Dark Days in Bright City, by Matt Delman

Raindrops explode on ground in front of me while cold wind blows through my oilcloth trenchcoat. “Sukkin sin.” I clap hand over mouth and pray no one hears me. This would not be good thing. I huddle in alleyway across from well-lit bar, coat buttoned tight while I spy on entrance to building.

I flick switch on goggles taken from shop. Tiny gears click into place. Front door of bar focuses through rainstorm; door flies open. Singing spills out. I change attention to several men clumped outside bar. Even with better focus on door, men are still unclear through rain. I flick second switch and am able to see men clearly.

Every man is sailor on shore leave. Or ruffians dressed in pea coats common to sailors. Either one is possible in this section of Callarion. One turns toward me as I see flash of flame at mouth. Must be match lighting cigarette. My mouth dries at thought of smooth tobacco. I lick my lips and clench my fists to hold still. Nyet. I stopped smoking because Sonya asked. It would be wrong of me to start again, though she lay dead these past three years.

Bar door opens and sea shanty spills out. Tune sounds familiar, but wind obscures clear hearing. Bells of Saint Michael’s church toll the hour seconds later. Those I can hear fine. I pull fobwatch from pocket. Caleb said last night that Butcher was to meet associate outside this bar one hour ago. Perhaps Caleb’s information was wrong.  But these are dark days in Bright City. I cannot afford to abandon post on hunch.

I hear sea shanty again and wish I could join sailors in bar, forget about mission. But I did not come here for singing — I came to stop Butcher from creating more mechanical creatures for Premier. Lack of mechanical army will make Butcher’s master that much easier to topple.

Thoughts of Butcher’s creations remind me of day I saw Sonya’s face on mechanical monster. I curse Butcher every day for turning my wife into machine. This is why I sit here now, huddled in dark, despite high chance of death at hands of men loyal to Premier.

Possibility of capture is why I have rubber capsule embedded in front tooth. I caress poison pill with tongue; rough edge is comforting despite purpose. Its presence makes me brave, and will allow me to do what I must. I rub hands together. Fingerless gloves good for detail work but not for sitting in cold alleyway. Men in alleyway draw attention again. Would Butcher be meeting one of them? Caleb had no information other than time Butcher would arrive.

It is another hour before skinny figure wearing top hat and black longcoat slick with rain strides toward bar. I click button on goggles. Zoom lenses snap into place as lightning flashes overhead. Hooked nose and scar along cheek could only mean Butcher. Sudden anger burns in me, spurring motion, but I hold back. Plan requires Butcher to first meet with contact. Burly man walks out of bar as skinny man approaches. Perhaps he is man Butcher is to meet. ((END OF PART ONE))

“Ah, Herr Doctor!” Burly man’s voice booms, but thunder covers rest of voice. I quickly unfold Collapsible Listening Cone and press to ear.

“… enter this fine establishment?” Butcher’s nasal voice grates on ears. “It is far too cold out here for any lengthy discourse.”

“Ja, of course. Fair warning the beer is piss here.” Big man leads Butcher into bar. I stuff cone back in pocket, and stride across street. Men outside bar stare at me, and I touch throat in unconscious salute. Men repeat gesture, and I know they were once Navy. Thought of former comrades here warms me. Perhaps I will have allies tonight.

I enter bar and push goggles onto head. Loss of sight from fogging glass is not something I can afford. Air inside bar hangs heavy with smoke and smell of stale beer. Is stark change from outside, and I do not see Butcher or companion at first. Sailors and dockworkers fill bar with singing and loud talking, while fat bartender serves pints from long oak bar at back.

I scan room, and see half dozen men in black longcoats in corner nearest door. They give appearance of being uninterested in surroundings, but one’s eyes flick to me every few seconds. Could be soldiers watching for trouble; could also be brigands. Either way I am on guard.

I pick my way through press of tables and people toward bar. Though I feel eyes of men on me while I move, I do not turn. Let them wonder if I see them or not. Stairway and twin doors at rear of room offer escape if needed.

I catch sight of Butcher when I pass group of dockworkers at fireplace. Butcher and his friend sit with heads close together in booth near kitchen door. I flex my fingers to stop reaching for gun. Stick to plan. Killing Butcher in room full of witnesses is not good idea. Follow him, kidnap him, put fear into his heart. Is better use of talent.

I sit on barstool in corner opposite from Butcher. This allows keeping of watch without appearing to do so. I glance at mirror behind bar, where light from lamps and fire reflect in orangey glow. Men in longcoats near door try to study me without notice. Gloopiye obyez’yani. Never did I see such poorly trained spies. Capture even by bad spies would be inadvisable. If they guard Butcher, they will attempt to take me to dungeons.

Bartender waddles over. Bulge under apron is wrong shape to be bellyfat of man, and tucked strangely into belt. I glimpse shape of gun barrel when he turns. Da, of course. Bartender is smart to carry iron in unsavory place.

“What’ll it be, sir?”

“Bottle of Fantovan semi-dark please, barmyen.” I wave him close, and bartender leans in. “Tuck iron in trouser pocket, not apron. Easier draw and less danger.” ((END OF PART TWO))

“Y-yes sir.” Hands of bartender shake when he serves me bottle. I try for disarming smile, but he scurries away quicker than greased clock gears. He probably thought he hid gun better. It will be if he follows advice. I stare at Butcher while I sip beer. If intelligence correct, Butcher and associate should leave soon. Associate is unimportant. If he resists I kill. If he runs I let free. Butcher is only one I care about.

Hand claps onto shoulder as smell of cigarette smoke fills air. I slowly turn on stool, and look into face of man in black coat. He takes two puffs from cigarette before removing from mouth.

“Are you Dmitry Radimov?” man says. I sip from beer instead of replying. Inside I curse lack of foresight. Of course government would know my face; high-level clearance for ten years meant Premier had record of my appearance.

“Who asks?”

“Come with us, Commander.” Man brushes coat aside to reveal long-barreled pistol on hip. I grin. If man read file, he would know threat is big mistake.

“Nyet.”

“Then I am forced to arrest you by command of His Excellency the Lord Premier.” Man turns to comrades. “Take him.”

“I think not.” I slam bottle into man’s face. He stumbles into other soldier. I jump off stool and punch another man. He crashes onto table of dockworkers. Burly men leap to feet and throw man aside. I bound onto table of sailors in mid-song. Sailors reach for me, but I jump to next table in line. Men in longcoats follow as I stir up bar. By time I reach door angry shouts of sailors and dockworkers fill room.

I land at door and look back. Men in longcoats are behind crowd. One tries to explain he wants through, but line of sailors lunges. Burly sailor lifts nearest soldier by collar. Someone fires gun and bar patrons scatter. Bartender stands at back with repeating rifle pointed to ceiling. I tip hat to man, and step outside.

Fight got my blood flowing; cold night does not feel as bad anymore. I curse at loss of Butcher. Plan was so close to happening. Sinov’ya shlyooh soldiers had to interfere. I stride across street to alley. Butcher still prowls city without fear. This should not be so; not while Sonya exists as mechanical monster.

I creep through moonlit night. Rain still pours from sky, while thunder rolls overhead. Nearest sewer entrance is two streets over. From there I return to shop and await next chance at capture of Butcher. Chug of carriage engine on next street gives pause.

Steam flows from beneath high-mounted vehicle. Rubber wheels bounce slow along cobbles as carriage drives near. Is smart driver; streets not good in this section of city for many years. Black-lacquered body of vehicle gleams ebony in moonlight, while brass decorations burn gold under lightning. Clean lines and sleek body impress craftsman sensibility. Machine is gorgeous example of proper design.

Callarion eagle is emblazoned on carriage nose. I step back into deeper shadows. Eagle means government employee, which means trouble if I am seen. Carriage passes, and I glimpse Butcher’s face through window. I stare after carriage. ((END OF PART THREE))

“Gloopoye dyer’mo.” I run down street. If I can catch carriage, then plan could still work. Carriage turns corner ahead. Rain-slick road makes it hard to run well, but I reach carriage when it slows through puddle. I grab hold of bar on back and jump to roof. Carriage halts. I nearly fall off, but hold tight.

Man’s face appears. “What in the —?” Swift kick knocks him to ground.

“Davidson!” Butcher says. Door opens and closes. I jump down. In clock’s tick I have Butcher pinned against carriage and revolver shoved in face.

“Into seat of driver,” I growl. Butcher’s eyes cross at gun. I shove him toward front of carriage. He scrambles into seat of driver, and I climb into back. Levers and gears click when engine engages. We trundle toward three-story building on corner.

“Turn left at next road.”

Butcher turns. I keep pistol aimed. Is good to make clear I control events.

“I can give you anything you want,” Butcher says after right turn at second street. “Money. Power. Women. I have the ear of the Lord Premier.”

“Bribe attempt is unappreciated.” I click hammer of gun. First click removes safety. Second primes bullet. Knuckles turn white on wheel of steering. “I will shoot if offer repeated.”

Three more turns. I order halt.

“Out of carriage.” I gesture with barrel of gun. Butcher runs when door opens. I leap from carriage. Capture is easy; I tackle Butcher before one block. I jerk him to feet and shove toward building. “Inside,” I say. “Now, before I shoot.”

“In there?” Butcher frowns. Warehouse looks ready to fall down. Windows near roofline are bereft of glass. Graffiti decorates lower portion of structure. Butcher hesitates. I fire shot at feet. He jumps away like legs on spring.

“Inside warehouse. Road will not be next target.”

Butcher walks to building. He pushes door beside huge gate of iron slats. Door creaks open and he enters half-step ahead. I direct past rat droppings and leavings of homeless men to metal chair in center of warehouse. He starts turn. I slam butt of pistol into head. Butcher crumples to floor. I holster gun, and lift under arms. He is heavier than I expect, but still I prop up in chair.

I chain him to arms and step back. Now he is secure, and will not rise until I release. Good. Is time for working. Vial of smelling salts cracked under nose shocks Butcher awake. Chains rattle when he tries movement.

“What are you doing?” Fear fills voice. Slap across face echoes through room.

“I will ask questions, Butcher.”

“What did you call me?”

“Name is Henri Desmarais, Butcher of Kirvan Mountains, yes?”

“I am a doctor.”

“Nyet.” I slap again. “Doctor heals people. You turn into mechanical abominations.”

“Please do not hurt me.” He pleads now. Perhaps he sees in eyes anger that heats blood. Perhaps he fears chains. Is unimportant which one. “I will give you anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

I draw gun, and lean in until we are eye to eye. He gulps at pressure of pistol on his temple. “I want my wife back.” ((END OF PART FOUR))

Swallow of Butcher is loud in room. Fear shines in eyes when I step back. Gun hammer clicks twice. Cacophony of gunshot vibrates air; smoke fills space between. I wave smoke away. Butcher is slumped in chair, bullet hole in forehead leaking blood. I step close to inspect wound. Brain matter decorates floor in spray pattern from force of shot. I lift head of Butcher and look in dead eyes.

“May soul burn in Appolyon’s mouth.” I spit in face of dead man. Eyes open and staring in shock forever. Butcher did not expect arrival of death. Now I dispose of body. Is not good to leave evidence of vengeance.

Warehouse door explodes inward. I roll away from body and come to feet running. Shouts of Gendarmes carry from front of building, but I do not stop. Only stupid man engages superior numbers when no advantage is had. I slam through back door into alley.

Footsteps clatter against cobblestones. Engines roar to life somewhere nearby. I run three blocks before turn. Second door down alleyway is open, precisely as I left. I slam door shut on moonlit night. Place is hidden well from Gendarmes. Now I wait for cease of pursuit.

Warmth blooms in me at memory of fear in dead eyes of Butcher. Plea in his voice was symphony. Face of Sonya rises in memory, and sadness grows in heart. Death of Butcher important, but does not bring back love of life. No more will I hear laugh, or name called in lilting voice. Darkness sits over grief; satisfaction is not forthcoming like I expect. I caress rough edge of poison pill with tongue again. Perhaps I will see Sonya again if I bite. Idea has merit. I cannot say how much.

THE END