, he raised it, firing precisely five times. The number of dull thuds that followed matched that number exactly.
This is amazing! With quiet (but not exactly slow) steps, he pushed his way inside. The corridor was some fifty feet long, and littered with four dead bodies. The one survivor was losing blood fast, wriggling on the ground and screaming incomprehensibly.
Eyes darting rapidly over his other victims, the Nameless approached the still-living one. Standing above him, he pointed the rifle into the man’s horrified face. “Promise me that you will not return,” he said.
“What?” the gang member screamed out in both fear and surprise.
“If I kill you,” the Nameless said, “promise me that you will not rise!”
“Y—you won’t kill me if I agree?”
“Promise me!” the Nameless roared.
“Fine! I promise! I promise!” the man cried.
“Thank you,” the Nameless said as he squeezed the trigger. That did not seem sincere. I do not believe him. He fired one more shot, just to be sure.
Now, where was I? He advanced through the hallway, the pictures on the wall whispering around him. The men and women on them there were Asian, speaking their own language, so he could not understand a thing. However, it was apparent that they did not approve of his presence. Am I required to kill the painting-people too? He considered the option. Better leave that for later. At least they cannot fight back—can they?
He decided not to find out. With a kick, he forced the door in front of him open and ran in with all the speed he had. Quicker than he ever had in his life, the Nameless scanned the area so fast it intensified his headache several times over. Not a living thing here.
The room he found himself in was a grandiose, lantern-illuminated welcome hall. Red silk flowed from high up the balcony in front of him, while strung-up sets of armor stood guard over more painting-people.
He was just about to begin a thorough sweep of the place, when an all-too-familiar sound came from behind, chilling him to the bone.
He… He lied!
The Nameless turned around in the blink of an eye. In the corridor he’d come from, the men whose lives he had just ended were back on their feet. Bleeding from their death-wounds as well as their eye-sockets, they shrieked in a way nothing human ever could.
“That was not our deal!” The Nameless pulled the trigger rapidly, retreating all the while. Hot lead pierced the bodies of the not-so-dead, but they refused to fall.
“Watch it with the blood-spurts!” A painting-man said from the side. “You’ll ruin our home!”
“Shut up! You’re made of oil!” the Nameless screamed, still walking back.
“Maybe, but unlike someone here, he doesn’t need blood on his hands to be adequate in bed,” a painting-woman said.
“You got that right, honey!” the painting-man agreed.
Infernal magics! The Nameless finally reached the staircase, his rifle clicking emptily. Not wanting to be burdened with it, he let it drop before running up.
The ones from before might have been faster than me—but they had not been kneecapped!
Once on the upper floor, he faced a large pair of doors. With as much of a running start as he could manage, he slammed against them with his entire body.
The pain of the impact was sharp, but not futile. With a snapping sound, the entrance gave way. Too focused on his pursuers
to see where he was, the Nameless shut the doors, and pressed his back against them. This won’t hold them for long! I will have to—wait am I outside?
He looked left and right, still pushing back with all his strength. Instead of a mansion, he was somewhere in the open. The sun was nowhere to be seen, but despite its absence the sky shone blindingly white. Solid ground disappeared some ten feet in front of him, the only way forward being a long, swaying bridge. And on that bridge stood a man, statuesque, armored, and wielding a long spear.
Where…
The Nameless kept looking through his fingers. Bit by bit, his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he noticed that he and the armored man were not alone. At least a score of winged Asians floated on both sides, wearing some kind of traditional war-ware. The bridge did not seem to end in infinity anymore, instead leading to a floating island.
He squinted, making use of his enhanced perception. Is that a snake? No…
Coiled in the middle of the floating island was a large, sleeping dragon.
Zhang! I have found you!
“You’re the one who’s been killing our men, aren’t you?” the armored man shouted. “Is it a grudge? A contract? Give us a number and we’ll double it!”
Stiff as a board, the Nameless remained pressed against the doors.
“Mr. Zhang would love to have someone as skilled as you on his side,” the armored man said.
Steps echoed from behind the Nameless. I can hear them coming! Within seconds they will be here! He started sweating profusely.
“Please,” the armored man stepped forward. “Let us reason this out.”
“You do not understand!” the Nameless screamed his lungs out. In a complete frenzy, he flew forward, causing the hanging bridge to shake from his speed. “The undead are restless! But I have to slay the dragon!”
For whatever reason, the armored man did not raise his spear. On the other hand, the sound of ten or so bows being drawn reached the Nameless’ ears. He pressed onward, certain of his ability to evade every single arrow, even on the drawbridge. Then, the air exploded, and so did his stomach. In pain, he knelt forward, grabbing the ropes to keep his balance, while his right arm disappeared inside his coat.