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?