The Last Server

by H. J. Pang

  Greg should have expected this, but he hadn’t. As one, the soldiers stopped in their tracks, weapons raised towards him and Wesley. The squad leader’s pistol found itself against Greg’s neck, its coolness a reminder of the dangers throughout the wasteland.

  “What?” Greg spluttered as he found himself relieved of his weapon, his arms held behind him. Wesley was struck from behind and held likewise. Aside from a cough, he didn’t make any other noise.

  “Did you really think you could infiltrate our home so easily?” demanded the squad leader. Now that he was up close, Greg saw that he had an epaulette affixed to his vest, three horizontal bars identifying him as a military Captain. A name patch stated his name as Ping SH. “Search these two,” he ordered his men.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Captain,” growled Greg, two of the men patting him down. “If you wanted to know who we are, just ask. There’s no need for this high-handed fuckshit.”

  “Really?” asked Captain Ping, his brow stretched in a sneer. “You seem pretty well-armed compared to the average wastelander.” He held up the AV-2 Greg had carried. “Granted, it looks like a toy, but its ammunition is not.” The Captain ripped out its magazine, exposing the discoloured cartridges at the top.

  “The wasteland is an unforgiving place. These are but our means of defence,” said Greg. “Whoever travels unarmed is a fool.”

  “And whoever bears guns has the means. The means to make or steal them,” said Captain Ping, and Greg knew he had seen through them. “418 spies, perhaps? What bidding do you do for your masters?”

  “We come not to enforce the will of the 418, but to fight against them,” said Greg. “A task that cannot happen while you hold us here.”

  “Next time, we let these guys die,” snorted Wesley. Someone had removed his goggles, revealing a pair of angry eyes. “Bunch of ungrateful shits.”

  The rest of the men exhibited a mix of annoyance and uncertainty. Now that they weren’t under fire, Greg saw they wore a haphazard mix of gear. All wore the military formation running vests he had seen earlier. He recognised the green digital camouflage pants a couple wore as that of the Singapore Army. Another two wore the grey digital camouflage pants of the Navy, which wasn’t altogether common, but had greater camouflage capabilities in urban areas. All wore waist pouches stocked with ammunition, except for one who wore the 1st-Gen “Bra-Strap” load bearing vest. They held a mix of SAR 21s and M16s, but no other support weapons.

  “You guys are part of the Old Guard,” said Greg in realisation.

  Captain Ping leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He didn’t lower his gun.

  “Pardon me, but the ragtag appearance of your gang—your squad made me think you were just a bunch of survivors making do. I thought the Old Guard defended the City and all around it. Not retreat before a bunch of glorified thugs.”

  “That’s because the 418 had never come in full force!” yelled the Captain. “They may have sent small patrols every now and then, but they know there’s nothing for them here. Yet, less than an hour before your arrival, the 418 arrived, not in mere scout patrols, but full combat companies! Before that, they had never once pushed into the Old City. Just as my men and I were caught in the fray, who should turn up but the both of you! Most convenient indeed.”

  “Convenience doesn’t explain it,” denied Greg.

  “Then what’re you doing here? Who do you serve?”

  “That’s not for you to know. But we’re on your side.”

  Captain Ping gripped his P228 pistol harder, looking for a moment he would use it. But one of his men spoke.

  “Sir, perhaps we should bring them to the Colonel,” suggested the soldier. He wore the red and yellow vest of the Headquarters 9th Division, Infantry, with a 3SG epaulette on his ILBV. He looked just about old enough to have been enlisted before The Storm began. “They might have some insight on what’s going on.”

  “And what, Ang? Lead foes to our home?” snorted the Captain.

  “Regardless of hostility, they did save our lives,” said Sergeant Ang, and the other soldiers looked uncomfortably back at each other. “Besides, it’s clear they aren’t ordinary wastelanders, judging by their equipment. If they have intel on the enemy, the Colonel needs to know about it.”

  “Fine!” The Captain threw up his arms. Greg flinched. “But if any of these guys run, they’re dead.”

  THE CITY BELOW

  GREG SAW MORE of the MRT infrastructure then he had ever had in his entire life. But then, it wasn’t like they had tours to sign up for even back in the day.

  The tunnels lead past several collapsed areas, including what appeared to have been temporary living spaces at some point. Otherwise-empty rooms showed an excess of empty food and drink packets, the sharp smell of long-rotten food or dead rats piercing the air. Many a smashed door and skeleton told its own story of what had happened. Greg saw calendars flipped permanently to 15th February, a reminder of the day it all happened.

  Eventually, the maintenance tunnels led out to one of the main MRT train tunnels. Even before The Storm, most people, rich or poor, had to depend on the MRT at some point. And now, after The Storm, he had to travel its tunnels not once, but twice, just to get where he needed! Greg almost laughed out loud at the dark humour of it.

  “Are there any Mindless here?” Greg couldn’t help but ask. He hadn’t expected anyone to understand what he meant, but their actions said it all. Some of the soldiers tightened their grip on their rifles, with one muttering a prayer under his breath. The Captain glanced at him, while Wesley remained impassive as always.

  “There used to be, but we cleared most of the nearby areas some time back,” replied Ang. “Ammo was short, so we had to drive them away and isolate part of the train network with barricades. Every now and then, one would somehow find its way in, but that’s what our patrols are for. You encountered them? Where exactly?”

  “Somewhere between Botanical Gardens and one-north station. There’s got to be at least fifteen of them in that stretch,” replied Greg.

  Captain Ping frowned. “Are you going to sit down and have kopi and teh-si with this guy, Ang? If not, be quiet!” The journey onwards was spent in silence. The clop of boots and shoes echoed throughout the tunnel, dim beams of light doing little to pierce the circle of darkness.

  They neared a collection of dim lights in the distance, which turned out to be a guard post. Of the six guards, two of them were asleep against the makeshift concrete barricade. The other four were seated on plastic crates much the same way as one would at the tables of a HDB void deck. No GPMG or support weapons were to be seen, with the only armaments being a couple of dull-coloured M16s which had been repainted countless times with Kiwi boot polish. By the look of the barrel grips, they weren’t even 2nd-gen models, and were similar to those used by reservists during In-Camp Training. The old- generation M16s were, in Greg and many soldiers’ opinions, pieces of shit. Their direct- impingement gas operated systems meant it fouled and jammed frequently, as the Americans learnt during the Vietnam War. Why anybody even kept them in stock was anybody’s guess.

  “Waaassup, Sir!” greeted a guard. His chevrons indicated him as a staff sergeant, and Greg wondered at the state of the Old Guard to not accord their officers the necessary respect.

  “Guard Duty is relak time also?” scowled the Captain. The staff sergeant shrugged as his men laughed.

  “Nobody come this way, not like anything will happen!” drawled the staff sergeant.

  “We just got back from a war zone, so you better do your damn jobs!” snapped the Captain.

  “When the enemy comes, you better not be so relak or bochup! You mati then you know!”

  The staff sergeant nodded, but as the squad passed, Greg could see the derision in his eyes. An army survives on its people and morale. He shuddered to wonder what the other men would be like.

  A couple of makeshift steps of concrete blocks led from the tracks to the pla
tform, and here, Greg could see that an entire city lay beneath the old one.

  Although the station’s signboards had long been dismantled for materials and parts, Greg recognised the layout as that of City Hall station. Tents and shacks of plywood and plastic sheeting took up much of the platform space, with scruffy-looking people going about their lives. Cooking fires glowed here and there, with the occasional clink of ladles against metal. Someone had lit a flame beneath an old escalator step, grilling an assortment of items on the ridged surface. Against the wall at the far corner was what looked to be a vegetable garden of sorts, with fluorescent lighting providing a little of the light the plants needed. As an interchange station, City Hall compromised of several different levels, each serving a different line when train services still existed. As they were led up a rickety escalator which had had its steps replaced by wood panelling, Greg and Wesley could see the level that had serviced the North-East Line was now a dedicated work floor of some kind. Bits of scrap and rubble from the topside were disassembled by teams, with the constant sound of hammering and sawing permeating the air. Different metal parts such as rebar and screws were sorted to different workbenches, where other crew worked on repairs. There was even what appeared to be a reloading bench, with a civilian sorting out different ammo casings from a pile while another ground gunpowder ingredients with a mortar and pestle.

  At what used to be the station control centre, the Captain stopped. “Lau, I need to speak to Colonel Beng,” he said to the guard within. The guard looked up from a worn Jeffery Archer paperback.

  “Colonel Beng is busy in the Duty Room. Is there any particular reason?” said the bored-looking lieutenant. Just like in the Army of old, he wore a tag on that identified him as the day’s Duty Officer. Despite the booms that could be heard topside, the underground city wasn’t the hive of activity Greg had expected. There were armed fighters shuttling here and there, but none looked too panicked or even in a hurry. He could see that Wesley had noticed this too, his normally stoic expression now creased in a frown. If this was how things were like in times of distress, Greg shuddered to think what it was like in better times.

  “We’ve brought in two tangos in need of questioning, and one child in need of medical attention,” said the Captain. “I need to give the Colonel an urgent sitrep.”

  “We have a procedure for that. Follow it,” said Lau. “Holding Cell’s where you last saw it.” He turned back to his book.

  Captain Ping stepped up to the door set beside the booth, and yanked it open. Pulling the lieutenant from the chair, he slammed him forcefully against a filing cabinet, scattering what appeared to be a pile of reading material, including old sports magazines.

  “I may tolerate your shit during peacetime, you bloody cheebai kia, but we are in a state of potential war!” roared Captain Ping. “So get off your ka cheng and do your fucking job! Inform the Colonel that this is an emergency!”

  The lieutenant threw a punch into the Captain’s midriff, something unheard of during Greg’s stint in the Army. Captain Ping grunted, but before the lieutenant could reach for his sidearm, Sergeant Ang barged into the booth, jamming his SAR 21 into his chest. The rest of his men held their rifles uncertainly. None of the passing soldiers seemed to find that strange.

  “I can shoot you now for assaulting my superior,” hissed Sergeant Ang. “But we don’t want blood all over the place, right? Not good for the next Duty Officer. Call Colonel now.” He backed away slightly, as Captain Ping recovered.

  Lieutenant Lau looked like he would gladly take on all of them, but instead reached for a switchboard. He pressed a red button labelled “COMMANDER” and spoke.

  “Royal Guard, Captain Ping is cleared for entry,” said Lieutenant Lau sullenly. “A status report awaits you.”

  “Roger that,” said the radio. Captain Ping gave the lieutenant a glare before leaving.

  “Put these two in the negotiation room,” he told Sergeant Ang. “And get the kid to the medical bay.”

  “I want to talk to Uncle Kim Shang!” said Guo Li suddenly. The squad turned to look at him curiously.

  “What do you know about Major Kim Shang?” demanded Captain Ping.

  “He is my uncle. I used to live here also.”

  Greg turned to the kid. “You chose only now to tell us this?”

  “I didn’t know who these soldier guys were. Many come and go,” said Guo Li. He had fallen into a sulk, the way Jin did whenever he wished to make a point. “Also, the uniforms you all wear, I don’t know whether real or stolen.”

  Captain Ping gave an exasperated growl. “I can’t just call anyone you like. The Major is a busy man.”

  “If you want do the right thing, then call him.”

  “Fine! I’ll go get the Major too. See to these guys,” said Captain Ping to his men. “And no talking to anyone about what’s happening up there! Not until me and the officers hold a briefing about it.” Six men including Sergeant Ang marched Greg and Wesley away, while the rest took Guo Li away. The kid looked back at them, and Greg waved back reassuringly.

  They now walked through what Greg—and most likely Wesley—remembered as the station’s entrance to what had been Citylink. A labyrinth of underground malls with entrances interspersed all over the city, what used to be a total of four escalators leading up to Raffles City mall were now collapsed in. Probably a good thing, because the booms from the city could still be heard, dust rumbling from the pile of rubble. Greg could only imagine what was going on above. Shelling, of course, but perhaps also troop movements and the like. He didn’t know how numerous the 418 fighters were, but if the size of the army that had enslaved him and his family were any indication, there had to be thousands at least.

  It was funny, really. Back before The Storm, the Government was always lamenting how few citizens wanted to enlist as a career soldier in the Armed Forces. There were less than 80,000 soldiers at any one time, more than half of which were conscripts. All these protected close to six million people. In the 21st century, such a size for an Army wasn’t considered adequate.

  Now, with the state of the world as it is, only a few thousand—a strength of several battalions—might be enough to defeat what was left of the Army, if you could call it that. Greg spied several squads dashing past, and in their eyes and slumped shoulders he could see their exhaustion. He wondered if they had any chance of holding out for just one day. In the open doors of what were once shops were a combination of medical bays and sleeping areas. A restaurant and several eateries had been converted to a mix of cooking areas and what appeared to be food and water storage.

  They passed what used to be a large gym, with two guards in front. The glass storefronts still remained, stained and cracked in places, though several shelves with mesh nailed to it made up its perimeter fencing. Greg could see several uniformed soldiers within it, one of them gesticulating wildly as he yelled. The neatly-worn No. 4 uniforms, complete with sleeves folded to “Smart 4” seemed almost out of place in what could be best described as a chaotic setting. There were no computers or laptops, but large charts took up a whiteboard placed at the front of the room. What appeared to be an OHP projector displayed a transparent, hand-drawn map of a location. From the orderly rows of buildings and straight roads, it was most likely the city area. Several markings had been crossed out in red, with a green circle located in the centre. A smudged number indicated there were currently 24 troops in “Outdoor Ops”.

  “Don’t tell me you have wounded men!” yelled one of the soldiers who was slightly shorter than the rest, with white hair. “We still need eyes on the enemy. Going blind is the worst mistake we can make at this point in time.”

  “Colonel, the best chance we have is making sure the community is safe,” said an officer. “We have enough food and water for another two weeks—”

  “That shit won’t do any good if the enemy attacks!” the Colonel spat back. At that moment, a door to the right of the room opened, revealing Captain Ping. However,
Greg could see and hear no more as his group passed. Sergeant Ang lead them to another room where two guards sat playing a board game, the Singapore version of Monopoly. Greg smiled grimly at the disparity between the game of property ownership and the reality of the wasteland, where one never truly owned a home—you simply held onto it as long as you could. Just like this underground city.

  “Yo, Min. I need to have two guys brought inside the Negotiation Room,” said Sergeant Ang.

  The guard tapped on a book labelled “Sign-In/Sign-Out”. “Fill in the book and sign. Don’t sign on the line, okay?” He gave Greg and Wesley a glance. “What, these two never do guard duty ah?”

  “Err, no,” said one of the squad members. “They are from the—”

  “—the EW platform,” finished Sergeant Ang quickly, glaring at the soldier. Greg saw him write “Sleeping on Duty” in the column labelled “Reason for Detainment”.

  “Oh okay.” The soldiers went back to their game. “Any idea what’s going on topside?” asked Min, almost like an afterthought. “Those bombings have been going on for some time now.”

  “Can’t say anything about it. Captain’s orders,” said Sergeant Ang as he unlocked the door to a room beyond. Greg and Wesley walked inside. Bare walls and rectangular markings on the floor suggested this had been a maintenance area. Aside from six plastic chairs, and a couple more stacked in the corner, the room was devoid of furnishings. Sergeant Ang gestured towards the chairs.

  “Sit here and wait. Follow any instructions the guards give you,” he said before leaving. The door closed, leaving Greg and Wesley in silence.

  “Well, so much for an uneventful trip,” muttered Greg. “You doing okay, Wes?”

  “As fine as I could ever be,” came the reply. Without his goggles and helmet, the cultist looked bare and unguarded. The Old Guard had confiscated whatever they had, including their pouches. There was no way they were going to escape, not unless they considered fighting the guards. And even if they succeeded, there were more in the corridors.