LEFT PANEL: LAMASHTU TRAMPLED ON THE TEMPLE STEPS
Hailey Clearton felt fresh energy coursing through her frail, wrinkled body. The latest rejuvenation shot was already taking effect. Lately, she needed them more often. Even amid Gomora's turbulent collapse, the supply of young blood had never been more plentiful. Orphanages had fallen into the hands of local cults, leaving the children with only two grim choices: indoctrination or sacrifice to the Cabal. Either way, the cult leaders profited. At least the children would live — for a time. Later, some might escape and join the Rejected. The rest simply died.
Not that Hailey had ever cared about the death of innocent children. She was simply glad she no longer had to wait for her shots. They had grown ruinously expensive, however. Since her husband's withdrawal from politics and his decision to live off their savings, she had been forced to dip into her own reserves and spend them carefully. She could no longer afford a treatment every other week, but this latest one had been necessary. It was worth every penny.
She was expected to look good and radiate confidence. Though Gomora had fallen and the central government no longer existed, the Capitol still stood — the only governmental building left untouched by demolition or vandalism after the Fall. A strange alliance of old-school businessmen and fervent believers in the revival of the United States maintained the building and its security. It had taken Hailey considerable effort to contact them and persuade them to work with her. They were an odd mix of ageing Republicans and young political extremists. She trusted none of them, yet she depended on their money. In turn, they needed a recognisable face from the old regime — someone the public could still identify and, with luck, trust — to lend legitimacy to their vision of a new government.
They had never liked the Cleartons, least of all Hailey, but she made the perfect mascot.
Politics had been her entire life. She had begun as a Senator, later served as Minister of Foreign Affairs, yet for thirty years she had been known simply as the former First Lady of the former Leader. Too many "formers." She had always despised the role. She possessed far more to offer than elegant gowns and practised smiles. Deep down, she had always believed she would have made a far superior Leader than the loser she had married. Will had wanted a passive, obedient wife, but she had refused to confine herself to the home. Despite generous sponsorship for her campaign to become Leader of the United States of Gomora, she had never progressed beyond the preliminaries. Rather than examine why voters rejected her, she preferred to blame her damaged image as the scorned, cheated-on First Lady.
But that was all in the past now — flickering images from another life.
A car waited outside to take her to the Capitol. Before leaving the house, Hailey checked her purse to ensure her speech was safely inside. Over the past week, she and her partners had revised, corrected, and rewritten entire sections. She knew the words by heart, but she wanted to read them one final time on the journey. The speech had to be flawless. When she spoke, people would listen — and she would make them hear.
The square in front of the Capitol was packed with ragged young protesters carrying placards scrawled with obscene slogans. They chanted for the "Geezers" — anyone who dared speak of restoring the old order — to stop oppressing the people. Hailey rolled her eyes in disgust. She loathed these morons, yet she knew she bore some responsibility for raising a generation that followed trends instead of thinking critically. The old government had needed such mindless puppets — sheep easily herded in whatever direction suited those in power. These wild crowds had terrorised ordinary citizens under the banner of freedom, women's rights, and the protection of every conceivable minority, including those with disturbing inclinations toward pederasty and paedophilia. They had proven highly effective at creating chaos and division, perfect tools for the Democrats to demonise Republicans and their traditional values.
But during the Fall, the hordes had grown larger, wilder, and far harder to control. Their bodies had grown thinner, their dyed hair showing dark roots, now that their sponsors had vanished and they could no longer afford food or hair dye. Their minds, however, remained unchanged — still poisoned by parasitic ideologies, alcohol, and drugs. The former powerholders had lost all influence over the monsters they had helped create.
Soon everything will change, Hailey repeated silently to herself. As head of the Capitol, she would mark a turning point in Gomora's miserable decline. The transformation wouldn't happen overnight; it would take time. Yet the Capitol was their starting point. One day, when Gomora once again dominated the world, Hailey Clearton was certain she would be remembered as a national hero. Streets and squares would bear her name. Perhaps they would even create a new holiday in her honour.
"Open the door," Hailey demanded.
"Excuse me?" the driver snapped.
"You heard me. Open the door."
"Forget it, lady. Get out. I've got work to do," the man grunted.
Hailey pressed her lips into a thin line. Rudeness was simply a sign of the times, yet it still grated. It would have been fitting if the driver had shown proper respect to the future Leader of the Capitol. She should have discussed it with her partners beforehand. There was no point arguing with the surly man. She stepped out of the car, expecting to be greeted. Instead, there was nothing — no excitement, no flowers, no recognition. People barely glanced at her.
With her head held high, she pushed through the filthy, sweating crowd toward the Capitol steps. The stench of cigarettes, alcohol, and unwashed bodies clung to her hair.
"Misses Clearton!"
She turned. It was Spencer. He had climbed onto a lamppost and was waving frantically for her to join him. Spencer was one of the few decent ones. He and a handful of older businessmen still addressed her respectfully. Once she became Leader, she had promised to appoint him as her personal assistant and driver.
When she finally reached him, he jumped down, seized her hand, and pulled her urgently toward the metal fence surrounding the Capitol. He signalled to one of the guards, who let them through. Only once inside the perimeter did Hailey release an exasperated sigh.
"What on earth is going on, Spencer? Why are there so many people here today?"
"Looks like an unplanned demonstration, Misses Clearton. Word must have leaked about our plans and your involvement. Mister Shrubs has announced he wants to take part as well…"
"Wait — that idiot is here?"
"He's already inside, Ma'am."
Hailey cursed under her breath and started toward the Capitol, but Spencer suddenly grabbed her arm.
"Look!" he cried.
As if on command, the crowd surged forward, raising their voices in a deafening roar and pressing hard against the metal fence.
"They're going to break through! Run, Misses Clearton!" Spencer shouted.
She was already moving. Behind her, she heard the screech of bending metal as the fence gave way beneath the weight of the mob. Gunshots cracked from the security guards, but the shots only enraged the crowd further. Spencer reached the steps first and turned back, waiting for her so they could reach the safety of the gates together.
Hailey could make it. Just a few more metres. Stupid heels, she thought bitterly. At her age, in these circumstances — it had been a ridiculous choice. She felt her ankle twist as her heel cracked on the first step. She fell hard, her chin smashing against the stone. Blood flooded her mouth.
"Help!" she tried to scream, but the sound was drowned out by the chaos.
Spencer shouted something, but she saw him being dragged inside by the guards. The heavy gates slammed shut.
"No! Come back!" she cried.
A scream tore from her throat as unbearable pain shot through her leg. Someone kicked her viciously as she tried to crawl up the steps. Bodies trampled her hands and stamped across her back. The unstoppable horror continued, and no one came to help. The gates remained closed. She no longer had the strength to pull herself free from the stampede. Her carefully prepared speech pages fluttered away on the wind.
Hailey clung desperately to consciousness, nursing a futile hope that someone — anyone — would save her. Through blurred vision, she noticed an odd figure sitting cross-legged like a Buddha on the marble balustrade. He was elderly, yet his raven-black hair fell in luxurious curls over his forehead. He wore a black toga draped in an archaic Middle Eastern style. His eyes were hidden behind dark rectangular sunglasses, but Hailey could feel his gaze fixed upon her. He reminded her of someone, though she couldn't recall who.
With a trembling, bloodied hand, she reached out toward him and whispered, "Help… please…"
The strange man threw his head back and began to laugh — a loud, hysterical, gleeful cackle that rang out over the violence. He laughed and laughed as she was trampled beneath the mob. Only when her eyes finally turned glassy and lifeless did his laughter cease. He turned his gaze slowly toward the grey sky above the Capitol.
***
RIGHT PANEL: THE HANGED MAN
Josh J. Shrubs could scarcely believe his ears when he learned of Hailey Clearton's determination to become Leader of the Capitol. He had always regarded her as a loose, out-of-control woman with a thoroughly tainted reputation. While the public blamed Will for his promiscuity, Josh knew Hailey was every bit as immoral — if not worse. He was well aware of the sex parties and "baby showers" she attended in person to select donors for her rejuvenation shots.
Her morbid lust for power was nothing new, but he had never imagined she would try to seize the Capitol after the Fall. Especially at her age. He fully agreed with Will's decision to withdraw from politics and live in seclusion. Both the Cleartons and the Shrubs families had been fortunate to survive the vicious witch-hunts against former politicians. It was no surprise that Will had refused to support his wife's latest delusional bid for power. Her stupidity and stubbornness truly knew no bounds.
Still, the news set Josh thinking. Hailey was mad, but in the past her particular brand of madness had often proved effective. What if the crazy woman actually succeeded in becoming the first female Leader of the Capitol? With no serious candidates to oppose her, the desperate and impoverished citizens of Gomora might well fall into her trap. She would promise change and security in exchange for their votes. She had even found sponsors. It seemed too easy, yet it was happening. Hailey Clearton was now a genuine contender.
Why, then, shouldn't he try as well? The people deserved a real choice, after all. Besides, Josh had a clear advantage: actual experience in office. Hailey was merely a power-crazed control freak whose career had consisted of loud comebacks that inevitably ended in humiliating failure.
He still maintained contact with a few of the old businessmen circling the Capitol like vultures, each hoping to claim a piece of Gomora's carcass. They spoke grandly of reviving the United States and kept him updated on their progress. Josh had always believed their efforts were futile and had told them so openly — which was why they had never asked him to be the face of their campaign. But with Hailey now involved, he had changed his mind.
His new partners were surprised by his sudden application, but they accepted his candidacy. Josh demanded to be scheduled on the same day as Hailey. He wrote his speech alone, drawing inspiration from recent events and his rekindled hunger for power. He insisted that Clearton be kept in the dark. If she learned of his plans, she would do anything to sabotage him. The secret had to hold until the very day.
He made sure to arrive early, eager to humiliate her. At first, he had planned to wait in the entrance hall and greet her with open arms, playing the gracious host — as if he were already master of the Capitol. Those vain fantasies were quickly shattered by unfolding events.
The usual crowd of screaming demonstrators had gathered in Capitol Square, but today the mob was far larger and more aggressive. From an upstairs window, Josh watched uneasily as their numbers swelled. He felt relatively safe inside, yet tension gnawed at him. As Leader, he had been invincible — protected by bodyguards, the Secret Service, the army, and snipers on rooftops. No one would have dared raise a hand against the Gomorian Leader. The only time he had been caught off guard was when a Musulman threw a shoe at him during a press conference. Now, things were different. These people had no reason to protect him; he could no longer afford to pay them.
His unease proved justified the moment Hailey arrived. He watched her agitated exchange with Spencer, the intermediary between the sponsors and their group. She was about to head toward the Capitol when the mob suddenly surged forward and brought down the fence.
Minutes later, screams echoed through the halls. Spencer was arguing furiously with the security guards, demanding they open the gates to help Hailey. His pleas were ignored. Josh hurried downstairs and found Spencer pacing the corridor, his face pale with anger and fear.
"Spencer! What happened? Where's Hailey?"
Shouts and heavy blows sounded against the Capitol gates from outside.
"Misses Clearton is dead, Mister Shrubs," Spencer replied gravely. "She was trampled."
An idiotic grin spread across Josh's face before he could stop it. He had openly admitted his dislike for Hailey in conversations with mutual acquaintances. There had even been times when he had wished her dead — but he had never expected it to actually happen, and certainly not in such a brutal manner. He thought of Will. The news wouldn't shock him. If anything, Josh suspected it would come as a relief.
"We must hide you, Mister Shrubs! Come with me."
Josh followed Spencer through the white-painted hallways of the Capitol, struggling to keep up with the tall young man. They were heading for the basement — a sensible choice. He remembered the underground evacuation tunnels from his time as Leader. He had once been shown the hidden entrances and escape routes in case of a coup. Back then, it had all seemed like an unlikely precaution. No one had truly believed the day would come when they would need them.
They left just in time. Thugs had already scaled the high windowsills and smashed the glass. Soon the violent mob poured into the halls and chambers, smashing and looting everything in sight. The businessmen and their guards had already retreated, abandoning the Capitol to the invaders.
Josh and Spencer pressed on through the damp vaults. "We're almost there!" Spencer called out.
Heartened by the prospect of escape, Josh sprinted forward. Not all the tunnels were well lit, so he followed the sound of Spencer's footsteps ahead of him.
Suddenly, he heard a sharp cry followed by a heavy thud. At first, Josh assumed Spencer had struck his head on the low ceiling. He called out, but there was no reply. Moving cautiously, he almost tripped over a pair of legs. He crouched down. In the flickering light, he recognised Spencer's face. The young man had been struck hard from behind and lay unconscious. Josh felt for a pulse — he was alive, but out cold.
He decided to call for help once he reached the surface. Pressing his back against the humid wall, Josh listened carefully. Spencer's attacker was still nearby, waiting in the darkness. Inch by inch, he edged forward.
The exit was close now. Just a few more metres.
Unable to wait any longer, Josh broke into a desperate run. At that exact moment, a tall shadow detached itself from a recess in the wall. He had no time to react. A sharp, crushing pain exploded across the back of his head. His body went limp and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
Though he couldn't open his eyes or move, Josh remained strangely conscious. He felt strong hands lift him and sling him over a broad shoulder. The stranger moved with purpose through the vaults, heading away from the exit. A metal door screeched open, and Josh was carried into a brightly lit room.
He sensed the light through his closed eyelids. His captor moved about the room, occasionally shifting objects. Then came the shock of ice-cold water poured directly over his face. Josh gasped, coughing and spluttering as his eyes flew open.
The man turned his back and set the bucket down in the corner. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a Mesopotamian uniform with a beret. Josh had seen that uniform once before, many years ago.
"Who are you?" Josh demanded hoarsely. "Why did you knock me out?"
The man said nothing. He took a towel from a hook on the wall and dried his hands with deliberate calm.
"I'm talking to you! Who the hell are you? Do you understand Anglo-Saxon?"
The stranger hung the towel back on the hook and slowly turned around. Josh's blood ran cold. He knew that face. He had watched the man die — hanged live on television. Yet here he stood, alive and vigorous, with not a single grey hair in his jet-black beard or curls.
Speechless with shock, Josh stared into the man's dark, unreadable eyes. Only then did he notice the noose hanging from the ceiling. The stranger pointed silently at the rope.
"No…" Josh whispered, his voice breaking. "You can't do this. You're dead!"
The man left the room without a word and returned with a chair, placing it directly beneath the noose. He motioned for Josh to stand. When Josh refused and scrambled desperately into a corner like a cornered animal, the stranger hauled him up with terrifying strength. He bound Josh's hands tightly behind his back and dragged him to the chair.
Josh kicked and screamed for help, praying Spencer would regain consciousness in time to save him. The man easily lifted him onto the chair and slipped the noose over his head. The rope tightened around his neck. The chair wobbled beneath his feet as thick beads of sweat rolled down his face.
"Look," Josh pleaded, tears streaming down his cheeks, "it wasn't my fault! I wasn't the judge or the executioner!"
He sobbed openly, urine soaking his trousers as he begged for mercy. The stranger stepped forward and, without hesitation, kicked the chair away.
Josh's body dropped. His feet kicked wildly in the empty air. If death had to come, he prayed it would be quick. But it wasn't. Through his agony, he saw the man watching with calm satisfaction as his convulsions grew weaker.
No one would ever know what had really happened. They would assume he had committed suicide. His name would fade into oblivion.
Oblivion…
The word echoed in his mind as his struggles finally ceased.
Josh J. Shrubs was dead.
The stranger straightened his beret, turned, and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
***
CENTRAL PANEL: BRINGING THE GOMORIANS TO HEEL
Dragan watched the dramatic storming of the Capitol through his binoculars. Somewhere in that seething crowd were his people, risking their lives for him. Yet he didn't consider himself their leader. He had never asked them to follow him, never forced them, and certainly never paid them. It had been their own choice. They shared the same convictions, the same burning hatred.
Finding them hadn't been easy. The Yugoslavians scattered across Gomora were a broken people. Whatever had driven them to seek a new life among their former enemies had scarred them beyond repair. Most of the women had ended up in prostitution or been killed; the men worked like slaves for pennies, many finishing their days homeless. Those few who had managed to open small shops clung desperately to what little they possessed and were too afraid to risk it.
Still, Dragan had found the ones he needed: angry, relentless, and dangerous young men. Precisely the type he was looking for. They cared nothing for money and brought their own equipment. Hardship meant little to them; discomfort was a small price to pay for justice and, above all, peace — peace with their past and with themselves.
They had all lost loved ones, homes, youth, and childhood when Gomorian bombs rained down on Yugoslavia twenty-three years earlier. Nothing held them back from violence. All they needed was a strong leader to unite them, inspire them, and channel their hatred in the right direction. That man was Dragan.
He was every bit as ruthless as they were. Anyone who might once have stopped him from exacting bloodshed and vengeance was long dead. The only reminders of those people were a faded family portrait he carried in his breast pocket and the childhood memories he feared would one day dissolve into nothing. Sometimes, when left alone with his thoughts, he suffered crippling panic attacks as he tried to visualise his father's face. Each time, it grew blurrier, blending with the dozens of other Yugoslav men of that generation he had known. In those moments, he would take out the precious photograph and stare at it for hours. He had even digitised it and stored the file in a secure locker in a Yugoslavian bank in case the original was ever lost.
An Alliance missile had struck their house early one cold morning. His parents and grandfather died beneath the burning ruins. Dragan and his little sister, Mila, had been sleeping in another room that somehow withstood the blast. There was no one outside to help — only smoke, shattered glass, and Mila bleeding in his arms. A large shard of glass protruded from her neck. He knew it was dangerous to leave it, but he prayed she would survive. In the first few minutes, she had even spoken to him.
"It hurts, Daga," she had whispered. She had never been able to pronounce her 'r's properly.
She died in his arms.
After that came the orphanage, several arrests for public disorder, the army, and years working in a weapons factory. Through it all, he had moved relentlessly toward one goal. Six years ago, he had finally immigrated to the United States of Gomora and obtained a Green Card. For six long years he had worked on his plan. Now he stood at its final stage.
He would make them pay. For Yugoslavia. For every Yugoslav who had died or vanished without trace. For his parents and grandfather. For Mila.
"Dragan!" Dalibor called, keeping contact with the ten men who had joined the mob inside the Capitol. "They're inside. Clearton's dead — the crowd trampled the bitch. They don't know where Shrubs is. He's probably hiding like the coward he is, but they're certain he hasn't left the building."
"As long as he's still inside," Dragan replied. "Trampled, huh? Shame we don't have a recording of that."
Dalibor glanced sideways at his friend. Sometimes Dragan frightened him. He never seemed to sleep or relax. He was always working, his face set in that same stern, unyielding expression. Only once had Dalibor seen behind the mask. He had left the room for a few minutes and returned to find Dragan gasping for air, eyes wide with raw despair. It was more than hyperventilation — something deeper, something psychological and incurable. From that day on, Dalibor had kept a closer eye on him. The dark circles beneath Dragan's deep-set eyes had grown even blacker, turning his skin a sickly grey.
"When was the last time you slept?" Dalibor asked.
"I don't remember," Dragan replied flatly. "Don't worry about me. I sleep a few hours here and there. It's enough. Besides, we had no time to waste. And look — it finally paid off."
He smiled — one of those haunting, unnatural grins that never reached his eyes, the mad expression of a man wearing a mask that was slowly slipping.
Dalibor's transceiver crackled to life.
"It's done, Dalibor. The bombs are installed…"
"Have they all left the building?" Dalibor asked sharply. "Every one of them?"
"Yes, they're outside at a safe distance. Waiting for your order."
Dragan closed his eyes. A rare, serene smile touched his lips — this one genuine, yet infinitely sad. In his mind, he saw Mila clearly: her small face beaming with childish delight.
For you, Mila. For the life you never lived. For the laughter I'll never hear. For the woman you'll never become. For the wedding I'll never get drunk at.
"Do it," he said, his voice firm and steady.
Dalibor took a small device from his breast pocket. It had only one button. Without hesitation, he pressed it.
Ten massive explosions tore through the Capitol in rapid succession. The ground shook violently beneath their feet. With a deafening rumble, the roof collapsed. The annihilation of the building rolled across the sky like thunder, carrying its long-awaited message on the wind to every corner of the world: the heart of Gomora had finally stopped beating.
There was something hypnotic, almost sacred, about the sight. The walls of the Satanic Temple of the West had at last crumbled to dust.
But it wasn't truly over. The Gomorian monster wasn't so easily killed. Even without a heart, it could still bite. Still, for the twelve men who had made this day possible, it was closure. They had agreed that once their duty was fulfilled, they would leave Gomora forever and return to Yugoslavia. There, they would try to begin new lives. They would never speak of what they had done. No one would ever know the names of the men responsible for destroying the Capitol.