Where The Rains Fall

Rain poured down from the train tracks above Thomas Everton, drenching him in a cold, feverish coat of rust-laced water. He’d have a slight cold tomorrow if not for the fact that he was about to die. He wasn’t aware of course. For the moment, the only thing that occupied his mind was a reminder to adjust his alarm and fragments of a conversation he’d had with a co-worker earlier that day.

Thoughts that were unceremoniously shattered when the bullet ploughed its way through his skull, a mixture of bone fragments, blood and brain tissue in its wake. It was a small consolation for Thomas that he never felt the pain so many others suffer in their final moments.

He was one of the lucky few.

The rain continued as Thomas fell to the pavement, blood mixing with the water in a morbid cocktail as it rushed downed the drain. It would take a few minutes before he would be found, and a few more after that for anyone to make the call to the police. A detective would be assigned to the case. He would spend a few days talking to relatives and colleagues, trying to find anyone with a motive or wring out a clue from some careless comment. A week would pass, and not a single lead would be found.

Eventually, the case would be shelved with so many others. Thomas would be mourned by those who knew him best – which weren’t a lot of people – and after a while he would be forgotten.

Had it been anyone else but Thomas Everton, there’s a very high chance this is where the story would end.

But the story doesn’t end here. Thomas Everton was killed that night, and so the story is only beginning.

And when it ends, so will the world.

It was deep in the night when Josiah Griffit, independent detective for the city of Las Luvias, received the call. A body had been found only two blocks from his office, and Officer Sanchez – an acquaintance of the detective – had remembered Josiah lived close-by. Years later, people would wonder if the fates had played a role in Sanchez’s decision.

Fates or not, about half an hour after the call detective Griffit was squatting next to the lifeless body of Thomas Everton, illuminated by the cold, fluorescent streetlight above. It lay face-first on the side of the street, drenched from the rain, shoes gone and a sizeable puncture wound in the back of his skull.

Rummaging through Thomas’ pockets – street thugs and a few homeless had already ransacked everything of value – he came out with a wallet, a few more missed pennies, a rusty key and a business card. What money and bankcards Thomas had in his wallet had been swiped and only a nearly expired driver’s license remained. Josiah turned the business card around in his hand, curious to how it had remained completely dry.

A hydrophobic coat, he considered. He’d never seen it used on a business card, but it showed of the effectiveness. He took out a small flashlight to better read what the card said, but found the words and letters to be in a language he could neither read nor speak. It wasn’t Cyrillic, nor was it any form of Arabic.

“Any idea what language this is?” He held up the card to Sanchez, whose eyes conveyed his dissatisfaction for being the one to be called to the body and now having to stand around in the rain.

“Not a clue,” the officer answered as a train passed above them, sending an extra load of rain down. “But I think I’ve seen something like it somewhere in evidence.”

Josiah nodded, that would be a trip for tomorrow.

He stood up and shivered when some of the rain that had caught in his neck now streamed down his back. “Thomas Everton,” he read from the driver’s license. “Thirty-four years of age, born on the seventh of May 2043. Not much more to go one for the moment, we’ll have to check the system for an address and any relatives that need to be informed. Any witnesses?”

Officer Sanchez shook his head. “The call-in was anonymous and there were no reports of a gunshot. Not that anyone in this neighbourhood would care about those these days. If you ask me, it’s just another robbery gone wrong.”

“Maybe,” Josiah muttered. No sign of struggle on the body, a single entry wound in the back of the head. He wasn’t convinced by Sanchez’ conclusion. Josiah had seen how robberies often ended. They were messy, a spur of the moment that were usually paired with several bullets being fired at the victim.

This was an assassination.

“There’s not much more we can do here in this weather,” he said to Sanchez. “You can call the CSC, I’ll check with the coroner tomorrow at the morgue.”

Sanchez was all too happy to get back into his car and out of the rain. Josiah stayed next to the body. It was a pitiful sight, with his feet bare and face near the gutter. It was what Josiah had struggled the most with in his first years as a homicide detective, but something he’d grown detached from. It didn’t bode well for someone of his position to be throwing up next to a crime scene.

He flicked the business card around his fingers. His only clue for the moment, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what was on it. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to…

Josiah looked up in surprise, squinting his eyes against the streetlight. The rain had finally stopped. Three days it had been raining without pause, giving truth to the name of the city of Las Luvias. He looked beyond the train tracks and towering skyscrapers to see the moon showing its face from behind the clouds. A rare sight this time of year.

“What happened?”

Josiah jumped in surprise. An older woman had approached, her gaze on the body of Thomas Everton. She seemed unfazed.

“An unfortunate murder, mam,” Josiah answered. He pointed at the police car where Sanchez was contacting the CSC. “LLPD is on it.”

“This used to be such a nice neighbourhood,” the woman muttered, turning her gaze to Josiah. “There used to be a market here, right under the train tracks, did you know that?”

“I remember,” Josiah answered, recalling the days he came here to shop for groceries with his mother. “It was a different time back then.”

The woman scoffed. “It’s the people that were different. Nowadays all we have are lowlifes, the homeless and those cultists. It’s no wonder there’s so much crime.”

A sigh escaped Josiah lips. Every city had its thugs and less fortunate, but they were never the reason for such a steep decline in living quality. He didn’t blame the woman for putting the fault with the cultists though. They were a strange bunch, shrouded in mystery as they were.

He wasn’t alone in suspecting there was more to them than just the worshipping of their AI – or Oju as they preferred to call it – but a lack of evidence had ensured they were never prosecuted.

That, and the deep pockets of their anonymous donors.

“CSC is on their way,” Sanchez announced through his car’s speaker, earning a chuckle from Josiah and a startle from the woman. “I’ll keep an eye on the body, so you can go if you want”.

The woman moved on, leaving Josiah alone with his thoughts. The card in the unknown language intrigued him, and if there was one thing that would keep him awake it would be an unresolved clue.

He looked at his watch. Two hours past midnight.

Why wait until tomorrow, he thought. The police station never closed, and a deep search of the evidence room might just bring him to the next step in the investigation.

Making his decision, he shook the last remnants of the rain from his coat and started down the street towards the police station.

Thomas Everton stayed where he lay for the moment. He would remain there under the not-so-watchful eye of Officer Sanchez until the CSC arrived to pick him up. It had been his final day amongst the living, but if the afterlife did in fact exist, it would perhaps please him to know his death was to be the catalyst that would reshape the world as he had known it.

And it would end it.