Candle to the Devil: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

          Rapid Cerebral Necrosis or RCN, was first defined in 1824 by Doctor Erhard Bachmeier after a close study of the virus had been conducted in his lab in Berlin. The doctor was unable to receive is award for his research, however, as he and the rest of the lab perished when the reanimated subjects broke free of their restraints and massacred the entire facility.

         The first known account of the virus was in 1813 within New York city, to 35 year old Edmund Collins who, after falling victim to the virus and becoming reanimated, attacked his own family and the hospital staff nearby. The virus quickly spread, and cases appeared across the world. The virus was not airborn, but it was unknown how it began. Many early physicians theorized that the virus had originally come from fleas on rats and had mutated, much like the bubonic plague.

         The term “Afflicted” came from a speech given by Pope Pius XI, in which he asked for the faithful to pray for those “afflicted with a treacherous illness, the physical manifestation of the sodomy of our current lifeway” and the name continued well after the illness was discovered to be a virus.

        The basic overview of the disease written by Doctor Bachmeier is printed below.

Hour 1: Pain and discoloration (brown-purple) of the infected area. Immediate clotting of the wound (provided the infection came from a wound).

Hour 5: Fever (99-103 degrees F), chills, slight dementia, vomiting, acute pain in the joints.

Hour 8: Numbing of extremities and infected area, increased fever (103-106 degrees F), increased dementia, loss of muscular coordination.

Hour 11: Paralysis in the lower body, overall numbness, slowed heart rate.

Hour 16: Coma.

Hour 20: Heart stoppage. Zero brain activity.

Hour 23: Reanimation.

Of course, this only occurs if the victim is bitten and then detained in a sterile, secure facility. Those killed and eaten by other Afflicted have a much shorter time period before reanimation.

          

            —excerpt from Helga Verstrong’s A Brief Commentary on the Initial Discovery of RCN

Deadlands outside of Haeju

Thursday, 5:30am, March 17^th, 1858

            Yixing woke to the warmth of his brother pressed against his side and the sunlight filtering through the broken window above the bed. “…what time is it?” The floor creaked as he moved. The floorboards were cool, and it seeped into the back of his clothes. He shivered a bit, rubbing his arms to warm them.

            “Just after sunrise.” Zitao answered softly. He held out a sweet potato and Yixing took it gratefully. There were plenty left in the bag that Zitao had brought up from the basement, for which Yixing was grateful. They would need the food for the trek back to Haeju. “He’s been turning in his sleep for a while.”

            Yixing glanced at the Korean. A light sheen of sweat covered his body. The fever had not broken during the night, and that worried him. They needed to start moving, but he would slow them down.

            It came down to whether they left him here for dead or continue carrying him.

            “He’s heavy.” Yixing murmured, stretching out his arms. The bend in his elbow gave a satisfying pop and he rolled his shoulders, hoping for the same outcome. His arms ached from carrying the other boy, and he wasn’t sure if he could do it for an entire day longer. But Zitao would be needed to fight if the Afflicted found them, and he’d need his arms free for that.

            “We won’t leave him.” Zitao whispered, so softly that Yixing almost didn’t hear it. “We won’t be like the foreman.”

            The foreman. Not the foremen. Yixing knew exactly which one Zitao was talking about. Zitao was sensitive, and Wu Fan had been something familiar in a world that was terrifyingly foreign. But that familiarity had bred a trust that had been broken. An angry Zitao was a frightening thing to behold, and once his trust had been lost it could not be regained.

Yixing reached over and grabbed his younger brother’s hand. Zitao was trembling, for all his bravado earlier. He wouldn’t look at Yixing, but Yixing knew that Zitao was crying. He’d probably been crying all night and he certainly hadn’t slept. Yixing had told him to wake him up halfway through to take a shift but he’d pointedly ignored him.

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway,” Zitao whispered when Yixing asked. “Ge…I’m scared.”

Yixing swallowed and his grip on Zitao’s hand tightened. Me too. “We’ll be ok. Uncle Zhou taught us how to fight.” But Yixing was bad at it. He’d never taken to martial arts like Zitao had. If he trained and practiced he could do it but the movements came natural to Zitao.

            Yixing liked healing people more than he liked hurting them.

            The boy on the bed groaned and both Zitao and Yixing stood and headed toward the bed. Yixing handed Zitao the rest of his sweet potato and placed his palm on the boy’s forehead. “His fever hasn’t broken. He won’t make it through tonight if this continues.”

            “Then we need to reach Haeju before tonight.” Zitao whispered.

            Yixing nodded. If only he’d had some mugwort…but he’d been unable to buy some before leaving China, and he couldn’t speak Korean and had been unable to leave the railroad company compound so there was no way he could have bought any here.

            “Gege,” Zitao swallowed, “How are we going to move him?”

            Yixing reached out and ran a hand along the boy’s neck. “We’ll have to knock him unconscious.” There was no way they’d be able to carry him while he was awake. The pain would be too intense. They couldn’t have him crying out either. That would alert any Afflicted wandering around to their location.

            They didn’t have much time.

            Yixing steadied his hand and pressed against the proper pressure point. The boy gave a small grunt as his body tensed before it relaxed and he went limp. Yixing sat on the edge of the bed as Zitao arranged the unconscious boy over his back. He heard the ripping of fabric and turned his head to see Zitao pulling apart the bed sheets. He began making a makeshift harness, sliding it around the Korean boy’s body and securing it to Yixing’s front.

            Yixing grunted as the knot tightened against his shoulder.

            He remained where he was, watching as his younger brother placed their belongings and the rest of the sweet potatoes into their knapsack. He secured the woodcutter’s axe to his leg with another strip of cloth and then hefted the sledge hammer onto his shoulder.

            “Let’s go.” Yixing finally murmured, throwing himself forward onto his feet. The boy came with him, an almost crushing weight against his back. His body hadn’t rested sufficiently after carrying him the day before. He steadied himself and followed behind Zitao.

            They had a long way to walk and not nearly enough time.

It was hot. Kyungsoo rubbed his eyes and padded toward the door, bare feet against wood. He could see a glow from underneath the door. It smelled like smoke, and the room was hazy. He coughed.

What was going on? His throat was tight.

He made his way to the door and opened it. The hallway was full of smoke, and as he looked downstairs, all he saw was fire. He began to cry. “Omma! Appa!”

            “Kyungsoo!”

            His father. He knelt down in front of Kyungsoo and looked him over, “Are you alright?”

            “Appa…” He continued to cry.

            “Come on, we need to get outside. Let’s get outside.” He reached for his son. A shadow fell across his father and Kyungsoo saw his eyes widen. Footsteps behind him. He almost turned, but the gunshot sounded and he let out a cry as his father fell backwards.

            Blood splattered across his nightgown.

            He cried out and he heard his mother screaming somewhere in her bedroom. Before he could go to her someone grabbed him from behind. He kicked, twisted, but the grip was hard. “Appa! Omma! APPA!” His father was still twitching.

“Don’t look, don’t look boy!” He recognized that voice. He knew that voice. It was hot. He wasn’t sure if it was the smoke or the sight of his father’s corpse that brought on his tears but he couldn’t stop them.

“Omma! OMMA!”

He could hear her banging on the door to the bedroom. She was screaming. “Get me out! My baby! My baby! KYUNGSOO!”

“OMMA!”

He was being dragged out of the house. He could see his mother’s shadow from underneath her door, frantic and flickering. The door knob rattled and shook as she pounded with her fists. “KYUNGSOO!”

He was outside. The air was cold and crisp and fresh. People were yelling and he looked up through the haze of smoke and tears. His home was alight, burning orange and gold in the middle of the darkness. 

“Don’t look boy.” His captor repeated harshly.

But he did. He stared until the flames consumed everything and his mother’s screams stopped. Until all he heard was the crackling of flames and the bursting pop of overheated timber.

Kyungsoo woke up tangled in his coverlet unable to breathe. He panicked momentarily until he realized that he was under a down feather blanket and that was why it was so hot. There was no fire.

            The air outside was cool and clean. He gasped, and his rattled inhalations echoed in the silent room. He was fine. He was safe. He let out a low sigh and closed his eyes. Focus. Calm. He tapped his fingers against the mattress and counted silently, mouthing the numbers.

            “There are riots at the station.”

            Kyungsoo’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Chanyeol’s voice. It was muffled by the closed door and he heard only snippets of the mumbled conversation.

“Nothing will be done. The police are…”

            “…n…and…t…he compensation?”

            “…contracts…final…they won’t…money from…gerby and Green.”

            “...no survivors. They plan to continue…”

            Kyungsoo rolled over and pulled the coverlet over his head. He breathed in the stagnant, heated air and clenched his eyes shut. He wanted to go back to sleep. If he stayed awake and listened to this conversation any more he would become angry; angry at a world that refused to change and that took human life so lightly.

What had the age of enlightenment done for them? Nothing. Locke, Voltaire, Newton, they’d strove for such great things and in the end it had come to nothing. Or perhaps it only applied to Westerners? What kind of enlightenment was that? He’d studied and suffered for what he thought was humanity’s common good and all he’d been met with was disappointment after disappointment.

            You should have died in that fire. Then, at least, you’d be spared this.

            He closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep.

Oh Manor House, Hanseong

Thursday, noon, March 17^th, 1858

            "Sehunnie!"

Sehun caught his sister before she tripped down the stairs, frowning. "Don't run." Her hoopskirts were heavy and almost threw the both of them off balance. He’d barely stepped through the front door before she’d come barreling toward him.

            She smoothed out her skirt and gave him a beaming smile. "How do I look? It just arrived from London this morning. From London."

            "You look ridiculous." He replied blandly. The color was an ostentatious purple and yellow that made his eyes hurt. He didn't like his sisters wearing Western clothing. They looked better in hanbok anyway. And the top was much too low cut! "Cover yourself." He grabbed his great coat and threw it over her shoulders.

            “All the other girls are wearing it this way.” She huffed. “This is how you dress in the West.”

            “You’re not in the West. Stop dressing like a Westerner when you aren’t one.” Sehun replied archly, tugging at the collar of the coat to cover her neck.

            She pouted. "You don't understand anything!" She threw his coat on the ground and hurried back up the stairs, heels clacking on the hardwood.

            "Humor her a bit, will you?"

            He turned to see his mother walk down the hall toward him. She reached out her arms and he fell into them gratefully. He’d missed her more than anything else, his only ally in this Western-centered home. He frowned a bit, "You smell different." He didn't like that at all. He liked his mother's scent the way it was. She used to smell like sandalwood and peonies. The new scent was heady and overwhelming.

            She gave a small laugh. "It's a new perfume. Your father bought it for me from London." She grabbed Sehun's arm as he stiffened and tried to pull away. "Why are you so stern this morning? You're beginning to look like your father."

            Sehun bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't think Seyoung should wear those kinds of dresses. And I wish you'd go back to your old perfume."

            "Things change," She patted his cheek. "And we must change with them. Your father is looking into a match with an Englishman for her. It is best she gets used to the clothing now. She'll need to familiarize herself with the fashion before going. We can't have her arriving looking like a foreigner."

            Like a Korean, he corrected silently. London? Seyoung? The thought made him uneasy. "She can't marry an Englishman."

            "Why not?"

            "She'll have to go to London. She'll be all alone. They'll..." He didn't know what they'd do to her, but he knew well enough that Koreans weren't looked upon fondly. "What is his title? Is he a count?" He wouldn't let her marry anyone less than a count.

            His mother's smile faltered slightly. "No he's...the eldest son of a prominent merchant."

            "He isn't even noble!"

            "Think of it from your father's perspective." Her hand tightened on his arm. He'd never realized how thin and frail her fingers were before this, the way the jade rings on them looked ready to slide off at any moment. She was shaking. "...if we gain support from a prominent trading company your father's influence in court will rise."

            "He's already a member of the House of Lords. He is the Lord Great Chamberlain!"

            "Of Joseon. The English will look upon him more favorably if he's married into an English family." His mother replied sternly. "That is the end of this conversation. I am tired. Go see your father and I'll have the servants bring in some lunch for the two of you. He's in his study."

            He wanted to protest but his mother had already turned away, her eyes weary. She’d always been protective of her children; she probably didn’t like this any more than Sehun did. But there was nothing to be done, not where his father was involved.

            He watched her walk down the hall, looking far smaller and older than he remembered. When the edge of her silk skirt finally disappeared from view he turned toward the stairs and walked up them.

            He'd never liked his father's study. It was large and intimidating. When he was younger he'd only ever gone there for a scolding so it held no happy memories for him. His father was sitting behind his desk when Sehun stepped inside.

            Lord Oh glanced up briefly and paused. "Why are you home?"

            Sehun looked down at his cufflinks. "Some of the professors and students are stuck in Haeju until the track is repaired. Classes don't begin for another week."

            His father scoffed and mumbled something under his breath, nose bent over a stack of letters. He placed his quill down and looked up at his son. "Is there something else you wanted?"

            Sehun cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you could talk to the school about my class schedule."

            "Why must I do that?"

            "Their curriculum has me taking medical courses. It’s ridiculous. I’m not going into medicine.” Medicine was the field that concubine’s sons took. No legitimate heir would dirty his hands on another person. No nobleman's daughter would be willingly given to a merchant.

            Lord Oh coughed. It was the kind of cough that meant Sehun was whining and he was about to be scolded. “You think politics are the only thing that matters? When we are fighting a virus that turns humans into monsters, how well do you think The Rights of Man will help you?”

            He was being chastised.

            "But the new professor is said to be nearly my age!" Sehun bit out. And that was really what bothered him. That Dr. Do was so accomplished and only a few years his senior.

            Lord Oh's hand tightened on his quill pen. “Dr. Do is a graduate from Oxford, the second Korean to graduate from there. Do you understand the importance of that? It is not your strength, but make it an interest. You do not need to know medicine, but you need to know someone who does. And we are the Oh family. We have the best, my son. The best. Do you understand?”

            “Yes.” Sehun said softly, and he saw his father’s eyes narrow at his lisp. “I understand.” He turned to leave the office but stopped himself. "If we have the best, why are you sending Seyoung to London to marry a merchant?"

            His father's gaze was stern, and his voice came out clipped and cold. "It is not your place to question your elders. I don't want to see you here at dinner. Return to your dormitory."

            Sehun almost ran into the maid on his way out the door.

Kim Manor House, Hanseong

Thursday, 6:13pm March 17^th, 1858

Joonmyun arrived home with a headache and an empty stomach. A servant hurried to get him some supper, and Joonmyun called after him to also bring a calming tea. He glanced around his father’s study—his study, he still wasn’t used to that. There was a large stack of unopened letters on his desk. He’d need to get through those by the end of the night.

            Joonmyun had never liked the political game. He’d despised it when his father was alive, conniving and bribing and saying it was all for the family. But Joonmyun played the game well. He’d lived with it underfoot his entire life, after all. His father had been good, and he’d secured Joonmyun’s position through the power he’d amassed, even after death.

            Part of Joonmyun wished he could have graduated Sunkyungkwan like his other year mates. Then he could have gone to England to study more, perhaps at Oxford or Cambridge. But this was his life now. And he had things to protect, family and assets and the Kim lineage.

            There was a knock on the door and he glanced up, “You can leave the food on the side table—mother.”

            The older woman gave a regal nod and stepped into the room, skirts splayed out like a blooming flower, intricate hair pins dotting her black and gray hair. Behind her, the servant walked with the tray, eyes trained to the floor. She placed it on the table Joonmyun had indicated and shuffled out.

            By this point his mother had settled herself on the settee. She reached for the teapot and began pouring a cup. “Come and drink with me.”

            Joonmyun stepped away from his desk toward his mother and settled onto the settee beside her, careful not to wrinkle her skirts. “You have been busy.”

            “Yes.” Joonmyun smiled tiredly, “The ambassador from Great Britain will be arriving once the trains from Haeju are functional.”

            At this his mother paused in pouring honey into her tea—it was the British way, she’d adopted it years ago—and hummed in approval. “There will be a party then?”

            “Yes. They’re planning for the gala as we speak.” Half of his headache was because of it.

            “It’s unfortunate that Lord Bruce has no unmarried daughters.” His mother continued, “It would be a perfect match, and you must have a partner for the gala.” She stirred the honey into the tea, gaze trained on the dark liquid. “Do you have a partner in mind yet?”

            “No.” Joonmyun admitted, frowning. It had been the least of his worries. Besides, it was common knowledge that society would assume the woman he brought with him to the gala would soon be his wife.

“The Lee family—Lord Lee, the Earl Marshal, not of the Jeonju Lee’s—he has a daughter, seventeen and pretty enough.”

            “Mother, are you trying to marry me off?” He was rather certain that was the case. Another headache he would not be rid of until he admitted defeat. His mother was a stubborn woman. She had outlived his father through sheer stubbornness, fighting off the measles that took his father in the end.

            “You need to secure an heir before anything else. You have the position but you must hold it. If you have no son you cannot continue the family name.” She took a sip of her tea and waited for him to respond.

            Wives were troublesome, if only because he didn’t have the energy or time to deal with one properly. A wife needed to be respected and cherished and he could not do that at the moment. The manor finances, his job as Lord Great Chamberlain and the fate of Joseon in regards to the Afflicted weighed heavily upon him. That was more important than a wife.

            His mother did not see it the same way.

            He knew she worried that his uncle would try and take his position and the home from him. If anything were to happen, he would receive his titles, land, and finances if there was no heir to replace him. His mother and uncle did not get along. The man was a gambler and a rake, and the last person the family needed as their figurehead.

            He saw the urgency of the situation, but it was small when compared with everything else he needed to do. There was so little time…

            A hand was placed over his own—he hadn’t realized he’d been staring at his lap till the light glinted off of his mother’s ruby encrusted ring—and he glanced up to her stern face. “Joonmyun.” She reached up and cupped his cheek. “We must find you a wife soon. You are too haggard. A wife will do you good.”

            No. A wife would do his mother good. “You would make her life miserable.” He murmured, giving a small smile that his mother matched. She stood, gathering her skirts, “I will make a list of possible dates by tomorrow. Look it over and decide before the week is out.”

            She left in a rustle of silk and perfume.

            Joonmyun grabbed a biscuit and bit into it with a sigh. He chewed thoughtfully, racking his brain for a way out of the ordeal. He needed a date without complications. He glanced at the large stack of letters on his desk.

            But first, he had other matters to attend to.

Deadlands outside of Haeju

Thursday, 7:22pm March 17^th, 1858

            It felt as if they’d walked for an eternity and gained no distance to Zitao. They’d contemplated going back to the tracks and following them back to Haeju, but it was too risky. The newly dead there would soon succumb to the virus and become Afflicted themselves. They’d be hungry, and it would be too overwhelming a number for Zitao to deal with by himself.

            And so they wandered, Yixing guiding them from memory and the position of the sun. He was a better tracker than Zitao. Zitao could kill Afflicted or fight off a thief, but he could not track the sun or tell you which plants in the forest were edible and which were poisonous.

            He would have died without Yixing, but Yixing would have survived without him. Yixing was capable, and he could fight if he wasn’t holding the Korean boy. Yixing would have made it back to Haeju without him, he was certain.

            Yixing was always better at things, always more capable. That was why his father loved him and ignored Zitao. Zitao wasn’t good enough.

            “A little bit more.” Yixing murmured tiredly, voice breaking. He was thirsty, so so thirsty.

            Zitao nodded curtly, too weak for much else.

            Yixing wasn’t lying. Fifteen minutes later they broke free of the trees. Behind the city the sun began to set, painting the skies a hazy orange.

            The gates were visible now, the large stone walls that surrounded the city looming in the distance; menacing, foreboding, and their only chance at survival. The boy on his back was mumbling feverishly against his neck, chapped lips moving in a language of pain that Yixing understood without knowing the words. “We have to hurry. He will die soon.”

            Zitao nodded, eyes tired, shoulders slumped. If they were attacked now he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to fight them off. His body ached. He could only assume that his brother was worse off—and the other boy even more so.

            There was a large expanse of cleared land between the forest and the city so that any Afflicted could be shot down before they reached the walls. It was a precaution that most cities followed, and it seemed as if every step they took, the city remained at a set distance.

            What if they were shot down as well? But surely they looked nothing like the Afflicted. They moved slowly, carrying a friend. The Afflicted did not do that.

            “Stop!” A voice boomed, and the two slowed to a halt twenty feet in front of the gate. “Who are you?”

            The two exchanged glances. What were they saying? They’d stopped because they’d recognized the command from the Korean foremen, but the other words were foreign. Perhaps they had a Chinese translator there? They could only hope.

            “Please help us! We work for the railroad!” Yixing yelled as loudly as he could.

            There was a pause, and then the raised voices of an argument. Zitao looked behind him toward the forest. Oh god, what if they came now? Shadows danced in the trees, his tired, hungry mind saw forms where there were none; but soon, soon he knew that the Afflicted would come, drawn by the smell of blood.

            The gates slowly groaned open.

            Zitao began to cry. They’d been saved.

            As the doors closed behind them they had expected to be safe. Free to go. They had not expected to be held at gunpoint with guards screaming Korean at them.

            Zitao placed his hammer down slowly. Someone snatched the axe from its holster on his leg and he held up his hands, heart beating rapidly in his chest. Had they had made if this far only to be executed here?

            The Korean boy on Yixing’s back let out a whimper.

            “He’d bleeding. He was bitten! He was bitten!”

            Yixing looked on in confusion as they pointed and yelled. A gun was pressed to Zitao’s forehead, and there were tears coursing down his dust-coated cheeks. He needed to protect Zitao. He had to protect him! Did they think they were infected? “None of us were bitten.” Yixing looked around desperately. “He was kicked by a horse.” That had to be the reason, right? They thought the Afflicted had gotten them.

            “What the hell is he saying? Where’s Kris?”

            “He said he wasn’t bitten.” Jongdae called out, trotting over to the gate. “One of the horses kicked him when the foremen left. It wasn’t a wound from the Afflicted.” He placed his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.

            The guard faltered, unsure, before his grip tightened on his gun. “We can’t know for sure.” He nodded and twenty guns were trained on them. Where had these men come from? They weren’t guards. The one who had spoken to him looked familiar.

            “I can check!” Kyungsoo yelled, throwing his hands up as he stepped forward. “I’m a doctor. I’ve focused my studies on Pagoe. I can tell if the wound is from the Afflicted.” He looked to Jongdae, “Tell them it’s ok. I’m a doctor.”

            Jongdae nodded slowly. The guards hadn’t put their guns down, even as Kyungsoo walked closer to the two Chinese men and Jongdae spoke, “It’s alright. We’re here to help. He is a doctor.”

            Relief flooded through Yixing like a tidal wave. His whole body shuddered, and he heard Zitao let out a choked sob. The man who walked up to him looked young—wide eyed and worried. He was dressed nicely. Was he really a doctor? Could they trust them?

            “He was kicked by a horse. He wasn’t bitten.” Yixing grunted.

            “We know. He just needs to look the wound over.” Jongdae answered back in Chinese. Bad Chinese, but understandable, “Let’s set him down.”

            Yixing slowly knelt, knees buckling as his strength seemed to leave him. The adrenaline rush was gone, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. The guards trained their guns on the prone body of the boy as Kyungsoo helped lay him down gently so that Yixing could stand. The Chinese man stumbled, but his companion caught him before he could fall.

            Kyungsoo turned his attention back to the injured man in front of him. His leg was bad, really bad. But the wound was from a blunt object with crushing force, not a bite wound. This man hadn’t been attached by Afflicted. If what Jongdae had said was true, he’d been stepped on by a horse. A hoof could have done this. Was it one of those foremen from before?

            “It’s not a bite wound. They aren’t infected.”

            “How can we trust you?”

            “I said that I’m a doctor.” Kyungsoo snapped. “This is not a bite wound.”

            “What about the other two? Check them here. They could have been bitten somewhere.” The guard pointed with his gun. He seemed to be the captain, or at least the man in charge of the gate guards. He didn’t look like he believed Kyungsoo at all but he knew that this man couldn’t be all bad. He had opened the gate and given them a chance, hadn’t he? He could have ordered his men to shoot them before they got to the gate.

            “Let me take them back where I can treat his wounds.” Kyungsoo gestured toward the injured boy. “He has a high fever. If I don’t do something now he won’t live through the night.”

            “Tell them to strip.” The captain ordered Jongdae.

            “This is absurd.” Kyungsoo protested, but Chanyeol grabbed his arm and shook his head. Jongdae turned toward the two Chinese boys. “…strip.” He spoke in halting Chinese. “The captain said you have to strip.”

            “What?”

            “We need to check for bite wounds.”

            The doctor sent Zitao an apologetic glance—the first sympathy he’d seen since coming here. It was for this reason that he found the strength to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He looked from the doctor to his brother, who nodded. Zitao would remember this humiliation. He let his changshan drop to the ground, and his fingers paused on the hem of his pants.

            “Don’t look anywhere else. Just look at me.” Yixing murmured, unbuttoning his own changshan.

            Zitao nodded slowly. He kept his gaze trained on his brother and finished stripping.

            Kyungsoo felt sick, both from the humiliation these two must be suffering, but also from their thinness. They had not eaten well in a long while. They were bruised and thin, but there were no bite marks. “As you can see,” He muttered stiffly. “They weren’t bitten.”

            “The head foreman will need to come. And we should ask the police chief when he arrives—”

            “Tell them to put their clothes back on. We need to get him treated. Chanyeol…?” Kyungsoo turned to his tall friend. He nodded, bending down to grab the injured boy from the ground. He picked him up bridal style, wincing as the boy cried out in pain but remained unconscious.

            “You can put your clothes on.” Jongdae reached down and grabbed one of the changshan, handing it back to its owner. “You’re coming with us. For safety.”

            Yixing looked to Zitao. The other boy looked lost, confused. They couldn’t rely on anyone now…but these people seemed like their best bet at staying alive. And they had treated them with more respect than anyone else had in their time here. Yixing gave a small nod.

            “You can’t take them without our permission!” The captain protested.

            Kyungsoo turned to Jongdae as Zitao and Yixing dressed themselves. “It isn’t fatal, so long as we clean it thoroughly so it doesn’t become infected.”

            “Will he be able to walk again?” Chanyeol glanced down at the boy whimpering in his arms. His skin was flushed, and he could feel the fever through his shirt where the boy’s cheek was pressed against his chest.

            “His knee cap is completely shattered.” Kyungsoo swallowed, “I could make an artificial one but I don’t have the proper tools.”

            “I might.” Jongdae answered calmly. “Follow me.”

            “You can’t take them!” The captain yelled, but did nothing as Jongdae led the group down the street, guns pointed at their backs.

           

           When they reached the house Jongdae ordered the two Chinese boys to stay in the foyer before he redirected Chanyeol and Kyungsoo to a door that neither had seen before. It led down to a basement storage room.

            Kyungsoo had figured that the tools Jongdae had said he might have would be simple things for fixing his machines. He had not expected an entire smithy complete with a work table in the middle. He turned to Jongdae with a questioning glance.

            Jongdae gave a dry smile. “I build all of my own machines. It’s a hobby.”

            Kyungsoo cleaned off the work station, eyes darting about the room, identifying things he would need. “Put him down.” Kyungsoo ordered. “Get your brandy. I don’t have enough disinfectant for the operation. Inside of my trunk is an extra set of surgical tools and a bottle of ether. I’ll need that as well.”

“Is…is he going to be ok?” Chanyeol whispered.

            “I’m going to get our guests something to drink.” Jongdae paused in the doorway, “Bring the brandy for the doctor.”

            Jongdae wasn’t certain what he’d just done. This decision was going to cause more harm than good. He wouldn’t be surprised if the police came knocking on the door to arrest them all—or perhaps execute them for fear of infection. Maybe they’d burn the building down with all of them inside.

            But even if he wasn’t a saint he was human, and what the two Chinese men had experienced was barbaric. He liked to claim he was a champion for justice in the papers, he supposed he could show it now.

            The two men were still standing in the office when he walked up the stairs. They started as he closed the basement door behind him. “Well,” he sighed, “Now that that’s done, let’s get you something to eat.”

            “Why are you doing this?” The taller one asked, just as the shorter murmured “thank you”. Jongdae smiled at the difference, how the taller one looked ready to fight and the shorter looked ready to laugh with relief. Both were on the verge of collapsing.

            “I imagine neither of you ate or slept well out there. I won’t ask any questions tonight, but I expect the full story tomorrow.” He led them to the kitchen. “There’s some bread and cheese and some tea.” He pulled out the necessary items and placed them on the table. “When you’re finished, leave the dishes here. Go down the hall and to the right. There is a spare bedroom. Only one bed, though.”

            Zitao opened his mouth to ask why again. These people were too nice, too caring. But his stomach growled and his brother had only nodded thankfully.

            “I’ll be downstairs helping with the surgery.” Jongdae gave a small groan. “Goodnight. I expect I won’t be up before morning.” With that he left the two alone.

Haeju Weekly Press

Thursday, 9:45pm, March 17^th, 1858

There was so much blood. Chanyeol’s hands slipped in it, sliding off skin and bumping into the steel table underneath.

“Hold him still.” Kyungsoo ordered calmly, and Chanyeol tried to steady himself. If Kyungsoo wasn’t worried it meant that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, right?

“He’s waking up—we need more anesthetic!” Kyungsoo ordered, a sharp bark. “Jongdae-ssi, where is the ether?”

“Here.” Jongdae murmured absently, going about his duties mechanically. While Kyungsoo worked he’d begun building the device that Kyungsoo had sketched hurriedly an hour ago after looking at the boy’s shattered knee. Jongdae didn’t understand the full function of some of the parts but he could follow the directions well enough.

Chanyeol watched the struggling man calm as the anesthetic took effect, eyelids fluttering. The basement smelled like blood and metal. The heat from Jongdae’s smithy blistered his back as the other man soldered steel and copper wire.

Kyungsoo worked like a man possessed. Chanyeol watched, awe struck, until Kyungsoo ordered him to grab a tool and his mind was a flurry of metal and blood and flesh. Kyungsoo pulled out another shard of splintered bone. It lay in a pile to his right, along with shredded bits of muscle and skin.

The bottom half of Kyungsoo's face was covered in a white mask speckled red. A matching one covered his own face, making his nose itch and sweat collect on his upper lip. It was hard to breathe, even harder with the heat of the furnace and the smell—god he was going to vomit.

“More water. I can’t see.” Kyungsoo blinked, waiting as Chanyeol grabbed the bowl of water and splashed it on the wound, clearing away blood.

“Done.” Jongdae choked out, holding up the metal contraption. “What is this going to do?”

“It’s a kneecap.” Kyungsoo looked it over approvingly. “Wash it in alcohol.”

Jongdae did as he was told, fingers bumping tiredly against the edges of the alcohol filled container. He was about to fall asleep. So was Chanyeol, nearly nodding off as he held down the injured boy. Only Kyungsoo seemed unaffected.

Kyungsoo poured alcohol over his hands, blood and brandy swirling down the drain beneath the work bench. “Now that the easy part is over…”

Chanyeol nearly choked. “Easy part?”

“Both of you will have to hold him down.” Kyungsoo began pulling out tools he’d set aside and disinfected early. They looked dangerous, more for building steamships than surgery. “Even though he’ll be unconscious his nerves will react as I connect them with the wires.”

Kyungsoo had once told him that being a surgeon was half medicine, half mechanics. But he’d seen men with metal arms and feet. He’d seen Kyungsoo create a steel bird that flew across the room, fueled by oil and fire. Doctors were magicians, and he trusted his best friend’s magic above all others.

Jongdae grabbed the boy’s shoulders and Chanyeol slid to the end of the work table to grab his legs. He met Kyungsoo’s gaze as the younger man swallowed, “You have to hold him still, Yeol.”

“I will.” Chanyeol promised, voice barely above a whisper and the whir of Kyungsoo’s tools.

Moments later Chanyeol found his grip tightening as the smell of burning flesh overrode his senses and all he saw was red.

            Yixing and Zitao woke up the next morning in a soft, clean bed in a room they didn’t recognize. It took them a few moments to remember the night before. They’d been saved—but for how long?

They’d been too tired the night before to question much of anything. They had felt safe—safer than they had with Wu Fan or the other Chinese for that matter. It was an odd feeling. Even now, Zitao felt as if he could roll over and go back to sleep without fear of being dragged from his bed.

But Yixing was already getting up and so Zitao followed. He and his brother eyed each other—their dirt and blood covered clothing. The bed was dirty now too, and it stank. They hadn’t had clothes to change into and they’d been too tired the night before to take them off before slipping into bed.

“What do we do now, ge?” Zitao whispered softly, afraid to break the sense of security that hovered over them.

Yixing swallowed. “I don’t know.” He looked to the door. “Let’s go downstairs and see if anyone is awake.”

The tall one wasn’t there, and neither was the boy they’d saved. But the one who spoke Chinese, the editor—he said they could call him Jongdae—was pouring a cup of coffee when the two walked in.

            “Did you sleep well?” He asked kindly. He seemed enthusiastic for a man that had spent most of the night helping perform a surgery.

            The doctor was nursing a cup of his own, ready to fall asleep over his toast.

            “You’ve been up all night. You should go to bed, doctor. We’ll wake you up if anything happens.” Jongdae spoke in Korean, the two didn’t understand it, but the doctor waved him off with a frown. “I need to check over these two first. They weren’t bitten but they were bruised. I need to check to make sure they’re alright. Then I’ll sleep.”

            Jongdae turned back to the two Chinese. “Sit down. I made coffee. Or would you rather have tea?”

            “We’ve never had coffee.” Yixing answered truthfully.

            “It’s terrible.” Jongdae placed a cup in front of him. “I highly recommend it.” He gave a dry smile and Yixing didn’t know how to take it. Was this man joking? He glanced down at the cup and took a tentative sip.

            He nearly spit it out.

            Zitao looked at him worriedly. Was it poisoned?

            “Tea it is, then.” Jongdae chuckled, handing him a cup. He turned to Kyungsoo. “Neither of them are injured enough to require immediate medical attention. Go to sleep, doctor.”

            Kyungsoo frowned but he knew that Jongdae was right. His head ached, his eyes itched, and there was a soreness that wouldn’t leave his shoulders. “I have some pain killers if either of them say they need some.” He yawned, “they’re in my bag.”

            Jongdae nodded, waiting for the other man to leave. Then he turned to Yixing and Zitao, buttering a slice of bread. “I told you my name, so why don’t the two of you tell me yours?”

            “Zhang Yixing.” Yixing spoke softly, “This is my brother, Zitao.”

            “And the injured boy?”

            Yixing shook his head. “We don’t know. He is Korean.”

            Jongdae nodded slowly. He didn’t look like he believed them on that note. Yixing understood. It didn’t make sense for anyone to do anything for a stranger. That was why he and Zitao were so confused about their current situation. He could not see what advantage Jongdae or the doctor could have gained from helping them.

Jongdae continued, sipping his coffee. “Did you leave anything at the railroad barracks? It’d probably be stolen by now.”

            “We took everything with us. We have it here.” Yixing was ashamed to admit that all their belongings fit into a burlap sack. Zitao was silent beside him. His shyness had taken over, eyes roving the dining room and adjoined parlor.

            Their family had been well off, lesser nobility with enough money to send Yixing off to become a government official. But their home had been filled with the decorations and riches of the Orient, not grandfather clocks and rose-printed china. Zitao looked afraid to touch anything. He fidgeted in his chair, hands in his lap.

            Jongdae glanced between the two. “Do you intend to go back?”

            Yixing blinked. Back to the railroad company? “Yes.”

            “No.” Zitao answered quietly but with determination. He glanced at Yixing, seeing his brother’s surprised glance. Yixing made the decisions, he knew. His ge always knew what was best for them. But sometimes Zitao felt like he knew what was best more so.

            They had been betrayed. They had been left to die, torn apart by monsters. No one at the railroad cared if they lived or died. But the railroad was their only source of income. If they didn’t have money they would starve. His brother had probably thought that the company was the lesser of the two evils.

            Zitao thought he was wrong.

            He wouldn’t forget that fear, the knowledge that his life had meant less to those men than their horses and their tiny dog.

            “If you’re worried about the money,” Jongdae glanced between the two, “we could go to the company and demand to see the contract you signed.”

            “It’s here.” Yixing murmured. “They gave us our contracts for safekeeping.” If they didn’t go back, what would they do? They needed a job, a livelihood. The railroad company was their only chance at survival. He knew Zitao’s pride and he knew the dangers of the workplace, but they had no choice. There were no other options.

            Jongdae blinked, before he began laughing. It wasn’t the laugh of someone who had just heard something funny, but the laugh of someone who had heard something so ludicrous and pitiful that it became funny. “Of course they did. What a failsafe. Everyone carries their papers so if the body is lost, so is the contract. That way your relatives wouldn’t be able to cash in on your loss.”

            Yixing reached into his sleeve and pulled out the worn, crumpled sheets of paper. Jongdae unwraveled them and flattened them on the table with his tea saucer before he began reading. The silence seemed to stretch before the smile on Jongdae’s face fell. “Who read this to you?”

            Yixing and Zitao exchanged glances, but it was Yixing who spoke, “We don’t speak Korean, so I’m unsure what the contract says in full.” He felt terribly foolish. He looked completely uneducated here in this foreign country.

            “This contract doesn’t say anything at all. This is just a wanted ad from the newspaper.” Jongdae met Yixing’s gaze. “You seem to have been cheated twice, Zhang Yixing.”

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