Bullets of Democracy

In Winter Rain

The nighttime rain in the luxurious city of Stormport is cold and steady, as usual.

In the Portown district, a silver mask is swept toward a drain. The water spins it around, submerges it for a few seconds, then brings it back to the surface, trapped against the grate. Sheltering beneath a balcony, Nox watches one of its ribbons tangle in the ironwork. Across the street, the two guards outside the Inferno nightclub still have not noticed him.

It is the early hours of Friday, deep in winter in Portown. Above the entrance to the old railway station, Inferno’s red letters reflect in the flooded street. Cars are parked all the way to the corner, and the sidewalks are empty except for two women sharing a cigarette beneath a torn awning. Music penetrates the building’s walls and makes a loose sheet of metal rattle on the façade.

In a few hours, at nine, the eviction of a block of municipal housing in the district begins. City hall is handing it over to a company advertising apartments for tourists. The file names Councilor James Madsen, chairman of the committee pushing the concession through. Nox carries the folded eviction notice in a pocket. He goes over it again in the rainy night, although he knows its contents by heart, the company’s name and the time the residents have been given to leave.

He wants to find Madsen before dawn. He will force him to call off the eviction, make him say who is taking the homes. He knows the councilor often stops at Inferno after his meetings. If he fails to show up again tonight, someone inside will have to tell him where he is hiding.

A bulb flickers on the verge of burning out above Nox’s dull black motorcycle. He has been waiting so long that the cold numbs his fingers inside his gloves. Beneath the helmet, though, his breath warms his face and fogs a strip of the visor. He moves away from the wall. It is time to act. Stormport’s rain reaches him at once. Crossing the street, he sinks a boot into a puddle and feels the wind tug his long, wet coat against his legs. The protective gear underneath presses against his neck. The machete’s hilt protrudes above his left shoulder.

One of the guards looks up. Both wear elegant dark suits and transparent earpieces. The nearer man examines Nox’s helmet, the black clothes, the thing sticking up behind his back. From here, Nox can already hear the pounding of the music inside. A man dressed as a devil comes out from behind one guard, looks at the rain, and goes back in swearing. The guard smiles and points Nox toward the door. Nox sighs.

“This way.”

Quick as lightning, Nox opens his coat and draws two revolvers. He pulls the triggers.

The shots thunder beneath the awning. One guard collapses against the wall; the other drops to his knees and ends up on his side, his tie in the water. The music continues beyond the door. One of the women smoking outside screams. When Nox turns his head, both are backing away, clinging to each other; the cigarette goes out at their feet. He holsters the guns and steps past the bodies. One guard’s earpiece emits a brief voice, distorted by the rain.

Nox enters before it sounds again. Broken tiles remain in the vestibule, remnants of an old mosaic and a thick cable disappearing beneath an iron door. His wet boot prints mark the dust. He pushes a second door open. A rush of hot air immediately brings the smell of sweat and alcohol. Before him, the platforms and abandoned railway tracks have been converted into an immense dance floor. People fill it as far as he can see.

Through the gaps in the neglected roof, the ever-present nighttime rain of Stormport falls, soaking dozens of heads that keep moving to the bass regardless of the water. The wild, intense lights sweep the brick walls, illuminate strips of moss, and disappear among the beams. Some windows have been bricked up; others retain fragments of old broken glass that glint for an instant.

Nox descends the steps slowly, looking for the bar at the back. Bare feet flail at eye level: two women are dancing on a speaker, grabbing each other whenever they lose their balance. Farther away, among shoulders, wigs, and plastic horns, he makes out four bars. The one he wants is lit from below by blue neon tubes. Above the bottles, two words glow in the same color: Bad Blue.

He moves into the crowd. The beat pounds inside his helmet and makes his teeth vibrate. He is thirsty. A drop of sweat runs from his forehead to his eyelid; he blinks, trying to clear it without stopping. Between two bodies moving apart, he sees a guard touch his earpiece. The man turns toward the entrance and starts running. They have found the bodies.

A blonde woman in a tight green dress blocks his path. She rests her hands on his chest and laughs when she feels the hardness of the protective gear. Her smile dimples her cheeks. Nox tries to go around her, but she takes his wrist and pulls, inviting him to dance. Across the floor, two men in suits scan the heads. For a few seconds Nox follows the woman’s movements, his eyes fixed beyond her shoulder. She comes closer.

Nox shoves her away. She loses her footing and falls against someone else; her smile disappears before a back comes between them. He keeps moving through the crowd. Beneath his boots, the station’s rusted rails appear, almost hidden by crushed cups and water.

When Nox reaches the bar, a bartender with his hair gelled into a crest is finishing two drinks. Nox moves one glass aside to make room.

“What’s your problem?” The man pushes his hand off the wood. “Wait your turn.”

“I’m looking for Madsen.”

His voice comes metallic through the helmet. The bartender stops drying a glass.

“Who?”

Nox grabs his shirt and drags him across the bar. A tray hits the floor.

“James Madsen. Your boss.”

“There’s no councilor here.”

“I didn’t ask what his job was.”

The bartender looks toward a door behind him, then over Nox’s shoulder. A pink-haired woman abandons the drinks she is making and waves for the guards with both hands. The chain linking her ear to her nose flashes in the blue light.

“Let him go!”

Nox pulls the man closer until their foreheads almost touch.

“Where is he?”

The bartender raises a hand as though about to point at something. Then Nox feels someone grab his arm from behind. He smashes his helmet into the bartender’s face. The nasal cartilage gives under the impact, and blood spatters the wood. He releases him, turns, and draws the machete with his left hand.

The pink-haired woman throws a bottle at him. Glass bursts against his shoulder. One guard tries to restrain him while another moves away the people still pressed against the bar. Nox shakes the first man off, brings the blade down on the arm reaching for him again, and feels the hand let go. The man staggers back screaming, clutching his slashed forearm.

The nearest people move away. Someone falls. A glass shatters beneath a shoe. The second guard reaches inside his jacket. Nox draws a revolver with his right hand and shoots him. The body crashes into a couple still trying to understand what is happening. The music continues. Screams force their way through the bass and the scrape of dozens of bodies trying to retreat at the same time.

Nox vaults over the bar. The pink-haired woman crouches beside the bartender and puts her arms around his shoulders. His fingers are soaked in blood. He tries to say something and spits onto the tiles.

“Where is Madsen?” Nox insists.

The man points at the door with his bloody fingers.

“The manager. Ask him.”

A shot breaks the bottles behind them. Nox ducks. A bullet strikes him in the chest and drives him into the counter. The armor holds, although the impact cracks a rib, and for a few seconds he cannot fill his lungs. The wooden edge presses against the back of his neck. Glass fragments and a sticky drink fall onto his helmet. The woman screams. The bartender tries to drag her toward the door he has just pointed out.

Nox catches sight of the shooter among the fleeing crowd and fires. The man disappears behind the moving bodies. Nox cannot tell whether he has hit him.

As he gets up to follow the bartender, a burning pain tears through his left arm. His fingers open without obeying him, and the machete falls onto the tiles. He slots the revolver into its holster, picks up the machete with his right hand, and sheathes it on his back. The pain climbs to his neck. Looking at his sleeve, he finds a hole surrounded by a spreading stain. He tries to close his fist; his arm answers with a stab of pain that makes him clench his teeth.

He pushes the door with his shoulder. Beyond it, a corridor connects the old offices to a service exit. The bartender and his companion are moving toward the green sign at the far end. On the right, a strip of light spills from a room across the tiles. Nox heads toward it and hears a man’s voice.

“Don’t bring him here. There’s a gunman on the dance floor.” A pause. “Yes, here. Warn the councilor.”

At the door he sees the manager, his shirt open and a phone pressed to his ear. The man spots him and pushes the door shut. Nox manages to stop it with his boot. The effort tears a stab of pain from his chest, and he has to brace against the frame before pushing again. Sirens are already sounding outside.

The room still has the numbers of the old offices painted on one wall. Now there are mattresses, a table, and two portable lamps. A woman lies naked, one arm dangling to the floor. Another sits against the wall, wrapped in a blanket. Her lip is split and her eyes half closed. A third shelters behind the table, clutching an oversized shirt against her chest.

The man throws the phone onto a pile of bags.

“Take the money. It’s right there.”

Nox enters. The manager backs into the table. When he tries to get around it, a blow from Nox’s right fist sends him crashing against the wood.

“Who were you talking to?” Nox shouts from inside the helmet.

The man brings both hands to his mouth.

“I’ve got nothing to do with what’s going on out there.”

Nox hits him again. A table leg scrapes the floor. The man ends up half sitting on the edge, breathing through his mouth, blood between his teeth.

“Where is Madsen?”

“He’s not here.”

“Where?”

Footsteps sound in the corridor. Nox draws the machete and rests it against the man’s chest. The effort of holding it makes his hand shake.

“They’re emptying that building this morning. Tell him to stop it.”

The manager looks at the door.

“That’s not up to me.”

Nox presses the blade until it sinks into the fabric.

“Call him.”

“The councilor doesn’t sleep at home,” the man says quickly. “I can get him to…”

“At the Meridian,” the woman in the shirt interrupts.

The manager turns toward her.

“Shut up, Verónica.”

“Last night they took them…”

The man reaches to cover her mouth. He catches her hair as he tries to grab her and pulls her toward the table. Verónica strikes his wrist. Nox slams him against the wood and plunges the machete into his chest. The manager opens his mouth. His hand stops pulling her hair and closes around Nox’s coat. For an instant he stays like that, clinging to Nox; then his fingers loosen. When Nox pulls out the blade, the body slides off the table and hits the floor.

Nox returns the bloody machete to its sheath. Frightened, Verónica retreats toward a mattress. Both hands are on her head, and she stares at the fallen man. Nox picks the phone up from the bags, but the screen demands a passcode. He taps it again. The prompt reappears.

“Shit.”

He looks at the manager’s open mouth. He puts the phone on the table harder than necessary. He starts searching through the papers. Blood drips onto them from his left sleeve. He finds receipts, notes, and an envelope bearing Stormport’s coat of arms. Inside is a copy of the station concession. He recognizes the company’s name: it is the same one taking over the housing block this morning.

He turns a page with his thumb. Madsen is listed among the committee members. There are other names below, and city hall’s approval at the foot. Nox folds the document and puts it halfway into the envelope. Blood begins to soften one corner.

“Are you going to kill us too?” Verónica asks.

Nox raises his head, looks at her, and makes to leave, but she stops him by saying something else.

“They need a doctor.”

She points at the mattresses. The woman in the blanket tries to sit up but cannot. Nox hears voices in the corridor; they are closer.

“The police are coming in,” Verónica says. “They can get help.”

Nox looks toward the corridor. The voices keep coming closer. Verónica moves until she stands between him and the mattresses.

“What is the Meridian?” Nox asks.

Verónica pulls the shirt tight around her neck.

“A hotel. In Downtown. They take us there when he asks…” She looks at the manager’s body. “Asked for company. They make us use the side entrance; never the lobby.”

“Which room?”

“I don’t know the number. I have to wait downstairs until the others come down.”

Nox looks at the door. A man’s voice rises above the music and orders everyone out of the corridor.

“Is he still there tonight?”

Trembling, Verónica looks toward the occupied bed.

“That’s Melinda. They brought her back from there an hour ago. She was talking about Madsen; then she couldn’t stay awake anymore.”

Nox approaches the woman lying there, crouches, and brushes the hair away from her face.

“Melinda.”

There is no answer. He watches her chest move and calls her again. Melinda’s body barely stirs, her breath catching in her throat.

“Does she work here?”

“She’s a supermarket cashier. They offered her work serving drinks after her shift.” Verónica comes closer to the mattress. “They put her rent up. She has a baby girl, a few months old.”

Nox rests the envelope on his knees, takes a folded blanket from the foot of the mattress, and spreads it over Melinda. Bending forward, he feels the deep pain beneath his chest protection. He stays still until he can draw another breath.

“Wait,” Verónica says when she sees him turn his head toward the door. “Don’t leave her like this.”

A flashlight illuminates the doorway.

“Police! Hands up!”

The officer fills the doorway, his pistol aimed at Nox’s chest. The nameplate on his vest reads LANCE. His eyes move over the body beside the table, the beds, and the blood on the coat.

“Step away from her! Slowly.”

Verónica freezes beside the mattress. Nox picks up the envelope and stands. The pain in his arm draws a gasp from him. The officer takes a step forward and orders him to raise his hands again.

“She needs an ambulance,” Verónica tells him. “They brought her in like that.”

“Take off the helmet!”

Nox looks at the door. Other lights move behind the officer. The bullet’s impact throbs in his chest; the wet paper sticks to his glove. If he stays, Madsen can wait in the hotel until the homes are emptied. He drops the envelope and throws himself to the floor. As he hits the tiles, his wounded arm folds beneath his body. He draws the revolver with his right hand. Lance fires, and a splinter strikes the visor. Nox fires back, pulling the trigger twice.

The officer folds and strikes the frame with his shoulder. The pistol lands beside one knee. He brings a hand to his vest and tries to catch his breath. Verónica screams. Nox gets up, leaning on the table. Footsteps sound in the corridor, and someone calls to the officer. He steps past Lance. The man is still moving. Verónica kneels beside the policeman.

“Here! Help him!” she shouts into the corridor.

Nox hears her as he moves away. He leaves the bar door behind and heads toward the cold air at the far end. The service exit is still open. Crossing it, he steps onto the diluted footprints the bartender and his companion have left on the stairs. He descends into the old railway yard. He tries to support himself on the railing with his left hand, and the pain doubles him over. He stops on the last step until he can draw another breath. Rain washes the glass stuck to his helmet.

The music continues inside. A female voice starts the same phrase again over the pounding bass. From the stairs he can no longer make out Verónica’s words, only the police orders and the rustle of rain on metal. Before Nox lie weed-covered rails, loading platforms, and, beyond them, the first rows of Portown’s containers. The patrol cars’ blue flashes reach a side wall; the voices remain concentrated inside the station. He crosses the yard with his arm held against his chest.

The motorcycle is on the other side of the building. To return to it, he would have to approach the entrance, where emergency vehicles and people managing to get out are now gathering. He keeps going toward the warehouses. His coat is so heavy that each step pulls at his shoulders. He shelters behind a container, rests his back against the metal, and lets himself sink to the ground. Every breath brings a deep pain beneath his chest protection.

Blood from his arm soaks his sleeve and reaches his glove. He feels the inside pocket. The eviction notice is still there, damp and folded. He takes it out and recognizes the time before a patrol car’s light even lets him read it: nine. He searches for the municipal envelope and finds the lining empty. He remembers the paper falling beside Lance, the committee members’ names inside, and the stain of his blood on Stormport’s coat of arms.

He plants a foot to get up. The pain in his chest cuts off his breath, and he slumps back into a sitting position. Above the warehouses, the cloud-covered sky retains the darkness of night. Now he has only the name of a hotel and a few hours to reach Madsen.

At the station, meanwhile, the police have his blood.