Friday, February 22, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Candle to the Devil : Chapter 1
Chapter 1
When Great Britain colonized eastern Asia, they brought with them Western technology and thought. Railroads and telegraph lines were erected from Hanseong to Beijing, and universities were reconstructed to fit Western philosophies and religion. Kingdoms and empires became territories and parliamentary districts.
As populations dwindled and concentrated in the barricaded major cities, the landscape of the world and of Asia in particular changed dramatically. Due to its location and environment, Joseon quickly became the academic and political center of the West in Asia, as the large cities of China slowly began to fall victim to both external and internal threats. This brought about the first wave of Chinese immigration to Joseon that we now commonly name the Hong Kong Diaspora.
—excerpt from Epidemic : The Rise of RCN and the West in Southeastern Asia by Rosaline Sutton, 1957.
Haeju Harbor, Joseon 1858
Monday, 10:00am March 7th
He understood nothing, and that was more terrifying than he’d imagined. He deftly reached for a hand and found it as fingers curled tightly around his own. He didn’t glance up at his brother, but he knew Yixing was as scared as he was. He could feel the tremor in his fingers as their knuckles bumped against one another. He also knew that Yixing’s face would betray nothing. It would be the same stoic mask that he’d donned the day their family had succumbed to the sickness and they’d been left alone in a world falling further and further into madness.
“Zitao.” He spoke in Xiang, and the sound made him relax slightly.“Ge.” Zitao replied, his voice barely above a whisper. The words he wanted to say next stuck in his throat. I want to go home.
“He said he would be waiting on the docks.” Yixing continued. Zitao could hear the uncertainty hidden behind the Changsha dialect. Zitao stared down, his free hand resting on the railing, and he wondered how they’d ever find anyone in that crowd. They all looked alike in their Korean clothing or their Western tailcoats. He and his brother in their changshan were easily recognizable. Immigrants. Outsiders. Orphans.
Yixing tugged on his hand and Zitao followed. Most of the others had disembarked and the crew barely spared them a passing glance. Yixing and Zitao were just two Chinese in a sea of many. They were not the first that had crossed this threshold and walked down this gangplank. And they certainly would not be the last.
Yixing spotted him first, but only because Zitao was too overwhelmed with the sights and smells and the overbearing fear that this was all a cruel joke; that someone would stop them and tell them to get back on the ship and send them back to a Hong Kong that may or may not exist. Because even if he wanted to go home he was terrified of being sent there.
The man was tall, a bit taller than Zitao himself. That surprised him, because people had always said Zitao was too tall for a Chinese. Too much wood in you. Too much water in your mother. You took it all out of her and she had nothing left to give. There wasn’t even any blood. Just you, too big, too big. Too big for your mother. But then he remembered that he was in Haeju and the man in front of them was watching him shrewdly.
His face was stern. It looked like he didn’t smile often. He wore brown cotton pants held up by a pair of black suspenders and his shirt sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow. He seemed entirely at ease in his Western clothes, and Zitao once again felt self-conscious. He looked down at the man’s boots to avoid his eyes. They were old but in good condition. He obviously took good care of them. Would Zitao and Yixing get Western clothing? Could he keep his changshan? It looked more comfortable than the clothes the other man was wearing.
“You are Zhang Yixing?” His voice was deep. Zitao had not expected that. His Mandarin was stilted, as if he were used to speaking something else and had to remember the words before he spoke them.
“Yes.” His brother replied, and his own Mandarin came a little easier but not without its own awkwardness. “This is Zitao. You are Wu Fan?”
Zitao glanced up to see the older man nod.
“We were promised work.” His brother continued, and there was an edge to his voice. “We were told you would give us work.”
Wu Fan looked the two over critically. Zitao avoided eye contact and he saw the corner of Wu Fan’s lips tilt into a sneer. He didn’t care. Someone behind him was shouting in a language he didn’t understand and the person to his left was answering and his ears felt like they would bleed and his head would burst from trying to make sense of it all. He didn’t want to be here. He was afraid.
“Are you both healthy?”
“We’re both very healthy. We have never been sick.” Yixing lied. When he was younger he’d had a fever that lasted four days, and he’d twisted his ankle jumping out of a tree when he was twelve. It still ached sometimes. And Zitao had gotten a cough when he was thirteen that had never really left. It came back every winter. But Wu Fan did not need to know. Uncle Zhou had told them to say they were healthy. If they were sick they wouldn’t be hired. If they weren’t hired they would have to get back on the ship. Yixing would never get back on that ship.
Ever.
Whether or not Wu Fan believed them Zitao couldn’t tell. But he gave a curt nod and turned into the crowd. “Follow me.”
Zitao and Yixing exchanged glances. Perhaps they had passed the test. Yixing shouldered their only bag, a canvas sack that carried all of the possessions they owned and some that they didn’t, and dove into the crowd behind Wu Fan.
Zitao felt the tug on his fingers and found himself pulled along. He kept his gaze trained on the top of Wu Fan’s head, far above the crowd, and he wondered if Wu Fan was friend or foe.
No, he was rather certain he was not a friend.
He just didn’t know if he was an enemy.
2:32pm
Park Chanyeol glanced at the clock nervously. Behind him, the automated printing press hummed and every few seconds a sheet of paper slipped out to join the growing stack on the floor.
It was broken and it was probably his fault. No, it was definitely his fault. Jongdae had told him not to mess with the machine but he’d figured that tweaking it so he could speed up the process wouldn’t hurt. He was in a hurry, and that dial was supposed to make it go faster right? It just so happened to not be the dial that made the machine work faster. It was the dial that changed the ink settings and now ink blotted papers were covering the floor and Jongdae was due back any moment now.
And Chanyeol was supposed to be at the harbor ten minutes ago.
The front door swung open with the cheerful ring of a bell and Kim Jongdae, editor and owner of Haeju Weekly Press, walked inside in a whirlwind of cigarette smoke and cologne. He threw off his coat and snuffed his cigarette out in the stand by the door, “I have a big story for you, Park. We need to move fast—” He paused as he glanced up and only then noticed the ever growing mountain of ink covered paper at Chanyeol’s feet.
Chanyeol swallowed.
Jongdae was a good boss. Well, not in the sense that he was good at what he did—although Chanyeol supposed he was—but good in the sense that he didn’t expect much from Chanyeol in the way of education or background. But there was one thing that Jongdae disliked and that was someone fiddling with his machines.
And Chanyeol knew that this job had gone far beyond fiddling. The shit eating grin that seemed like a permanent fixture on his boss’ face slowly dissolved into a tight smile that Chanyeol feared meant he had just lost his job.
But Jongdae merely cursed and walked over to the machine. He pulled a small tool out of his back pocket—Chanyeol didn’t know enough about machines or hardware to name it—and ducked under the contraption. “Damn calibrator belt.”
Chanyeol jumped at the metal clanging that ensued before the machine gave a groan and finally stopped. He kept his gaze trained on the legs peeking out from under the machine. “I can explain.”
“No time.” Jongdae slipped out and brushed dust off his pants. “The news waits for no one.”
“Hm?”
“The first wave of Chinese from Hong Kong arrives today.” Jongdae continued animatedly, apparently unfazed at the papers still covering the floor or the fact that he’d just stepped on one and the ink was making it stick to the bottom of his shoe. “This is our chance to get the feel of the situation in China. What happened in Hong Kong for them to all come here? Ah, I knew my Chinese lessons would pay off.”
Chanyeol knew that Jongdae spoke the most rudimentary of Mandarin, but he figured it was enough to get the basic outline of the situation. “No time to waste.”
Chanyeol supposed that Jongdae was the only editor who actively worked on his pieces. But despite what the politicians said about his sensationalist tendencies, he liked to get his facts. What he did or did not do with those facts was the bigger issue, in Chanyeol’s opinion. Jongdae always knew the truth, sometimes he just skewed it a bit; a habit that kept Chanyeol in fear of his livelihood—if not his life.
“But, uh.” Chanyeol swallowed. “I have to go pick up a friend. He just returned from London.” It was the reason for the whole fiasco in the first place. He’d been hoping to finish his work load quickly so he’d be able to get to the harbor before the boat was supposed to dock.
“You have friends?” Jongdae had a way of making insults sound like polite conversation. He threw his coat back on and slapped a derby onto his head. His grin was back, and Chanyeol could see his tongue peek out of the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go. If he’s at the docks we can meet him there after interviewing the Chinese.”
Chanyeol scrambled for his coat, wondering if he should inform Jongdae that the piece of paper was still firmly attached to his shoe.
Haeju Harbor
2:45pm
Do Kyungsoo looked across the harbor and gripped his bag tightly. Seagulls screeched overhead, swooping low, and he grabbed for his hat just in case. It was a bit too large but it had been a gift and he hardly had enough time to get it refit. As his fingers brushed the velvet rim he was reminded of how un-Korean he must have looked to those below in their hanbok and woven slippers. He could see suits, suspenders, and white cotton shirts and a smattering of military outfits, but they were lost in the sea of colored silk and hair ribbons.
He walked down the gangplank and descended into the crowd. Someone tugged at his arm, offered to carry his luggage. He gave a small nod and a polite refusal, his Korean stilted. He felt like a foreigner in his own country. A few drinks and he’d be able to shake off the discomfort, he was certain. He hoped they were offered on the train. At the very least they’d have rice wine.But for now he needed to find the rest of his luggage. He tucked his umbrella under his arm and headed toward the loading dock. A man was standing near the crates and trunks with a notebook and a pocket watch that didn’t seem to fit. He flipped it open with an impatient twitch of his mustache—he’d grown it out in the style of the English, with the edges curling up neatly—and barely spared passersby a glance until he realized that Kyungsoo was standing there.
“Do Kyungsoo.” Kyungsoo began, “There should be a trunk of mine there.” He pointed to the stack. “I believe it’s the one on the far left. The brown one with the brass trim.”
The man huffed. “We’ll need to check the contents. Procedure, you understand.” He said procedure in English, and his smile was mocking.
“I’m a medical doctor under the service of Her Majesty the Queen of England.” Kyungsoo replied in his own English, and he saw the man fumble over his words. He repeated them in Korean. He didn’t like showing off, and he certainly hadn’t intended to, but he was tired and filthy and he wanted his trunk without the hassle of dealing with government officials with inflated egos.
“Kyungsoo!”
He recognized the voice and turned eagerly, a smile spreading across his lips as he spotted the tall head bobbing up and down in the crowd. “Chanyeol!”
His childhood friend pushed through the mass of travelers with a matching smile and clasped Kyungsoo’s hand in a firm shake before he pulled him into a tight hug. Kyungsoo smiled against Chanyeol’s loose cravat and savored the moment. He had missed his friend far more than he’d like to admit. Chanyeol smelled like ink, soot, and sweat. Kyungsoo missed the hint of lemon that had accompanied him since childhood; it had been replaced with a musky perfume that he was sure his friend had sprayed on mere moments before heading out the door.
“Dammit, most of the Chinese have been taken in by the railroad company. We’ll have to track them down later.”
Chanyeol turned with a sigh and Kyungsoo took a step back from his friend to peer around him. A man in a pinstripe vest and a gray derby hat had broken off from the crowd and made his way toward them, tucking a pencil behind his ear with a frown.
He caught sight of Kyungsoo behind Chanyeol and reached out a hand to shake. Kyungsoo took it hesitantly. “You must be the friend Park talks about so much.”
“Ah.” Kyungsoo gave a hesitant laugh. Chanyeol shrugged, looking warily at his boss.
“I’m his boss. Kim Jongdae, editor and owner of Haeju Weekly Press. A pleasure to meet you.” He didn’t stop shaking Kyungsoo’s hand. In fact, his grip tightened if anything. “You’ve been in London, then?”
“Hm? Oh yes. For eight years.” Kyungsoo nodded. He glanced back to see the harbor official ordering someone to get his trunk. At least the man had the decency to do his job.
“And you’re a medical doctor?” Jongdae continued.
“From Oxford.” He wasn’t quite sure where this line of questioning would lead him but he had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to like it.
Chanyeol saw the grin forming; the one that told him Jongdae had found exactly what he’d wanted. He wished he’d been able to warn his friend before Jongdae attacked, but his boss wouldn’t be deterred now. “Then Doctor Do, you’ve been studying Pagoe haven’t you?”
“Pagoe?” Kyungsoo blinked, before recognition blossomed across his innocent features. “You mean RCN? I’d almost forgotten the Korean name. Yes. A bit.” He seemed uncomfortable with continuing, as if he’d just realized he’d said something he shouldn’t have.
“You should come back to the office and have some tea.” Jongdae grabbed Kyungsoo’s medical bag and turned to Chanyeol. “You can get his trunk, can’t you?” Chanyeol huffed. He wasn’t anyone’s bellboy, even if that person was his childhood friend. And besides, this was Kyungsoo, which meant that trunk was 20% clothes, 10% keepsakes, and 70% books.
“I called for a trolley…” Kyungsoo began, before Jongdae snatched the umbrella from his hand and pointed it in the direction of the street. “We have a carriage waiting.”
“I can’t, really.” Kyungsoo shook his head. “I have to take the next train to Hanseong. The new term at Sungkyunkwan starts in a few days and I’m heading a lecture hall.”
Jongdae scoffed. “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?” Kyungsoo looked from Jongdae to Chanyeol.
“A week ago, there was a train traveling from Haeju to Hanseong. They discovered the track was broken. It hasn’t been repaired yet.”
“The track was broken? In the Deadlands?”
“One of the engineers made it back alive.” Jongdae knew this because he’d interviewed him. “The railroad company hasn’t made any comment on the incident, but I hear they’re sending out the first group of workers to repair it soon.”
“The first group?” Kyungsoo’s brow furrowed in confusion.
Jongdae’s smile widened, but it wasn’t very pleasant. “I think we should have that tea.”
6:52pm
The barracks were crowded when Wu Fan opened the door and motioned inside. The sounds of Chinese filtering through the air made Zitao relax. He couldn’t understand it all because the dialects were different, but it was familiar in a way that Korean was not. This felt more like home, even if it was loud and smelly and unknown.
“Tomorrow we’ll go over the contract and begin work.” We Fan nodded curtly. Zitao watched the door close behind him and turned to his brother.
Yixing was scanning the room, gaze impassive. Sometimes Zitao wondered if he’d forgotten how to smile. A man a few years older than them glanced in their direction and shouted over the din. “There is a free bed over here.” His Mandarin was almost unintelligible and Zitao didn’t know if it was from the noise or the accent.
The man was massaging his calves when the two walked over. He jerked his chin in the direction of an empty bunk beside his own. It was dirty and covered with nothing more than a thin wool blanket with a hole at the left end, and Yixing decided that it was for this reason that the cot had been left untouched until now. But it was the only empty bed he could see so he sat his brother down and placed their bag beside him.
Zitao only then let go of his hand but Yixing could see his fingers twitch as he trained his gaze on his feet. Yixing couldn’t remember a time when he was not holding his brother’s hand. Their mother had died giving birth to him, and aside from the aunt that had breast fed him no one had paid Zitao much attention. Yixing was the only one that had cared enough to befriend him.
Because of this, Zitao had always been quiet. He was too afraid of ridicule, of losing the small bit of love that he’d earned to open up. And when he did talk it was in a quiet, hesitant stutter that even Yixing had a hard time understanding. He didn’t talk to anyone but Yixing— except for Uncle Zhou. Uncle Zhou had somehow gotten past Zitao’s guard in a way that made Yixing slightly jealous. Being the center of someone’s world for so long…it was something he could admit he didn’t want to lose. But there was no more Uncle Zhou. There was only Yixing and he knew that Zitao wouldn’t survive without him.
“My name is Li Feng.” Their neighbor grunted, pulling Yixing out of his thoughts to the present. “Where are you from?”
“Changsha,” Yixing paused, swallowed, and corrected himself. “Hong Kong.”
Li Feng nodded, understanding in a way that only another immigrant would. That was the China they had escaped, the China they had known. A China that was always changing until they couldn’t remember their hometowns or birthplaces at all.
“I’m Yixing.” He motioned to his brother who was now clutching their bag tightly. He needed something in his hands to replace Yixing’s. “This is Zitao.”
“He doesn’t talk?” Li Feng eyed Zitao curiously.
Yixing shook his head, and Zitao did not object. Li Feng murmured something under his breath and looked like he was going to say more when someone near the door shouted, “Lights out!” and the oil lamp flickered and died.
Yixing slipped into the bed on the other side of Zitao and his little brother turned to face him, bag held between them. He reached over it for his brother’s hand and Yixing gripped his fingers tightly. He wondered sometimes who was comforted more by the action. Their blanket was thin but his younger brother’s warmth was steady.
“Go to sleep.” He whispered softly. He knew Zitao heard him because he leaned forward and he could feel his breath on his nose.
“Can we trust him?”
Yixing didn’t know if Zitao meant Li Feng or Wu Fan. The answer, however, was the same. “I don’t know.” But we don’t have a choice.
8:34pm
“Kris.”
Wu Fan looked up from polishing his boots to the doorway at the sound of his English name. It was one of the workers he didn’t recognize, but that didn’t surprise him. He didn’t associate with the British and Korean foremen that much and they made no effort to include him. They tended to come and go between the stations. He didn’t see a reason to remember their names.
“The head foreman wants to see you.” He looked uncomfortable under Wu Fan’s piercing gaze. Wu Fan knew he unnerved most of the other foreman for the simple reason that he understood everything and so there could be no secrets. But understanding everything was the reason he was here and not in those barracks he’d left a few hours ago. He picked the languages up quickly out of necessity and he’d fine-tuned them to make himself valuable.
Because to be a Chinese man in Joseon was already a handicap. He thought it was ironic, because only fifty years before China had been the largest power in Asia. The Korean foreman left before Wu Fan could respond, leaving his door open.
Wu Fan gave a soft sigh and slipped on his boots, placing the stopper back on his bottle of shoe polish.
The hallways were quiet, and most of the rooms he passed were dark. He heard mutterings in Korean and English. No Chinese. He was the only Chinese foreman the company had.
He stopped in front of the door and gave three successive knocks. There was a long pause before a gruff, “Come in.” rumbled past the un-sanded wooden door.
He walked into the head foreman’s office and was hit with the overbearing scent of brandy and candle smoke. Daniel Heath, the head foreman in Haeju, was everything that encompassed a British middle-class man in Joseon: apathetic, ignorant, and an alcoholic. He was sprawled out in the chair behind his desk, ruddy-faced and half-asleep.
He motioned lazily to the chair on the other side of his desk, a lazy jerk of his fingers. The cigarette held between them fell to the ground. Wu Fan eyed it warily before he took the seat offered.
“How do they look?”
“Fit.” Wu Fan answered in precise, clipped English. “They’ll work hard.”
“The Afflicted are gathering in larger numbers and no one knows why. The guard says they can’t spare anyone for the job.” Heath gave a low laugh that ended in a drunken cough.
Wu Fan had known this would happen. The guard rarely had anyone to spare, and not on a job that had little chance of success. Wu Fan knew that the group sent out for the first round of repairs was fodder for the Afflicted. They didn’t have much to choose from at the moment, not until the other boats from Hong Kong arrived. “What will we do?”
Because the break in the tracks was closer to Haeju it was Haeju’s responsibility to repair it. Hanseong had sent a telegram complaining about the entire situation and warning that they wouldn’t handle this kind of sloppiness much longer. A bluff, hot air that meant nothing. The Joseon government had no say against the railroad company.
“Pick the most fit.” Heath grunted, swirling the bottle, light catching the liquid and painting an amber mosaic against the far wall. “I’ll give you a few guns.”
Wu Fan knew this meant there would be causalities and that they didn’t care. The workers were Chinese. There would be more on the next boat. They were replaceable. The anger and humiliation burned in the pit of his stomach like acid that crawled up his throat and ate up his words and he could only nod. “Yes sir.”
He left the room, back straight and stiff. He closed the door and heard Heath’s curse of “damned Chinese,” that made his hand curl against the knob. Part of him wanted to open the door and yell back. But he was no martyr. The Chinese couldn’t save themselves, and they didn’t want a hero.
He barely made it to his room before he let out a low, heavy curse in Cantonese and slammed his hand against the wall. Pain blossomed from the impact, traveling from his throbbing knuckles to his wrist to the bend in his elbow. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.
There was no point in worrying about it now. This wouldn’t be the first batch of naïve immigrants he’d sent to their deaths. It didn’t make it any easier to swallow. But his heart had hardened long ago. He couldn’t get attached. He had to save himself. Strength meant survival and he would survive.
He sat down on his bed and slipped off his newly polished boots. As he unfastened his suspenders and threw off his shirt he thought of the men that would die within the next few days. “Die here or die back home, they don’t have much of a choice.” He murmured to himself, reaching for the oil lamp.
He stared up at the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the pitch black of night, and found that his words held little comfort.
8:34pm
His hands shook as he placed the cup back atop its china saucer and the sound reverberated throughout the parlor. It was a nice parlor, if he’d been focused on it. Kyungsoo usually noticed things like that, and he usually verbalized it—but he couldn’t now. He felt rather faint.
The strong smell of coffee wafted from across the table and Kyungsoo briefly entertained the idea of asking for a cup. He needed something stronger than tea. But what he really needed was a bottle of that scotch he could see resting in the glass-windowed cabinet in the far corner near the victrola.
Jongdae watched Kyungsoo’s reactions over the rim of his coffee cup. He wished he could take satisfaction out of watching the color drain from his face, or the way his large eyes widened to an almost impossible size. If someone hit him on the back of the head they were sure to pop out and land in his tea. But he took no joy out of the news he’d just given to the other man.
He’s been away too long, he thought wearily.
Chanyeol dropped another sugar cube into his tea and stirred it absently. A somber dinner in Jongdae’s home above the office was not the way he had intended to spend the night with his childhood friend. Yet he knew that once Kyungsoo had asked about the Chinese that there was no hope for the night he’d anticipated.
He’d watched the disgust and horror and realization cross his friend’s face—Kyungsoo had a horrible poker face, you could see everything he was thinking—and it hurt, because he knew Kyungsoo all too well. His friend wouldn’t let it go because he would want to fix it. It was the reason he’d become a doctor in the first place. But he couldn’t fix this and it would only cause trouble if he tried. You know better than anyone that some things can’t be fixed.
“So the government lets this happen? The emperor?”
“The emperor is a puppet.” Jongdae gave a mocking laugh. “You’ve been in London, you should know full well how these colonies work. I hardly think you were welcomed with open arms.”
Kyungsoo bit the inside of his cheek. It was a subject he’d rather not bring up. “Why hasn’t anyone sent a petition at the very least? We have a House of Lords that could do that much.”
“They can’t afford to go against Baggerby and Green. No one can.” Jongdae placed his coffee down and loosened his necktie. “And they’re paid handsomely not to care, doctor.” Kyungsoo glanced at his friend and Chanyeol looked away, but not before Kyungsoo read his face. Just like you were paid to forget about what happened to your family. No, no, he was imagining things. It was his own guilty conscience talking, not Chanyeol. His friend had urged him to accept—and what could a young boy of eleven do in that situation?
People had called Kyungsoo many things—most of them unpleasant—and he’d been labeled a self-righteous idealist more than once. But he wondered if, when it counted, he’d be able to act the way everyone believed he would. Chanyeol seemed to think so. But Chanyeol had a higher respect for Kyungsoo than Kyungsoo did himself. Kyungsoo took another sip of his tea, closed his eyes, and listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
Jongdae glanced between the two. It was obvious that he wasn’t wanted here. He had work to do anyway—and he needed to rearrange a few articles to make room for the interview with the Chinese he planned on acquiring.
“Park, I’ll be downstairs. I need to finish fixing the printing press.” Jongdae stood. “Feel free to stay here for the night.” He bowed his head and headed out of the room, leaving Chanyeol and Kyungsoo alone.
“He seems nice.” Kyungsoo answered after a short silence. He opened his eyes and turned to his tall friend.
“When the factory burned down I didn’t have anywhere else to go. He offered me a job.” Chanyeol shrugged. He didn’t like being indebted to anyone, especially not a man who never let him forget that he owed him. That was the problem with Jongdae. He thought that any small act of kindness meant he was a saint and everyone should know about how much he’d sacrificed for them.
And since Chanyeol wanted to keep his job he couldn’t complain.
“How are your parents?”
“Mom passed away since the last time we talked.” Chanyeol said bluntly. It had been long enough that he could talk about it without the pain of loss. “Dad’s doing well. His arthritis is acting up more though.”
Kyungsoo nodded. He knew that Chanyeol didn’t want his condolences. But it hurt all the same. Chanyeol’s mother had looked out for him when he’d lost his family. She’d let him sit at her table and eat when there was barely enough food for her own children. It had only been for a month before he’d been sent to boarding school but he remembered it with fondness.
“How’s Eunjoo?”
“Married, I think.” Chanyeol sighed loudly and leaned back in the chair. “Aish, why’d you have to bring her up? If I’d have had the money I would have married her, you know.”
Kyungsoo smiled. “I wonder how much her parents had to pay for the groom to overlook her ah…” He trailed off and caught Chanyeol’s eyes. A cocky grin spread across his face.
“It was nice while it lasted.” Chanyeol relented. “Especially that time behind the tea house.”
Kyungsoo shook his head. “You wouldn’t have lasted, married to Eunjoo. She’d have eaten you alive.”
Chanyeol laughed. “She wasn’t that bad.”
“She chased me around the courtyard with a butcher knife when I came home to visit from the boarding school!”
“Well she is the daughter of a butcher. And you were interrupting our precious time together.”
The mood had lightened and for a moment Kyungsoo forgot the stories that Jongdae had told him earlier. The food looked edible again and his appetite returned. So long as he focused on the here, the now, on Chanyeol and his ridiculously complicated love life, he’d be fine.
Baggerby and Green Railroad Company, Joseon 1858
Tuesday, 8:00am, March 8th
Byun Baekhyun shouldered his rucksack and stared at the lines in front of him. Apparently he wasn’t the only Korean that had decided to search for work at Baggerby and Green.
Work was scarce, and they’d all been forced to accept that this was the only job left.
“Get in line, get in line to sign your contracts!” One of the clerks called over the crowd in Korean. Contracts? More like death sentences. Baekhyun scoffed, and then turned his attention to the raised voices of the Chinese as they gathered up in a separate line, someone explaining the process of contract signing to them in an equally grating tone.
Damn the Chinese…if it weren’t for them, he and the rest of these men here wouldn’t have to beg for low paying jobs just to make ends meet. If they weren’t so eager to work, if they weren’t so desperate and in ample supply, the railroad company would be forced to give the Korean workers better compensation.
But because they were replaceable…they were all treated like shit.
God…why had it come down to this?
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“They pay well.” Well was a relative term, but it was better than starvation.
“That’s because they don’t expect you to come back to collect your wages.”
“I’m running out of options.” Baekhyun answered truthfully. “The landlady came by again. They’ll kick us out if I don’t pay up by the end of the month.”
“I heard a group of Chinese workers are coming to help build. There are rumors that there’s an epidemic in Hong Kong. People are leaving as quickly as they can.”
“…is it Pagoe?”
“They wouldn’t let them come if it was Pagoe. But it might be contagious. Anyway, you shouldn’t go. We’ll find you a job. You know fully well that it’s too risky to work for the railroad company.”
That had been three days ago, his conversation with his uncle. But he couldn’t wait for a miracle any longer. If he didn’t get a job now he wouldn’t have enough money for the rent and his mother’s medicine. Dying now or dying from starvation later because he couldn’t afford food were his only options.
“Name.”
He blinked. He hadn’t even realized he’d gotten into line. “Byun Baekhyun.”
The clerk on the other side of the table pointed down to the paper. “Sign here please. Payment comes every two weeks. 19 shillings.” He dipped his thumb into the small saucer of ink and stamped the paper.
He glanced briefly at the Chinese workers. He wondered how much money they were being promised. He wondered how much more they were being cheated and then he realized that he didn’t care.
He headed toward the center of the courtyard where a raised wooden platform stood with a man standing atop it. He was tall on his own but while standing on the platform he towered over the crowd. Most of the other new workers had already gathered there, murmuring amongst themselves.
“Before we can begin fixing the railroad we need to get the supplies.” The man announced, first in Mandarin and then Korean. “We need to move those bars to these train cars.” He pointed from the pile of metal to the empty train cars waiting to be loaded. “Line up. And remember, those who work hard will be rewarded.”
It was unfortunate, but Baekhyun found himself sandwiched between several Chinese workers. To his left was an older man, probably in his early thirties. To his right was a man around his age. He was cold looking, with sharp features and narrowed eyes. Across from him was a man around the same age, also Chinese, because he was speaking to the man to Baekhyun’s left.
“These Chinese, eh?”
Baekhyun glanced up. Across from him was an older man, wrinkles already forming at the corners of his mouth. “You’re Korean.” He motioned to Baekhyun’s clothes. “There aren’t many of us here.”
“I noticed.” Baekhyun murmured as the first metal bar came their way. It was lighter than he expected, although he knew it was because there were so many hands holding it up. Still, he could tell that by the end of the day he’d be tired and sore. The first day was always the easiest, he knew. Because tomorrow he’d wake up sore and aching in places he didn’t know could ache and he’d have to get up and continue what he’d done the day before. It would take weeks to build up his muscles enough to no longer feel the pain. A few weeks…once he got his first few paychecks he’d quite. That would be enough money to pay the bills until he could find a new job. Maybe this time the opera house would be hiring. He wasn’t used to this kind of work.
“They don’t understand a thing. Word has it that they sign longer contracts. That way they can’t get paid till the end of the month. They don’t last long enough to collect.”“I heard no one does.” Baekhyun replied archly.
“Oh some of us make it.” The man laughed. “I’ve been here for a year now. They treat us better. The foremen, that is. Except for that one.” He jerked his head in the direction of the man on the platform. He was still standing there, watching them all with a dark expression. “He’s a Chinese too. Real asshole.”
“Does he favor the Chinese?”
“He doesn’t favor anyone.” The man barked. “Stick up his ass and an ego to match his damned height.”
Baekhyun wondered if any of the Chinese around him understood the conversation. They made no sign that they did. Some of them spoke softly in their own language. The man to his left with the man across from his right, mostly. The one beside him didn’t speak at all, and it made Baekhyun frightened even more. He looked dangerous.
It went like this for hours, until Baekhyun’s arms were so sore he didn’t think he’d be able to move them. A sharp whistle cut through the air and the man on the platform yelled out, “Lunch break!”
“Come on, the line will get too long if we stand here.” The Korean man—Yonggil, he’d introduced himself earlier—nodded in the direction of the ration line. Baekhyun followed behind him wearily. They were near the front, for which Baekhyun was grateful. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now.
“They feed us well enough.” Yonggil muttered with a laugh, “I suppose that’s where the rest of the wages go.” He shook his head and continued to chuckle, although Baekhyun wasn’t sure what was humorous about it at all.
There was a ripple in the crowd. Baekhyun didn’t notice the disturbance at first. It wasn’t until he glanced up and saw the Chinese foreman’s glare that he realized something was wrong. The tall man had walked off of the platform and was heading toward the back of the line.
“What’s going on?” He turned to Yonggil. The older man shrugged, but glanced over his shoulder. The Chinese workers seemed confused until a loud voice shouted something in Chinese and they all paused to watch.
There were two men at the back of the line. An impossibly tall one with wild hair and a well-dressed one with a pocket watch. Both wore Western clothing. As the Chinese foreman walked up to them, Baekhyun noticed that he was still taller than both.
“I just have some questions.” The shorter one with the pocket watch smiled brightly at the Chinese foreman.
“Who are you?” The foreman asked curtly.
“Editor of the Haeju Weekly Press.” The man continued to smile. His tall partner shifted nervously. He looked rather lost. As if he’d followed obediently and upon arrival had realized he didn’t know where he was. “I’m writing an article for this week’s paper.”
“Do you have permission?”
“Oh, no need for that.” The editor waved his hand in dismissal. “We can skip the formalities. It’s just a small interview.”
The foreman did not seem to hold the same convictions. His eyes narrowed and his expression became—if possible—colder. “They can’t understand you anyway. They speak Chinese.”
“Oh, I know that. That’s quite alright. I speak a bit myself, you see.” And then he turned and yelled something in Chinese. The Chinese workers in line exchanged glances. The foreman shouted something in the same language, a sharp command, and they fell silent. He turned back to the editor and spoke in Korean once more, “I think you should leave.”
“A journalist can’t leave without a story.” He began, before he spotted the group of foreman heading from the main building. “Well, I suppose just this once…” He turned to his tall cohort. “Let’s go Park.”
Baekhyun watched them before his gaze caught the Chinese foreman’s glare. He winced and quickly averted his eyes.
“Come on. If we don’t eat now we won’t eat at all.” Yonggil pulled him forward and Baekhyun followed.
He forgot the entire incident by the end of the day.
Saturday, noon, March 12th
Baekhyun could not lift a hammer for the life of him. Because of this, he found himself in the worst position possible—holding the stakes in place. There was always the terror, the fear as the hammer lifted into the air and was held in suspension before it fell—swift and heavy and dangerous. Then the hammer connected and the lucky felt only the vibrations of the hit through the stake.
Some people were not so lucky, and screams rang out just as often as the ring of steel against steel.
Baekhyun was even more jealous when he watched the two Chinese boys. For better or worse, he and Jonggil were always placed beside them. And the two worked like a well-oiled machine. Both of them could lift the hammer quite easily, although the scary looking one was better at it. The trust between them was rather inspiring. They didn’t talk. They’d share a glance, a quick meeting of the eyes and then the hammer would echo against the stake in an ear-shattering ring.
Baekhyun trembled and stuttered every time Jonggil lifted the hammer. And it didn’t help that sometimes the Chinese foreman would get off his horse and walk behind them, shouting orders. He was the only foreman that ever got off his horse when they were in the Deadlands.
It was their fourth day in the Deadlands, and so far they had not seen or heard anything other than themselves and a few birds flying overhead. It had taken only the first day to load up the train cars. The next they’d all stuffed themselves into the only available car and the steam engine had taken them out of Haeju and into the wild.It had been Baekhyun’s first time outside of Haeju. He’d half expected the Deadlands to be a barren wasteland, full of gnarled trees and fire and brimstone. But it was surprisingly similar to the forests inside Haeju’s walled borders. There were no sulfur clouds or quicksand. Just trees and grass and silence.
They’d stopped on the tracks and found the old train where it had been left. The train was empty, not that they’d expected anything different. Ominous brown stains coated the walls and the smell was far from pleasant. He did not envy those that would have to clean it once they brought it back to Haeju. He learned later that it was the Chinese workers who did so, after the Korean ones left for home at the end of the day.
The second day had been mainly spent hooking up the old train to the new one to be taken back to Haeju. At first Baekhyun didn’t understand how they’d turn the train around on the single track until Jonggil pointed to the steam engine attached to the back of the train where the caboose was usually placed. “See, it’s got an engine on both sides so they can get back easily. Should’ve done that on the first train, but it’s expensive.”
The third day had been spent clearing off the old, twisted tracks. The foremen had murmured among themselves about what had caused the damage. No one seemed to know, because the damage didn’t look natural at all. They’d been ripped and bent backwards, large metal claws grasping the air.
Now they’d begun setting the new tracks. It was at this time that he’d discovered he was quite lacking in the area of upper body strength.
Tang. Tang.
Baekhyun was thrown out of his thoughts by the two Chinese beside him. They had been given a small break, but the two had continued working through it. Do they think working through the break will get them praise? The Chinese foreman had said that they would be rewarded for hard work, but only fools would believe that. It was just an empty promise to get them to stop complaining. But these idiots really seemed to believe it…
The two moved with a grace that told Baekhyun they were used to hard labor. The younger brother was currently hammering. It was hot for a March afternoon and he’d opted for taking off his shirt like several of the other workers. His changshan was folded neatly near his pack.
He was skin stretched over taught muscles and bone. He was thin, the kind of slimness that came from being overworked and underfed. Perhaps it was that same thinness that made him look so threatening.
Baekhyun could hear the other workers murmuring in Chinese. One of the horses whickered nervously. He glanced at the foreman who was scanning the area with his binoculars, rifle thrown over his shoulder.
“Back to work!” The Chinese foreman shouted.Baekhyun reluctantly stood and gave a soft sigh.
Haeju Weekly Press
Saturday, 1pm
“Now let’s see here…well I do believe you’ve dislocated it. Hold on now.” Kyungsoo smiled kindly down at the young boy. The boy continued to sob; tears, snot, and soot covered his cheeks.
“I told him not to do it.” His mother was saying wearily. “But his father’s business isn’t doing so well so he thought we could use the extra money.” She bit her lip, looking ashamed of herself. Kyungsoo had no doubt that she’d been the one to send him to sweep chimneys rather than him volunteering.
But it wasn’t his place to judge, not when there was a little boy crying and in pain. “Now I need you to hold still,” he began, placing on hand on his shoulder. The boy let out a small cry but to his credit he didn’t move. “This is going to hurt just a bit. Take a deep breath and—there!” He shifted his shoulder and there was a small pop. The boy gave a final shrie and then blinked, sniffling. He gave a hesitant smile.
“Oh thank you doctor!” His mother called out, looking relieved. She held out a jar uncertainly. “I don’t have any money but I brought this, if you’d like it.”
Kyungsoo nodded. “That’s more than enough pay for setting a dislocated shoulder. Thank you.” He took it gladly. It had been a very long time since he’d had kimchee. He watched the woman and her son leave. The door rang as they opened it and they nearly collided with Jongdae as he walked in.
He watched them go down the street and turned back to Kyungsoo with a small frown. “I don’t remember saying you could use my office as a hospital.” He placed his hat and coat upon the rack by the wall and fumbled in his pocket for his watch.
“It’s only small injuries.” Chanyeol defended from his desk where he continued editing the typeset that Jongdae had made earlier that morning. “Did you find anything else out?”
“They’ve plastered my picture up all over the railroad station. A public nuisance.” Jongdae huffed, “I can’t get in, and the head foreman refuses to see me for an appointment.”
“He probably hasn’t forgotten the article you wrote about him last year.” Chanyeol snickered.
“He was using British coin to bribe government officials for trade benefits.” Jongdae scoffed, loosening his bowtie. He threw it off as if it had gravely offended him. It hit the edge of his desk with a small rustle of cloth before sliding off. He didn’t make any effort to pick it up. Instead he collapsed into his chair with a loud sigh. He looked back at Kyungsoo, “They didn’t let me see the foreman, doctor, but they told me that the track to Hanseong should be finished by next week. There haven’t been any incidents yet.”
Kyungsoo leaned back in his seat. No incidents yet? He was glad for that, but something seemed off about it all the same. One expected that the Afflicted would have appeared at least once in the past few days, drawn by the scent of other living creatures. It wasn’t that he wished anyone ill, but he anticipated the news all the same. The saying no news was good news was false because it left him wondering. At least with some information they would be able to proceed. Ah, but it didn’t matter. The Afflicted were out there somewhere and the further they were from the cities the better.
He’d sent a telegram ahead to Hanseong that he’d be late for the new semester classes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the reply he’d gotten yesterday.
Saturday, 1pm
“Now let’s see here…well I do believe you’ve dislocated it. Hold on now.” Kyungsoo smiled kindly down at the young boy. The boy continued to sob; tears, snot, and soot covered his cheeks.
“I told him not to do it.” His mother was saying wearily. “But his father’s business isn’t doing so well so he thought we could use the extra money.” She bit her lip, looking ashamed of herself. Kyungsoo had no doubt that she’d been the one to send him to sweep chimneys rather than him volunteering.
But it wasn’t his place to judge, not when there was a little boy crying and in pain. “Now I need you to hold still,” he began, placing on hand on his shoulder. The boy let out a small cry but to his credit he didn’t move. “This is going to hurt just a bit. Take a deep breath and—there!” He shifted his shoulder and there was a small pop. The boy gave a final shrie and then blinked, sniffling. He gave a hesitant smile.
“Oh thank you doctor!” His mother called out, looking relieved. She held out a jar uncertainly. “I don’t have any money but I brought this, if you’d like it.”
Kyungsoo nodded. “That’s more than enough pay for setting a dislocated shoulder. Thank you.” He took it gladly. It had been a very long time since he’d had kimchee. He watched the woman and her son leave. The door rang as they opened it and they nearly collided with Jongdae as he walked in.
He watched them go down the street and turned back to Kyungsoo with a small frown. “I don’t remember saying you could use my office as a hospital.” He placed his hat and coat upon the rack by the wall and fumbled in his pocket for his watch.
“It’s only small injuries.” Chanyeol defended from his desk where he continued editing the typeset that Jongdae had made earlier that morning. “Did you find anything else out?”
“They’ve plastered my picture up all over the railroad station. A public nuisance.” Jongdae huffed, “I can’t get in, and the head foreman refuses to see me for an appointment.”
“He probably hasn’t forgotten the article you wrote about him last year.” Chanyeol snickered.
“He was using British coin to bribe government officials for trade benefits.” Jongdae scoffed, loosening his bowtie. He threw it off as if it had gravely offended him. It hit the edge of his desk with a small rustle of cloth before sliding off. He didn’t make any effort to pick it up. Instead he collapsed into his chair with a loud sigh. He looked back at Kyungsoo, “They didn’t let me see the foreman, doctor, but they told me that the track to Hanseong should be finished by next week. There haven’t been any incidents yet.”
Kyungsoo leaned back in his seat. No incidents yet? He was glad for that, but something seemed off about it all the same. One expected that the Afflicted would have appeared at least once in the past few days, drawn by the scent of other living creatures. It wasn’t that he wished anyone ill, but he anticipated the news all the same. The saying no news was good news was false because it left him wondering. At least with some information they would be able to proceed. Ah, but it didn’t matter. The Afflicted were out there somewhere and the further they were from the cities the better.
He’d sent a telegram ahead to Hanseong that he’d be late for the new semester classes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the reply he’d gotten yesterday.
Doctor Do. Your absence is noted. Other students and professors also stranded in Haeju. Absence approved. Awaiting further notice.
So he wasn’t the only one stuck in Haeju? The thought didn’t make it any more bearable. He had just returned from London and everything had become a mess. Had it always been this way?
Or had he merely been too young to notice it before?
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