by H. J. Pang
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Text © H.J. Pang
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National Library Board, Singapore Cataloguing in Publication Data
Name(s): Pang, H. J.
Title: The last server / H. J. Pang.
Description: Singapore : Marshall Cavendish Editions, 2019.
Identifier(s): OCN 1121162583 | eISBN: 978 981 4868 77 8
Subject(s): LCSH: Organized crime--Fiction. | Dystopias--Fiction. | Singapore--Fiction.
Classification: DDC S823--dc23
Printed in Singapore
This work was produced during the 2016 Mentor Access Project by the National Arts Council, Singapore.
To my characters, who insisted on their stories being told.
One can only do so much to block out their voices.
To my Ma, who encouraged me to write, study and work
at the same time. A juggling act of sorts, but then,
everyone’s an acrobat in their own way.
Come on, Greg. Get a move on already!
PROLOGUE
GREG CLUTCHED HIS right arm, wheezing hard with his back against the wall. Blood ran down its length, soaking into a battered elbow guard. The sounds of semiautomatic gunfire echoed from the other side of the room, their loud echoes bouncing off the electromagnetically shielded walls. Right across from him was a dead commando of the Old Guard, lifeless eyes staring accusingly back at Greg.
He knew the end was near. Who was he to believe that he could take on the might of an entire triad crew, with only the help of a computer cultist and an old commando? The 418 Dragons triad may not be as well trained, but they were far better equipped and prepared than a washed-up soldier like him.
Right in the centre of the room was humanity’s last server, its superclocked processors humming serenely in the midst of shouts and gunfire. Before the control interface stood the computer cultist, Wesley, his body trembling as countless streams of data passed through his cerebral datalink. Even for a steadfast devotee of the Code, the security protocols of the server were fast taking its toll on his mind. Several figures lay upon makeshift beds set in a circle around the access point, maintaining their unconscious vigil. Wires trailed from their heads to the central control point.
“Get down, Wesley!” yelled Greg, yanking his last grenade out from a pouch. He fumbled with the pin, but without warning, the wall to the server room was blown in, showering him and Wesley with fragments.
Greg lay groaning on the cold, hard floor with a sharp ringing in his ears, praying that if he and Wesley were to die that day, all they had worked for would not be in vain.
The fate of the people rested on them both.
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER
Two and a half days ago
GREG’S GRANDFATHER ALWAYS said he never liked the Causeway. To him, it represented a precarious dependence on another. It was at this border crossing that billions of litres of water had flowed through pipes, the daily lifeblood of an island nation until it realised that having it home-made was so much less trouble. It was across this bridge that countless traffic jams occurred, every single day, where frustration and sheer boredom threatened to kill those in line. After all, the two countries’ mobile data plans weren’t interchangeable.
And here Greg now was, standing atop an old SBS bus overlooking its entirety. Up above shone the late morning December sun through a patch of clouds. Ahead of him, millions of dollars worth of COE lay rusting and abandoned, their value further depreciated by the long-looted engines and headlamps. Once something only the well-to-do could afford, these cars were now discarded like trash on the broken road. An old billboard six years out of date advertised the Singapore Air-show. Upon the horizon lay the hazy outline of what used to be home to Greg, but now all he could feel was a sense of trepidation as he surveyed the skyline, once filled with looming structures, now with hills of rubble. No city had ever looked more forlorn to him, not even the dilapidated facade of Johor Bahru. This was how things were in the world now, a world he had wished his children would not see. But it was far too late for that.
The way across the old Causeway was treacherous, and Greg was impressed that the structure still stood, six years after The Storm. Sections of bridge had been pulled apart in places, noodles of rusty rebar holding them together like precarious threads. Breaking into a run, Greg leapt across a gap, landing hard onto the hood of an early-model Toyota Avanza. He stiffened as the underside of the car groaned against the tarmac, shifting from its years-long rest. Greg scrambled quickly across its rusty surface as the vehicle pitched over the edge of the bridge, his feet landing on concrete just in time. He looked back at the car in its descent, which landed with a resounding splash in the murky water.
That was close. Even on water, a fall this high could kill. But a larger gap loomed ahead, with only the concrete dividers by the side still intact. Steeling himself, Greg held onto the railings, sidling his way across slowly but steadily. Twice, the concrete beneath his feet crumbled, and he had to quickly reaffirm his grip.
His arms and feet were already aching by the time he got to where the car inspection areas were. The cars were parked permanently at their eternal graves, no chance now of ever clearing customs. Their windows long since smashed in, not even the seats remained. Entire conduits of wires had been ripped out and pilfered for applications in the post-Storm economy.
“Eh! Who are you?” demanded a voice.
Greg turned quickly, dropping into a crouch. He had gotten careless. Three men emerged from behind the surrounding pillars and an old immigrations booth. All wore the signs of hostility and hard living: dust-coated skin and eyes that always seemed to glare. Unlike most wastelanders Greg had encountered, however, these guys lacked that hunger in their eyes. Yet the weapons they wielded betrayed their potential for trouble. He could handle the two parangs, but the scratched Taurus 85 police revolver posed a problem.
“It’s okay! I’m not here for trouble!” Greg raised his hands and tried to back away towards the edge of the bridge, but the one with the revolver stepped towards him, weapon sights raised to his face.
“I asked who you are! You better answer!” he snapped. Despite being the smallest of the three, he carried himself confidently. Most likel
y the leader. He was the only one who wore the same grey jacket that Greg did.
“I’m a runner from the 418 Mines! I’m on your side!” Greg said. “Here, let me show you!” He drew the sleeve of his jacket up slowly, exposing the armband he wore beneath. A crudely-dyed image of a flame between a hammer and pickaxe showed itself, clinging tightly to a well-toned bicep.
The trio’s leader looked towards his armband briefly. A look of mingled surprise, along with shock crossed his face as his men shuffled their feet.
“You’re with the Minelords?”
Greg nodded.
“From whereabouts, exactly?”
“The mine of Teluk Ramunia! I’ve come bearing a message for this outpost. So if you’ll let me …” He gestured to the satchel by his side.
The guard leader turned to a scruffy, bearded man with a scar across his left cheek. “Rashe, go get that from him. Shen Ren, cover Rashe. No funny moves, understand?”
“I’m Greg. Greg Lin,” said Greg, forcing a smile. “I’ve also brought some treats for you all. Goreng pisang from a stopover point.”
“Goreng pisang? Gimme lah!” snarled Rashe. He snatched the satchel from Greg, and turned it upside down. A short parang and half-full bottle followed by two sheets of folded paper and a bundle landed with a thump. While Shen Ren picked up the messages, Rashe tore apart the bundle’s wrapping. He was already munching as Shen Ren handed the papers over to his leader. The leader read the folded messages as Greg waited.
At long last, he lowered his gun. “Good of you to bring these to us. I’m Liang. We haven’t heard anything for a long while from the other 418 outfits. How long did you take to get here? Did someone drop you off?”
“A few hours,” lied Greg. He followed as the leader beckoned them to follow him. Already the tension was dissipating. “A truckload of our enforcers were passing by, so I managed to catch a lift near to wherever they were going.” The quieter of the two peons, Shen Ren, took a swig of water from Greg’s bottle before passing the satchel back to him. “You’re the 432 for this outpost?”
“49er in command,” corrected Liang. The Minelords were under the umbrella of a larger triad called the 418 Dragons. After The Storm rendered much of the populace defenceless, the once-divided secret societies formed a union. By killing off all the other bosses, the current leader established himself as the Dragon Head, the highest position in a triad. No one knew what his real name was, but his vision had allowed for much of the surviving population in what was Southern Malaysia and Singapore to be enslaved for the triad’s interests, one of which was tin and bauxite mining, which fell under the purview of the Minelords. And within a triad were separate subgangs called crews, or outfits. A 432 denoted the rank of “Straw Sandal”, which was basically a liaison officer between the separate crews. A 49er may be a rank-and-file member, but senior 49ers like Liang were effectively crew supervisors. Although the triads of old traditionally conversed in various Chinese dialects, most had switched to English after The Storm. After all, there were non-Chinese gangsters and slaves as well.
They approached a cluster of shacks in the style of zinc-roofed attap houses, which had made a comeback after The Storm. It didn’t take much except the simplest of materials and skill to put together. Smoke billowed from behind a shack, accompanied by the smell of rancid cooking.
“Well, Liang, one of the messages is meant for 418 HQ, so I’ll need it back,” said Greg, sneaking a glance at Rashe and Shen Ren. They were more engrossed in the pisang than the conversation. “I wouldn’t want to forget to bring it to them.”
“Eh, you new or what? All messages to HQ will be forwarded by us,” Liang finally turned around. Up close, Greg could see a coldness in his eyes that his two raggedy men didn’t have. “We will allow you to stay here at this checkpoint for no longer than the next morning. By then, a transport should arrive back at your designated pickup point for you to return back to Teluk Ramunia. And while you’re here, you’re not to stray from the checkpoint, understand? And we’ll hold onto your parang for you. Here, you’re already under our protection.”
Greg contemplated this. He had to get to the 418 Dragons HQ at Fusionopolis, and that was a long way into the island. But these guys were already wary of newcomers, and he wasn’t going to get anywhere with their eyes on him.
“Go get something to eat from our cook,” said Liang. “Rashe will show you around after you’re done. Water rations will be handed out at 3pm today, and right before you leave tomorrow. Dismissed!” He stalked away while Shen Ren and Rashe accompanied Greg to a shack. Thick white smoke was billowing behind it.
If this was the way the 418 treated their own people, Greg had no doubt that he would fare much worse if they knew what he actually was. Slaves from the mines didn’t have any rights.
Rich or poor, no one was spared when The Storm happened. No one truly understood what actually transpired. What was agreed on was that it had happened on a Saturday night in Singapore. One moment, life went on as normal. The next, entire power grids went out. Then came the fires, which started from the explosions of vehicles and fuel containers.
But that wasn’t the least of it. Buildings collapsed into themselves, their rebar interiors twisting apart by strong magnetically-induced forces. Entire city centres and HDB estates crumbled, and many said this alone resulted in the loss of more than eighty percent of the population.
It wasn’t only the destruction that awaited the survivors, but also the lack of information on what had happened. Any communication devices that weren’t fried received no signal. With conventional methods of relaying news out for the count, mass panic ensued. No one knew if the country was at war or even if a natural disaster was responsible. Nobody knew if it was just Singapore, or if the same thing was going on in the rest of the world. Rumours about a solar storm or electromagnetic pulse attack ran abound, and no one was able to dispel such notions. On the plus side, there was no social media to give rise to more panic.
The Home Team and SAF were in disarray themselves. Having relied on radio and phone communications for years, their attempts at relaying orders by hand were further complicated by the burning heaps of vehicles in their possession. And the citizens themselves hadn’t been idle. Some mobbed the governmental buildings, whether to complain or receive free aid. Others started looting stores and establishments, emboldened by the mass disorder. The more sensible ones tried to leave the country.
Greg still remembered the day it all happened. A day he wished would not replay itself over and over in his mind. He had awakened to the sound of crunching concrete, and managed to rouse his Lee Ping and the kids in time to evacuate their HDB building in Tampines. As they huddled at the car park along with their neighbours, it was clear that the four-storey building would not collapse completely. All it suffered were deep cracks throughout.
Greg’s three-year-old Toyota Lancer, the one he had bought with years of savings, was now a burning wreck. A few vehicles stood intact, but they didn’t have the keys in them. Greg could see the taller twelve-storey flats weren’t as lucky as his building had been. Entire HDB blocks and high-rise buildings had collapsed, and it was only months later that he found out that unlike shorter buildings, the weight of the high-rises caused them to exert more weight on their cracked foundations, resulting in their ruin. The screams of crushed residents filled the neighbourhoods, and Greg had to keep urging his family to move. Several times they were almost robbed by looters, and Greg’s military training had proved to be more than useful. By the tenth collapsed building, Greg realised they might have a better chance in neighbouring Malaysia. They had to head to the Woodlands Causeway.
It took them until the next night to reach there. It was far more crowded than he had ever seen it, far worse than the queues for the National Day Parades. Not so much with vehicles, as had generally been the case, but with throngs of people desperate to get across. Police and army personnel tried and failed to maintain order as members of the crowd attacked and pushe
d past each other. Then police vehicles were set on fire, the heat and smoke spurring the crowd to greater violence. Barricades, soldiers and police officers were pushed over and trampled. Greg knew he should be helping his fellow soldiers, but he had a wife and two kids to think about. Several times during the dash across the Causeway, he could hear gunshots. Twice he was almost separated from his kids in the surging mass of people, and he even had someone try to snatch his bag from him. That person had regretted it ever since.
Everyone had believed things were better on the other side of the Causeway. But they were soon proven wrong. Perhaps Greg’s family would still be together, had they stayed where they were. And perhaps, he would not be on this quest to find his missing son.
The thing about The Storm, or the apocalypse, was that it came a long time after mankind believed technology would always exist. With so much depending on computers and electronic infrastructures that sustained the once-modern world, it was bound to happen sooner or later.
Like many of the settlements Greg had seen, this checkpoint wasn’t so different, utility-wise. The nearby immigrations building was now a collection of ruins, but a camp had been built up around it. Construction canvas screens wrapped into cones fed morning dew to old plastic pails for drinking. Pieces of plywood and office partitioning formed the shacks. An open manhole topped by a chair with a hole made up the toilet, and Greg wondered what anyone would do should it ever get clogged. But all these were far better than the amenities back in the mines.
Though there were about six shacks here, Greg couldn’t see or otherwise hear anyone else within them. He followed Rashe around the shack that was emitting the smoke.
Here, the smell hit him the hardest. With only walls on three sides, the building was laid out in the style of a kopitiam, reminiscent of a village-style eating place. Red plastic chairs stood around two tables made up of stacked concrete slabs. Old Tiger, Heineken and Carlsberg beer bottles decorated the sides, along with an old, tattered flag of the opposition party. Behind a long counter made up of two stacked benches was a kind of stove made up of concrete blocks. At the fire fuelled by scraps of wood, a bare-chested cook tossed some rice about a wok. On his back was emblazoned the head of a snarling Chinese dragon, ringed with skulls. Without counting, Greg knew there were eighteen of them. He’d been slogging in the mines long enough to count the skulls every member of the 418 Dragons had.