by Type A
“Keep an eye out for gangshi!” he yelled. The silver bike’s U-lock clanged to the ground.
A swarm of six gangshi hopped closer and closer, and Mimi and Lana readied their weapons, flaming torch and bloody steak knife.
“Hurry!” Lana yelled back at Tyson.
He fumbled and wrestled with the last lock, which was a few millimeters thicker than the other two. He tried bolt cutting at different speeds and angles, but the U-lock did its job.
When the gangshi reached the guard rails, Tyson rose and raised the bolt cutters, ready to strike. But the guard rails did their job, too. The gangshi bounced on and off the rails, hissing and moaning as if frustrated with their inability to reach a higher plane, physical and spiritual.
“Try this bike!” Mimi pointed to a red hybrid bike with a thin chain lock, which Tyson cut with ease.
They pushed their bikes over the tactile paving and stopped at the subway stairs. All they could see was darkness below.
______
With a running start, Tyson pushed the last bike down the stairs, and Lana followed its path with her flashlight. Like the other bikes, it predictably rolled and bounced on its tires before flipping and crashing onto its side. Unlike the other bikes, it didn’t make it all the way to the bottom.
Mimi traded her flickering, fading torch for a flashlight and scissors. She leaned on the cold steel handrails to keep her footing, and Lana and Tyson followed her down the stairs.
A whiskerless white rabbit with long pink ears and beady black eyes greeted them on the basement floor. A fiberglass statue cut off at the hips. No cute bushy tail. They picked up their bikes and pushed them past a large potted plant—probably artificial—and columns covered with posters advertising English and Chinese hagwons and their attractive tutors.
Rounding a corner, Lana was knocked to the ground. Her bike, knife, and flashlight went down with her, and she shrieked.
Tyson was terrified for his girlfriend. She was alone in the dark with a gangshi, and the time it would take him to run over would feel like forever to her—or so he presumed. He grabbed Lana’s fallen flashlight, which pointed away from her, and shined it in the direction of her screams.
Through the beam of light, Tyson saw a pig pile: Mimi on top of the gangshi, the gangshi on top of Lana. Mimi had buried Lana’s fallen knife deep into the gangshi’s back; Lana was on her back, her arms bloodied.
And Tyson’s terror turned to rage. “Mimi, move!” He grabbed the gangshi by its hair, which he wrapped around his hand, and dragged its still, lifeless body away from Mimi and Lana. The gangshi had visible entrance and exit wounds, but Tyson took no chances. He bludgeoned the monster to the point of no return. He hammered the point home: No one person or thing was going to harm Lana or Mimi.
Gasping, Lana stood over her bike, hands on her hips, blood streaming down to her denim shorts. She looked up at Mimi and Tyson, swallowed hard, and whispered, “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you’re safe,” Mimi whispered back.
“Are you?” Tyson asked, only half-whispering. “I mean, are you okay, Lana?” He flashed the light on her arms. Scratches. Claw marks.
“Yeah.” Lana paused to collect her thoughts. “It didn’t get close enough to bite me. It was strong, but I was able to hold its wrists and push it back long enough for Mimi to help.”
They looked over at the dead gangshi, its stiff arms still sticking straight out, reaching out for life.
Tyson held Lana’s bloody hand and whispered to Mimi, “Thank you.”
______
Tyson lifted the bikes and bags over the turnstiles, and he, Lana, and Mimi ducked under and duck-walked through. One at a time, they carried their bikes down to the subway platform and, more vigilant than ever, looked high and low for signs of gangshi activity—death and destruction.
The platform was empty, silent, black. They wheeled their bikes past a coffee vending machine, a trash bin, and a full-length mirror, which made them jumpy, and paused at a red box mounted on the wall. “Portable Emergency Light” its sign said in English. Flashlights. Three of them. Mimi, Lana, and Tyson had all feared running out of flashlight batteries. Now they each had a spare Portable Emergency Light.
At the end of the platform stood a locked metal cabinet full of khaki sacks. The English instructions on its glass panels said: “Wear a gas mask in an emergency of toxic gas attack, chemical, biological, or radioactive contamination” and “How to use CBR (Chemical, Biological, and Radiological) Gas Mask: BREAK - OPEN - PLUG IN - WEAR - PULL.” BREAK the glass. OPEN the khaki sack. PLUG in the filter. WEAR the gas mask. PULL the mask tight.
“Can we use these?” Tyson whispered. “For the gangshi.”
“I don’t think gas masks would help,” Mimi replied. “The gangshi would still be able to smell our breath or the carbon dioxide in our breath, wouldn’t they?”
“Yeah, I would think so. Can we get on the tracks already?” Lana asked.
Tyson took another look at the gas masks. “Yeah, let’s go.”
______
Seoul Subway Line 2: The Green Line, The Circle Line, The Hell Train. A hell of a place to be at rush hour. But for the time being, it was a haven.
Lana, Mimi, and Tyson tiptoed over the shattered glass of the suicide prevention doors and the steel rails of the slab track.
“Mimi, where are we going?” Lana asked.
“Chungjeongno. Three stations down. Then we’ll transfer to Line 5.” The Purple Line.
They lined up their bikes back-to-back-to-back and pointed their flashlights straight ahead, their weapons within arm’s reach.
“Okay, keep a bit of distance. I’ll flash my light if we need to slow down, and if I yell, stop,” Tyson said. He tugged on the front of his shirt and the straps of his backpack, sticky with sweat.
They pedaled slow and steady down the center of the track, between the rails, careful not to veer to the left or the right. It was almost meditative—their intense visual concentration, the sounds of their spinning spokes.
{slam} Something hit the platform screen door. Lana dropped her flashlight. They braked their bikes. Tyson wielded his hammer. Mimi aimed her light at the door.
A swarm of gangshi was on the other side of the glass. They scraped the glass with their bloody claws and hit the door headfirst, the sounds echoing through the tunnel.
“Let’s go!” Lana yelled. She pulled the Portable Emergency Light out of her bag and bumped her bike into Tyson’s.
As they sped away, Mimi watched Lana and Tyson’s shadows on the wall and caught a glimpse of a green subway sign: Ewha Womans University. Her uni.
______
Mind the gap, Mimi thought. She and Tyson lifted Lana onto the Chungjeongno Station platform, and they again tiptoed over shards of glass. Without a gangshi in sight, they picked up their bikes and followed the purple subway transfer signs, whose arrows seemed to point toward hope.
Mimi, Lana, and Tyson went up a flight of stairs, then coasted down a long, winding corridor. They passed a pastry shop, a convenience store, and a blue metal cabinet before stopping at a stairway similar to an animal lair. Dark and cavernous. A cacophony of growls, hisses, and moans. A strange stench.
They hopped off their bikes and shined their lights on the gangshi scattered on the stairs. Eight in total. The gangshi stubbed their toes on the steps and toppled over. Over and over again.
“They can barely climb up,” Mimi said.
“Good,” Tyson replied. “This buys us time.” He leaned his bike and backpack against the tiled wall. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, what? No. Where are you going?” Lana questioned.
He was already gone.
Mimi and Lana kicked their kickstands down and set their bags on the ground. They stood back to back in a defensive stance, beaming their flashlights around the corridor and stairway, watching, waiting, wishing for relief.
{smash}
“What the hell was that?” Mimi asked.
“Tyson!” Lana yelled.
They heard the clinking and crunching of broken glass followed by feet shuffling and running. The footsteps sounded closer and closer. They raised their weapons.
“It’s me!” Tyson said a safe distance from the girls’ knife and scissors. “Try these on.” Gas masks in khaki sacks.
Lana grabbed him by the arm. “What is wrong with you?!”
“I...”
“Why would you just disappear like that? And here and now? Don’t ever fucking do that again!”
“I’m sorry. I won’t.” He hung his head and could think of nothing else to say.
Wearing the gas masks, listening to their own breathing, the trio used the handrails until they were halfway down the stairs. They aimed their lights and weapons at the gangshi and stood in place. But the gangshi continued working their way upstairs, relentless as ever.
And Mimi knew she had been right. She took off her mask and spoke up, “It’s no use. They still know we’re here. They can smell us.” She paused and took a step back. “But we have the advantage here.”
______
The gangshi faced an uphill battle. Halfway up the stairway they were blocked by a barricade of bikes, whose frames and spokes trapped and tripped them up. If the gangshi managed to get back on their feet before they got stabbed, Tyson hit them with his hammer and handlebars. When they lunged forward, he used his tires as shields.
Mimi and Lana dug their blades deep into the last gangshi’s lungs, securing a decisive victory for the humans. And Tyson grimaced and turned his head, retching and gagging.
“What’s the matter?” Mimi asked, her hand on his shoulder.
“The gangshi.” Tyson cleared his throat. “They smell godawful.”
______
At Seodaemun Station, a man’s screams pierced the walls and doors, and the trio came to a screeching halt on the tracks. Yet no cry for help came. Perhaps the man’s time had come; perhaps Mimi, Lana, and Tyson needed to save themselves. The darkness created a chasm between intention and action.
“Let’s go on,” Lana said with a hint of regret.
They pedaled away, paranoid and even more aware of the danger lurking in the shadows. A force so dark that it threatened humanity.
A ways down the track Tyson flashed his lights. They pumped, then squeezed their brakes and came to a complete stop.
“What is it?” Mimi asked him.
“A water break.”
“Oh.” Relief.
They shared the last of Mr. Shin’s bottled waters, Jeju volcanic mineral water. No one had an appetite.
Tyson suggested that they consolidate their bags into one. “We’ll need to be light on our feet.”
“What supplies will we need?” Mimi asked. Flashlights, weapons, American passports, a Korean national ID card, credit cards, U.S. dollars, Korean won, phones, and chargers.
“What if the embassy is closed? What about this other stuff?” Lana asked. Food, clothes, towels, toilet paper, garbage bags, ibuprofen, and bandages.
“We need to think positive. The embassy will be open. And if, God forbid, it’s not, we can come back for these,” Tyson said, tossing aside a white towel.
“Mimi, you know the area. What should we do when we get to the station? How do we get to the embassy?” Lana asked.
“Hold our breath and run.”
______
A stalled subway train stood between them and the Gwanghwamun Station platform. Mimi, Lana, and Tyson stared at the train and then at their bikes, which they knew they had no choice but to abandon. On bare knees and elbows, they army-crawled on the slab track under the subway cars. The concrete was cold, hard, and unforgiving. From a hole in the wall, a little brown rat appeared, squeaking and scurrying alongside them. But it didn’t frighten them. Better the devil you know.
At Exit 2 they took a deep breath and the path of least resistance, the sidewalk. To their left was a traffic-jammed Sejong Street. Cars, taxis, city buses, tour buses—all unmanned. In the median strip—Gwanghwamun Plaza—the bronze statue of Sejong the Great sat on his throne. A swarm of gangshi hopped aimlessly about the sculptures of the king’s inventions—a sundial, a celestial globe, and the rain gauge—their chins, claws, and clothes covered in blood.
At their back, out of the trio’s field of view, hundreds of gangshi surrounded the statue of Admiral Yi Sun-shin, savior of the Joseon dynasty. The 12.23 Fountain, commemorating the 23 battles Admiral Yi won with 12 warships, had become a literal bloodbath, with Seoulites and gangshi fighting tooth and nail, fang and claw. The gangshi had had a feeding frenzy.
The tired Tyson, Lana, and Mimi could only hold their breath and run for so long. It was lactic acid hell. They gasped for air, and the gangshi caught whiffs of their scent and hopped toward them.
Up ahead the trio spotted the waving Stars and Stripes, then it was an all-out sprint for the U.S. Embassy, past a caravan of Korean police buses, an array of potted flowers, and a high white wall topped with a metal security fence. They stopped at a closed gate and read the sign through blurry eyes: “Entrance for American Citizen Services.”
“Let’s hide our weapons,” Tyson said, holding the drawstring bag open. Mimi and Lana took a look around before surrendering their scissors and knife. No gangshi was close enough to harm them.
Tyson pushed the buzzer on the wall, and Lana crossed her fingers.
______
The drawstring bag passed through the x-ray machine, and the operators confiscated the weapons and gave Mimi, Lana, and Tyson the pat-down treatment.
At the end of the conveyor belt, a middle-aged man in a blue suit greeted them with a firm handshake.
“Hi, I’m Marty Whitmer. I’m a consular officer. You look like you’ve had quite a journey,” he spoke diplomatically. They had bloodied clothes, baggy eyes, and hair stuck to their foreheads.
“I’m Lana.” She extended her bandaged, mummy-like arm to shake his hand.
“Tyson.” His palms were sweaty.
“Mikyung.” Her nail polish was chipped.
Marty sat them down in an empty, sterile conference room, at a table big enough for twelve.
“I’ll go get some water,” he excused himself. He cleaned his hands with two squirts of hand sanitizer before fetching three bottled waters, a pen, and a notepad.
Tyson tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
“Are you Americans?” Marty asked when he returned. He sat on the other side of the table.
“We are,” Lana said, pointing at herself and Tyson. “And our friend is Korean.”
“Do you have your passports with you?”
“Yes,” Tyson answered. He searched the drawstring bag.
“I have my ID card,” Mimi said.
“Sure, please slide it over.”
“Lana Maria Alvarez and Tyson Taylor,” Marty read aloud and scribbled on his pad. “Do you reside in Korea?”
“We’re, uh, visiting,” Tyson replied.
“And Han Mikyung,” he read in Korean. “From Goyang City. Ilsan.”
“Yes. Do you happen to know how Ilsan is doing?” Mimi asked.
“The same as Seoul, I’m sorry to say,” Marty replied.
Mimi buried her face in her hands.
“Mikyung, is your family in Ilsan?”
A muffled “yes.” Puddles of tears formed in her palms.
Lana rubbed her friend’s back, and Tyson opened the bottled waters.
“Okay, so here’s where we’re at,” Marty said. “I don’t know how you got to the embassy or why you didn’t go to one of our ECCs. We–”
“What’s an ECC?” Tyson cut him off.
“Evacuation Control Center.”
“We heard about Mokdong and Jamsil,” Mimi said, sniffling and wiping her eyes, “but we didn’t think we could get there in time.”
“Marty, please say that you can help us,” Tyson cut to the chase.
Marty looked down at Tyson and Lana’s dark blue passports—at the U.S. c
oat of arms emblazoned on the covers. The bald eagle, Haliaeetus leucocephalus, clutching an olive branch and arrows. An unsupported shield on the eagle’s breast.
“I can help Lana and Tyson. A helicopter will be here at four o’clock to relocate you to Busan. From there, you’ll be evacuated by boat to Japan and repatriated to the U.S.” Marty turned his attention to Mimi. “And Mikyung, I’m trying to figure out what we can do for you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll make some calls.” He stood up and walked out.
They sat in stunned silence.
“Mimi, we’ll get you on that helicopter,” Tyson said.
She gulped.
______
“We can’t transport Mikyung out of Korea,” Marty reported, “but we can relocate her to safety in Busan if…”
“Yes!” The trio smiled and embraced one other.
“Wait, wait, wait, there’s a catch,” Marty said.
Their spirits sank.
“This is the last helicopter to the embassy, and we don’t have enough seats for all three of you. Embassy employees have priority.”
“So what are you saying?” Lana asked.
“I’m saying that only two of you can go.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Tyson said. “What’s one more person?”
“We’re at full passenger capacity and weren’t expecting evacuees. As a matter of fact, the U.S. Embassy is only authorized to evacuate State Department employees.”
“So you’re bending the rules for us,” Tyson said. “Can you bend them a little more?”
“No, I’m sorry. This is final.”
“Can we talk to your supervisor?” Lana asked.
“Again, this is final. His words, not mine.”
______
“Marty, can we speak in private?” Tyson asked.
They stepped out into the hallway.
“You say that the helicopter is at passenger capacity. But what about cargo?”
“We’ve crunched the numbers,” Marty replied. “Passengers. Cargo weight capacity. Weight distribution.” He listed on his fingers.
“What cargo are you carrying?”
“That’s classified information.”
“Tell me what cargo is more precious than a human life.”