Candle to the Devil : Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In the early 1800s, the large cities of Joseon were rebuilt in the style of the British. They soon became a hodgepodge of Hanok and Victorian architecture. The main streets were often the most Westernized, but even the more traditional homes of the old blood could see the beginnings of assimilation. And more often than not, those that swore they would abide by the traditional way alone often had separate, British-styled townhouses in another city. All streets within the city were equipped with gas lamps, and many homes had adopted them as well.
The knowledge that Afflicted were incapable of crossing running water was often used to the advantage of architects of the 1800s worldwide. The capital of Hanseong was surrounded on all sides by a moat created from the diversion of the nearby Han river. Haeju and other cities often felt secure with the ocean on one side and a clear escaped path. These cities often did not have moats of other water defenses on their land locked sides, only opting for the large walls that kept the Afflicted at bay.
       The most prominent change came in the rebuilding of Sungkyunkwan. It was often called the Eastern equivalent to Oxford, and was refurnished in the style of its sister school. The lessons and academic structure changed as well, in which students chose specific areas of interest to further their education, such as medicine, theology, or law.  

— Excerpt from Joseon Architecture: Before and After Westernization by Young Soon Song, 1972



Sungkyunkwan University, Hanseong, Joseon
Tuesday, 3:15pm, March 15th, 1858

Oh Sehun, heir to the Earldom of Hamheung in Hamgil-do, stopped at the edge of the gate and surveyed the school he had heard so much about.
       Sunkyungkwan had been rebuilt in what he assumed was the British style. The buildings were made of brick, and only the landscaping looked remotely Oriental. He felt as if he’d stepped into a different world. His grandfather had told stories of his time at Sunkyungkwan. The sprawling campus in front of him looked nothing like the image he’d conjured up in his mind.
       “Young master,” Jongjae, his father’s servant, shouldered Sehun’s bags and looked around the campus in awe. “This is where you will be living?”
       Sehun gave a stiff nod. “Of course. The dormitory is that building there.” He nodded toward a red brick building. “Wait for me out front. I will go check in.”
       As he walked toward the main building he wondered how different this place had looked when his grandfather had attended.
It was quite unnerving that they allowed commoners in the university now. He knew it was because there was less nobility due to Pagoe. And this Western view of the House of Commons and representation... he found it preposterous but his father said to bear with it for now. There was nothing to be done about it, not with the English butting in and enforcing their rules.
At least his father had spoken with the dean and made sure that Sehun would not be rooming with any commoners.
And then, of course, there were the Chinese. Ever since Hanseong had become the favored city of the British, the Chinese nobles had been sending their sons to Sungkyunkwan in hopes of transferring later to Oxford or Cambridge. How ridiculous. There had only been a couple of Koreans accepted and the process was rigorous.
Sehun knew because his father had made him apply and he had been given a quick rejection. The only consolation he had was the knowledge that he had scored first in the entrance exam for Sungkyunkwan. It wasn’t enough to hide the sting the rejection had incurred, but it helped soothe the embarrassment.
His father told him that the only way he’d manage to be accepted was to remain the top of his class until he graduated in four years and to reapply. It wouldn’t be difficult, not when they were allowing commoners and the Chinese to study here.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The air smelled cleaner here. He supposed that was due to the large, well-gardened grounds on which the campus lay. His father said that the air reminded him of their manor home in Hamheung. Sehun wondered if he actually remembered the smell or not. He had not been there long before they’d been forced to enter the walled cities.
He wasn’t going to worry about it, however, because the air was clean and that was all that mattered. It was a nice change from the sewage ridden main streets of Hanseong. He could only imagine how much worse London must smell. The English must have been disgusting creatures, for all their advancements in technology and medicine. The few that had been invited to dinner at his father’s estate had been clean enough, although they had the most unsightly table manners.
He brushed a stray leaf from his shoulder and glanced around the grounds. The trees were evenly spaced along a large cobblestone road that led to the largest building—the main offices he assumed. Through the spaces in the trees emerged other smaller paths that led to more buildings or further into the tree-filled grounds.
He saw Jongjae heading down one of these paths toward the dormitory building. He was struggling with the weight of Sehun’s trunk and the packs on his back. Sehun sighed. He knew he should have brought more than one servant, but his father had told him he could only take Jongjae.
His struggling servant passed a group of students—older students, he could tell by the badges on their jackets—and they watched him go curiously. As soon as he’d passed them they began laughing and talking, talking in a language that he didn’t understand but recognized. Chinese.
So those Chinese thought they could mock his servant? Jongjae may have been low born but he was Korean and that, in Sehun’s mind, made him better than them. Not only that but he was the servant of Oh Sehun, of the Oh household, and this was an insult to Sehun’s family.
He stepped forward to confront them but paused. He bit the inside of his cheek and frowned. It wouldn’t do to make a fuss on his first day, especially over a simple servant.
He straightened his collar and walked toward the main building.

Baggerby and Green Railroad Company
Tuesday, 8:19pm March 15th, 1858

       He had thought that by now he would have gotten used to the workload. Jonggil had said that he would develop his arm muscles soon but Baekhyun feared they would be finished repairing the tracks before that happened.
       There was only one good thing about today and that was that the Korean foremen had slipped the Korean workers a few coins for their hard work. Baekhyun had almost felt guilty when he’d realized that they hadn’t given the Chinese workers anything, but he shook it off. They were the reason the Korean workers had to scrape by with barely anything in the first place. They didn’t deserve the money.
       Besides, he needed every penny he could get. They were far behind on the rent and his mother’s sickness was getting worse.
       “Byun!”
       Baekhyun blinked wearily as Jonggil placed an arm around his shoulder. “Come with us to the tea house. We’re going to grab a few drinks.”
       Baekhyun shook his head. “I can’t. I have to get home.” It wasn’t a lie. He had to get home to check on his mother. But the truth was even more pathetic. He didn’t have any money to spare, especially not on alcohol or a gisaeng. He had to save up for his mother’s medicine and their rent. The small amount they’d been given would be tucked away and added to the pitiful collection of coins that was his savings.
       Jonggil gave a loud sigh before he nodded, clapping him on the back. “Next time then, boy.” He let go and joined the crowd ahead of him. They were talking among themselves and laughing loudly. Baekhyun watched them go; hanging back now that he felt so out of place.
       He gave a small sigh and stuck his hands in his sleeves to shake off the cold. It was still relatively warm during the day but nighttime brought a chill that had stayed on since winter and wouldn’t quite leave until the end of April. His fingers brushed against the pouch sewn into his sleeve and the coins inside jingled.
       It was nice, the weight of those coins. Too soon he would be home. Then he would place them in the empty kimchee jar where he and his mother kept the rest of their money. He envied those that had the freeness to carry coins with them everywhere. Those with the financial security that allowed for such things; who could walk down the street and buy a snack from the street vendors or a pretty hair pin without a second thought.
       One day he’d be like that. After he finished this job and paid the rent he’d apply at the opera house again. They’d hire him this time, surely. The pay would be much more stable. He’d buy a house for his mother and himself and stop wasting money on rent.
       But right now he was broke and miserable and he didn’t want to return home. He wanted to enjoy the feeling of money in his hands for a few more minutes.
       He turned to head back to the gate. He’d just walk through the compound one more time and then head home…
Baekhyun was walking past the barracks when he heard a soft meow. It was so out of place that he found himself following the sound. Outside of the Chinese worker barracks, under the steps, was a mother cat and a litter of kittens. He could see her eyes glowing in the half-light. She watched him, tail flicking in the shadows as her babies mewled hungrily.
       This was no place for cats. The Chinese would probably eat them. They were that desperate for food, weren’t they? So are you. He made toward the steps when the door to the barracks opened and someone stepped out. It was the young man from that afternoon. The scary one who didn’t talk. Baekhyun swallowed and took a step back.
       A small smile spread across the man’s face, softening his features until he seemed almost pretty. He reached out and patted the mother cat’s head. Baekhyun could hear the purring all the way from where he stood.
       The Chinese boy then reached into his sleeve and pulled out something and placed it in his palm. The cat ate whatever it was happily and the smile on the Chinese man’s face grew. The door opened again and the other boy walked out and frowned. He said something in Chinese and the first boy reluctantly stood and headed inside.
       Baekhyun walked home, curious and confused and slightly moved.
 

                               

Main Offices, Sungkyunkwan University, Hanseong
Tuesday, 3:52pm, March 15th, 1858

The main offices were well furnished with mahogany desks and potted plants. Sehun recognized a few of the paintings on the walls. Several of their contemporaries hung in the halls of his father’s estate.
There was only one clerk in the room, busily scribbling along a piece of parchment. He had not looked up, and Sehun bit the inside of his cheek in irritation. The clicking of the grandfather clock in the corner was loud, unnaturally so, and he cut through it with a clearing of his throat.
The clerk looked up. “You are…?”
Sehun squared his shoulders. “Son of Lord Oh, the Lord High Chancellor of Joseon.” His tongue felt heavy on the roof of his mouth, but he kept his face its usual blank slate.
“L-Lord Oh?” The clerk blinked. “A-ah yes.” He grabbed the large ledger book to his left and began flipping through it nervously.  “Your room is 142.”
“My father made an inquiry into private rooms.”
“Yes. 142 is a single room.” The clerk nodded. “No worries, young Lord.” He handed Sehun a few slips of paper as well as a large brass key for his room.
“Good.” Sehun looked down at the papers in his hands. “Is this my schedule?”
The clerk nodded. “All incoming students have the same schedule for their first term. Your schedules will fit your major field after you declare your intent during second term.”
So they were going to make him take classes in medicine and theology as well? Even though it was obvious he would be going into politics to follow his father’s lead? Ridiculous. Sehun’s lip curled. “Biomechanical Perspectives on Surgical Amputation?”
“Ah, there is a doctor from Oxford who is giving lectures on the subject. The school wanted all of the students to have an opportunity to hear them. An Oxford graduate wouldn’t stay here long, after all…” The man trailed off.
Sehun had no interest in medicine. Perhaps if he wrote to his father he would be able to find a way to get Sehun out of those classes…
“A general assembly is supposed to be held at the beginning of the year.” The clerk continued, “But with the trains down, many of the new students haven’t arrived and some of the professors are absent as well. The tracks will be done by the end of the week, they said, so school won’t begin until then.”
So Sehun would be stuck here for a few days without classes? It was his first day of university and everything was in shambles.
Half of the student body was missing. Only students from Hanseong or the older students that had lived on campus over the summer were there because the train stations had all but shut down.
Wonderful. At the very least he’d have time to send a letter to his father and get this schedule nonsense sorted out.
Jongjae had better have arrived and put his belongings in order.  

Deadlands outside of Haeju
Wednesday, 7:10am, March 16th, 1858

Wu Fan rarely remembered the names of workers. They never lasted long enough to learn names. But sometimes there were workers who outshined others and the foreman became curious enough about who they were.
       That was how he came to know the names of Yixing and Zitao. It was true he’d gotten Yixing’s name in a letter asking for work, but he’d remembered it only until he’d taken him to the barracks.
       But now the two had become the shining example of hard work. The other foremen used it to needle the Korean workers—it was common belief that the Korean workers were lazy. This had only fueled the animosity between the two groups.
       The Korean workers who came here were desperate. They had no jobs; they were either too young or too old to work properly. Or perhaps they were unhealthy or handicapped in some way. The Chinese immigrants were desperate in a different kind of way. They had escaped death and now sought to stave it off longer. They’d been filled with a desire to succeed that made them the perfect workers.
       And that angered the Koreans workers and the Korean foremen alike. Wu Fan knew that the other foreman favored the Korean workers. He’d seen them give them extra food or longer breaks. But there was no point in telling the head foreman. He wouldn’t care and nothing would get done.
       And Wu Fan certainly was not going to give more leeway to the Chinese in retaliation. That would make him a target.
       The first sign was the horses. It was always the horses. Animals had a sixth sense when it came to these things. His own whinnied shrilly, rising on two legs before Wu Fan managed to calm her enough to stay still. He saw the other horses shying away, snorting and pawing at the ground. Jack, foreman Ramsey’s bull terrier, let out a low throaty growl.
       Wu Fan wheeled his horse around just as they erupted from the tree line. Wu Fan had seen the Afflicted several times before, but he never got over the swiftness with which they moved. Their limbs, whole or not, functioned mechanically. Like well-oiled machines.
       The workers spotted them as Ramsay shot onto his hose and turned toward the city. “They must have smelled the horses. Let’s go boys!” His horse bucked and he brought it down with a shout.
       The ugly tightening in Wu Fan’s stomach intensified, but he found himself following suit. This time, they weren’t going to try and fight at all? Fully loaded guns and not a single shot would be fired.
       “Foreman Wu Fan!” Someone shouted in Chinese. He hesitated. Screams erupted from behind him and he knew that they’d reached the workers. He glanced back once—a  mistake—and his eyes caught those of the young man he’d met on the docks two days before. Zitao. It was difficult to describe the emotions there, only he’d never seen a gentle face turn so savage, or eyes burn with so much hatred and fear.
       He turned away and didn’t look back again.


       Baekhyun heard a scream from far down the line. He turned and saw some commotion, and that was when he saw the movement at the tree line.
       Foreman Ramsay leapt onto his horse. It reared with a frightened whinny and threatened to throw him off.
       Baekhyun was shoved by a frantic surge of workers, and by the time he righted himself he was directly under the rearing animal. A front hoof slammed into his leg.
Baekhyun’s leg buckled and he heard the resounding snap of bone as pain exploded from his knee upwards. He watched the world tilt and he hit the ground. He barely registered the impact because the pain radiating from his knee was throbbing, electric jolts that traveled up his spine to the back of his eyes. He could hear the screams around him but he couldn’t focus enough to look.
       He was going to die.
       Something grabbed his arm. He screamed—half in fear and half in pain—flailing, nails digging into fabric and flesh until he realized that the person was speaking. Through the haze of pain he couldn’t understand what they were saying. It took a moment more to recognize that he was one of the Chinese workers and that he’d probably been speaking in his native tongue. He was the one with the younger brother, wasn’t he?
       He lifted Baekhyun easily and threw him over his back. Baekhyun’s vision went white with pain. As he blinked back spots and tears his eyes locked on the scene behind him.
       He wielded the sledgehammer with a barbaric grace. It looked like he was used to a weapon in hand, staring death down unflinching. It was the last thing Beakhyun saw before darkness took him.
       The hammer didn’t have the same reach or balance as a bo staff or sword. It was top heavy and Zitao had to compensate for the weight displacement by changing his movements. Fighting like this was easy for him. Fighting was all he knew how to do. You came out of your mother fighting, you’ve always been fighting.
       And the weapon seemed the best suited for fighting Afflicted. Blunt and heavy. It could crush skulls with one blow. The Afflicted shrieked with decayed, torn throats and the sound was monstrous. It mixed with the screams of their victims as others tried to escape and were overrun. Some tried to fight back but were not as successful as Zitao.
       He almost backed into his brother. He spared Yixing a glance to see that he’d grabbed another boy—he was bleeding out of his leg, had he been bitten? He turned again and swung. He’d need to get the three of them out now. His brother couldn’t fight with the other boy in his arms.
       Some others ran into the woods to escape the Afflicted. He wondered briefly how far they’d get before more Afflicted appeared. They couldn’t just be this many. Even more tried to climb atop the abandoned steam engine, to shut the train car doors. But it was no use.
The Afflicted’s face caved in with a crunch, and blood sprayed across his face.
       “Zitao!”
       He turned at his brother’s warning and swung again, straight into the Afflicted’s chest. It sunk into his chest cavity and he had to tug to pull it out. The Afflicted continue grabbing for him. He placed his foot on the creature and brought the hammer down with a sickening crunch. It convulsed once and then went still.
       He coughed, throat dry, and looked around as an eerie stillness filled the clearing. In the distance he heard faded screams. The other Afflicted had caught up with those that had run. There were no survivors aside from himself, Yixing, and the Korean worker they’d saved. He swallowed, panting, as he wiped blood, sweat, and brain matter off of his cheek with the back of his hand.
       “There will be more. They’ll smell the blood.” Yixing called, scanning the tree line. The screams had stopped. It would only be a matter of time before the Afflicted returned, and more followed the scent of blood. “Zitao, come.”
       He could hear wheezing. He walked over to where an older Korean man lay on his back. His throat had been torn out, and every exhalation produced a spray of blood that stained Zitao’s shoes. He looked into Zitao’s eyes, pleading. There was no help for this man. Zitao swallowed, brought his hammer up, and let it fall.
At least he could give this man a quick end and the honor of a proper death.
“Zitao,” Yixing repeated, voice more frantic now. “Come.”
Zitao spared one last glance at the carnage. He shouldered the hammer and followed.
“Just keep moving.” Yixing whispered as they walked. “We can make it back to the city. Just keep moving.”
Zitao nodded. He wanted the assuring warmth of his brother’s hand but instead he tightened his grip on the sledge hammer and focused on the burning anger in his chest. They had been tricked. They had been sent to die and the worst of it was they had been sent by one of their own. No. He was not Chinese. English dog, Zitao thought hatefully.
       The boy on Yixing’s back gave a small sob. Yixing and Zitao exchanged glances. He was slowing them down and tiring Yixing out. But both of them knew they wouldn’t abandon him. Because they were not Wu Fan or the English that he so desperately wanted to please.
       Uncle Zhou hadn’t lied. Trust no one, he had said. They should have listened.
“We need to find a place to rest.” Yixing’s voice was tired. They would not get to town in a day, not on foot, and not with their injured passenger.
       Zitao glanced around. “Some place high.”
 

 

                                       

House of Lords, Hanseong, Joseon
Wednesday, noon, March 16th, 1858

“Lord Great Chamberlain.”
Kim Joonmyun turned with a tight smile that had become second nature. He’d inherited it along with his title upon his father’s death. He’d also developed a twitch in his left eye that he hoped was not permanent.
“I was wondering if you would like to dine out with my family this evening.”
“I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.” Joonmyun replied amicably. The thing was everyone knew that Lord Jang had very little income and quite a few daughters—all of whom were of marriageable age. Joonmyun assumed this accumulation of unmarried daughters was a combination of their father’s empty coffers and their unfortunate luck of inheriting their father’s looks.
And Joonmyun was a young bachelor that had just inherited his father’s title of Lord Great Chamberlain and a sizeable fortune. It was like throwing a piece of raw meat to a pack of wolves. He nodded at Lord Jang and the other man ducked out of the room with a backward glance of disappointment.
Joonmyun reached for his Coburn great coat when a conversation began behind him. He busied himself with his cufflinks and watched.
“Cabinet Secretary, if I could have a word…?”
The Cabinet Secretary, another Lord Kim—not related directly to Joonmyun himself—turned with a bland, polite smile. “Lord High Chancellor.”
Lord Oh was the Lord High Chancellor, the most powerful man currently at council, and when he spoke it was common courtesy to stop to listen, even if you did not wish to hear what he had to say. And few did.
“I haven’t seen your son recently.” Lord Oh commented airily. By this point, most of the other lords had left the room and it was only curiosity that kept Joonmyun from doing the same. “My son recently entered Sungkyunkwan and said that your eldest had left before graduating. There must be a mistake.”
Lord Kim laughed. “Oh no, it’s quite true. My son has always been temperamental. He took time off from his studies to focus himself.” He glanced at his watch impatiently.
“I thought perhaps he had been accepted to Oxford and you had kept it a secret.” Lord Oh chuckled, and it held a plastic fakeness that could not be denied but must be ignored.
“You flatter me, Lord Oh. I would truly be delighted if my son were half as diligent as yours.” Lord Kim paused. “Did you son apply to Oxford as well or only Sungkyunkwan?
Lord Oh cleared his throat, and a frown flickered across his wizened features before disappearing. “He wishes to further his domestic education before he goes abroad. He declined the invitation for this year, against my wishes. He’s very dedicated to his roots.”
They knew it was a lie. But etiquette demanded they accept it at face value. And Lord Kim, despite the insults Lord Oh was trying to throw at him, was above the same paltry acts. At least, he had enough sense not to do so where he was surrounded by enemies. “If you will excuse me…” He looked at Joonmyun and caught his eye before walking out of the room, pulling on his durby as he went.
Joonmyun stepped forward to do the same but was stopped by that same commanding tone. “Lord Great Chamberlain.”
Joonmyun turned. “Yes?”
“You studied with Lord Cabinet Secretary’s son. Ah…what was his name?”
“Kim Minseok.” Joonmyun nodded.
“He was always praised as being bright beyond his years. It seems a shame he quit so suddenly.” Lord Oh prodded, still smiling placidly.
“Indeed.” Joonmyun nodded. “Perhaps he had a valid reason like myself.” He’d left to take over his father’s position in the House of Lords before his graduation, after all.
“Yes, yes.” Lord Oh nodded, and something told Joonmyun that this was exactly how Lord Oh wanted this conversation to go. Everyone knew that Lord Cabinet Secretary Kim was a staunch defender of the emperor and was critical of the lords that were siding with the railroad company—and in turn, Great Britain. Several of the lords had bypassed the emperor’s authority and were accepting bribes from the British to go against the emperor.
Lord Oh wanted to know if Joonmyun held the same views as his father. Joonmyun knew how to play this game. He wouldn’t have accepted this position otherwise. “We were not close, so I couldn’t tell you the reason he left. If I ever discover it, I’ll be sure to tell you.”
“Good, good. Such an honorable young man. Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you sir.” Joonmyun tipped his hat and left the room with an uneasy tightness in his chest.                                   

                                

Haeju Weekly Press
Wednesday, 1:23pm, March 16th, 1858

Kyungsoo had just finished checking his last patient for the afternoon when the telegraph machine started up. It was a loud contraption, and he could hear the incessant clicking even from his small room off to the side of the main office. Jongdae had built it himself after sneaking into the police station and memorizing the blueprint of their own. No one questioned how he managed to connect to the main telegraph lines. Jongdae had hacked into the police telegraph system so it sent him any telegram they received. It was how he got half of his information.
Chanyeol had been taught how to work the machine when Jongdae had built it. His reading skills still weren’t the best, but he tried to slodge through the jarbled words. It was for this reason that he burst out of the back office—it wasn’t something that could be left out in the open—looking pale. “The police are sending men to the gate. The railroad crew was attacked by Afflicted in the Deadlands.”
Kyungsoo paused in cleaning his work space and poked his head out of the side room. “What?”
Jongdae’s fingers, which hard hovered precariously over his typewriter keys at Chanyeol’s outburst, twitched before he sprang from his chair and reached for the paper. He scanned it, biting his tongue as it peeked out from between his lips. “Let’s go Park.”
“I’m coming.” Kyungsoo ducked into his room and came back with his medical bag. “Someone might have been injured.”
A look crossed Jongdae’s face that Kyungsoo couldn’t identify. Finally he shrugged and grabbed for his hat. “Come on then.”
By the time they reached the main gate, the police had already arrived. Word had gotten out about the attack, it seemed, and a crowd had begun to form. The police shouted for the civilians to leave. Kyungsoo and Chanyeol were shoved and separated from Jongdae.
Kyungsoo grabbed onto Chanyeol’s coat sleeve and the taller man helped keep him upright as they made their way through the crowd. Chanyeol kept his eyes glued on the back of Jongdae’s expensive suit as he bobbed up and down in the mass of people.
A whistle rang shrilly from the ramparts. Kyungsoo shaded his eyes and looked up. The armed guards atop the wall were pointing, yelling something. He couldn’t hear very well. The crowd was yelling too. Those words he could hear all too well.
“Where is my son? Where is my son?”
“Was there really an attack?”
“What of the survivors?”
“Is my Byung Soon alright? Please!”
The gates groaned open and the crowd surged forward. Kyungsoo almost lost his footing. Chanyeol pulled him out of the crowd and toward Jongdae, who had found a small patch of open ground near the guard house.
Jongdae watched the three lone riders on horseback. He gave a sardonic smile. “I was hoping I’d be wrong this time.”
       “Where are the workers?” Kyungsoo asked faintly. It was only three men. The foremen? They were all on horses, all unharmed. They were yelling for people to move out of the way as the crowd converged on them.
       “The workers are out there.” Jongdae jerked his head in the direction of the gates as they slowly groaned closed. “They left them.”
       “But they have guns. They’re there to protect them in case the Afflicted come. That’s what they’re for.”
       Jongdae raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never faced down an Afflicted, have you? You’d shit your pants and run long before you thought of helping someone else, even if you have a gun. I’m not condoning their actions but I certainly understand them. I’d probably do the same.”
       Kyungsoo said nothing, but his lips thinned. Chanyeol grabbed Kyungsoo’s arm and sent Jongdae a warning glare from over Kyungsoo’s head. Jongdae ignored it.
“Why don’t you write about this?” Kyungsoo finally burst out, red faced.
       “I have. Twice.” Jongdae answered smoothly. “The first time I was given a warning and then mugged. The second time I was thrown in jail—and then mugged. Perhaps if I tried a third time they’ll skip the mugging and just gut me in an alley. Though I just bought a new waistcoat that I’d rather not ruin.”
       Kyungsoo had thought it would be different here, in his own country. Those that had tasted the cruelty of the West should have changed the system, shouldn’t they? He watched the foremen charge through the crowd on their horses, forcing people backwards as they avoided the large animals. None of them looked guilty at all.
       He felt sick.

                                

Deadlands outside of Haeju
Wednesday, 3:45pm, March 16th, 1858

They didn’t know how many hours they had walked, only that their strength was fading. Yixing’s legs and arms ached. But most of all his back ached. The Korean boy was heavy, and in obvious pain. He whimpered with each step Yixing took, and the blood from his open wound had soaked into Yixing’s clothing, making it stick to his skin.
They had left the road in hopes of finding running water and a place to rest, but Yixing kept the general direction of the railroad and Haeju in his sights. Not that it would matter if they did not find some place to hide and sleep in for the night.
Fate seemed to be on their side, as the trees opened into a small clearing.
The house was two stories with an attached shed.
“It looks empty.” Yixing whispered.
Zitao looked around the clearing before he walked forward. He ducked into the shed—Yixing panicked momentarily as his brother was cut off from sight—and returned with a wood cutter’s ax. A second weapon was always useful, especially out here.
“I’ll search the house first.” Zitao hefted the hammer and strode forward. This was a side of Zitao that Yixing did not see often. Cool, calm, and assured. But Yixing could always trust him to come through in this type of situation. His fight or flight instinct had flipped and it was dangerous for anyone he didn’t trust.
Yixing shifted the Korean boy on his back and looked around the clearing as Zitao entered the home. It felt like an eternity before Zitao came out again. He gave a nod. Yixing gratefully followed him inside.
The stairs were old, but they would hold. They creaked dangerously under the combined weight of the three of them, but they reached the second floor without incident. There were two bedrooms on the top floor. Zitao led them to the bedroom on the left.
There was one bed, an armoire against one wall, and a bedside table. The bed was still made. Yixing slowly laid the Korean boy down. He gave a groan in his sleep. Yixing glanced at his flushed face and frowned.
“He has a fever.” Yixing pulled out a small roll of cloth from his pack. Zitao recognized it immediately. Yixing unrolled it and picked up a single acupuncture needle.
Yixing looked over the man’s leg and winced. The leg was in bad shape. The horse had landed on his knee and it was shattered. The bone had ripped through the skin. He needed to clean it to keep away infection. The skin around it was purple, the edges a jaundiced yellow as the wound spread down his leg. This wasn’t promising. The most he could do was clean the wound, wrap it, and try and ease the pain with his needles.
“We need water,” Zitao glanced at the boy’s blood stained clothes.
       Yixing shook his head. “We can’t split up.”
“There’s a well near the shed.” Zitao explained softly, “I won’t go far.” There was also the hope that the Afflicted nearby would be too distracted with the carnage near the tracks to hunt the three of them down. But the longer the other man’s wound was open and oozing blood, the more likely they would be found.
Yixing watched him go, and listened in silence until the last echoes of his younger brother’s footsteps faded. He looked to the axe that Zitao had left behind and then back to the boy.
It was unlikely he would live through the night. Would it be better to amputate the leg now? No, he would bleed out here, faster than he was already. There was a window in the room, probably the reason that Zitao had picked this room for them.
He slid a needle into the skin just above the wound. The boy twitched but then went still. He placed in a few more points to try and slow the blood flow.
He heard the shuffling of footsteps and reached for the axe.
        Zitao slid into the room with a pleased smile. “There were these in the basement.” He held up a burlack sack. He placed it and the bucket of the water on the ground and began pushing the armoire in front of the door.
       Yixing grabbed a cloth from the armoire and dipped it in the bucket.
       Then he began cleaning.

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