Some believed that the supposed increase in the rat population was a sign that an earthquake was coming. A few years earlier, an earthquake had struck ninety miles west of the center of Country C. It was a memorably powerful quake that left six thousand dead. And before that earthquake as well, countless numbers of rats had appeared, infesting the city.
Rumors of an impending major quake had long been going around among the city residents. A hypothesis presented thirty years earlier by a professor of seismology at one of the universities was being exaggerated and circulated out of context. The professor had extracted statistics from relatively old magnitude-five earthquakes and suggested that they repeated themselves at regular intervals. Several researchers had pointed out that the figures the professor used were statistically meaningless, but his work had caused a sensation back then, and now that much time had passed, it had resurfaced.
It was the official opinion of the authorities that the rats had nothing to do with earthquakes or the current epidemic. But mere opinions were powerless to stop the fear of a major quake, proliferation of rumors, or spread of disease. Fear and rumors and viruses shared a similar nature. They bore a tremendous vitality of their own, oblivious to human efforts to stamp them out. They could spread rapidly even while offering no clue to their routes of transmission. And they would burn for a long, long time, like dry grassland, only to vanish in an instant as if doused with water.
Thus, the drafting of the temporary exterminators. Rather than fussing over how to control an invisible virus, killing the vermin that infested each home was good optics and effective at putting rumors to sleep. Hunting down the vermin hidden inside people’s homes was enough to convince citizens that no wonder they were all getting sick—just look at all those rats they were cohabiting with.
The exterminators were supposed to be drafted from among volunteers, but hardly anyone stepped up. Not only did they know the work would put them at risk of infection, it was only a temporary position and the pay was low. Being temporary workers meant they received no protection under labor laws, were exempt from unemployment and job search benefits, and were not even eligible for minimum wage. So the authorities had no choice but to forcibly draft workers from the nonprofessional population—most of whom were vagrants—and put together teams. That was why his own boss had braved the manhole after seeing all of those limp rat corpses piled up under the bridge like spoils of war.
But regardless of whether the authorities were wrong about the rats or not, his being captured by the extermination team was, just as the man who’d hit him with the nightstick said, a stroke of luck. To say that he had been captured made it sound unjust. In truth, he was grateful to the men. Grateful to them for pulling him from that dirty sewer, for giving him clean food at set times, for stopping him before he jumped into that black sewage, and most of all, for giving him a shiny silver hazmat suit.
Whenever he wore that giant suit that covered him from head to toe, he felt sluggish and heavy. Like an overfed baby. The suit was so heavy that after a full day of wearing it, his shoulders ached and he was drenched in sweat. For someone like him, forced to spend long hours stalking rats in a crouched and huddled position, the puffy, oversized suit was cumbersome and kept getting in the way. But when he returned to the dorm at the end of the workday and had to remove the suit, he felt like he was facing down pathogens barehanded. Even when he slept, he rested his head on his folded-up suit instead of a pillow. He had not always done that. But fights were constantly breaking out in the barracks. The exterminators bickered over the smallest things, bickering soon turned to punching, and when that happened, hazmat suits would get ripped, just to cause each other grief. The owner of the ripped suit would despair, as if infection were imminent and they would fall ill at any second, and the person who had ripped the suit would apologize, as if they had just delivered the fatal virus themselves, and hand over their own suit. Whenever he saw those men apologize for losing their temper and blame it on the rat poison being too toxic, he clutched his suit tightly to him like a lover.
As demand increased, the suits were replaced with bulk shipments of low-quality sauna suits that had no protective features at all. Some of the randomly issued suits were so poorly sewn that shoddy cotton batting stuck out where the stitches had given way. They were closer to snowsuits stuffed with fiberfill than proper hazmat suits. The cheap suits were clearly intended for the temporary workers. Nevertheless, the man cherished his suit. It signified more than just safety to him. Though there were people on the streets without them now, most were still clad in protective gear. Wearing it signified that you were the same as everyone else. And being the same as everyone else meant not having to think about your own existence. It meant that, other than becoming infected and having your everyday life ruined, you had nothing to fear.
The sky was pitch black. Wind whispered through the trees. From somewhere came the barely audible snap of a twig. He crouched on all fours. The ground was blanketed with old pine needles that absorbed the sound of his footfalls. There were no passersby and no one entering the building, so no one saw him hiding there in the darkness. He heard a crunch and the sound of grass stirring. It was a rat. A rat with shiny black, beady eyes stopped at the boundary stone marking the edge of the garden and stared directly at him. If it came any closer, he would be inclined to kill it, but he was afraid the noise would alert the security guards to his presence. The rat likewise seemed afraid that the man might come closer. It quickly turned and disappeared back the way it had come, along the path it knew best. Concerned that another rat might appear, the man hurried to his feet.
No matter how many times he had stalked out the building, the lobby never emptied for even a second. Three guards were always on duty, employees came and went in large groups, visitors filled out forms at the counter to the right of the entrance. At eight in the evening, the three security guards were relieved by the night shift. There would still be a few employees passing through the lobby, dressed in their own protective suits and dust masks. At ten, two of the guards paired up to patrol the outside of the building. They strolled once around the perimeter to check that nothing was amiss with the security system, a process that took only about twenty minutes, during which the remaining guard stood blank-eyed next to the bust of the founder in the lobby. When the patrol ended, the metal security shutters were rolled down over the front entrance, the lobby lights were dimmed, and one of the three guards went off duty. Few employees came through the lobby after that. The building was only accessible after-hours through the back entrance, which had the same type of automatic sliding door as the front entrance. At eleven, one of the two guards standing watch at the back entrance would also go off duty and retire to the guardroom out back. The final guard stayed behind in the well-lit lobby. He would pace constantly, never dozing, keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings until exactly midnight when he locked the back entrance, checked that the building alarm, which was outsourced to another company, was turned on and functioning, and turned off all the lights. The only time the lobby was left unguarded was if the one guard alone on duty from eleven to midnight, or earlier, when the other two were patrolling the perimeter, could not withstand the call of nature and had to go to the toilet. But the man had yet to see that happen.
It had cost the man all of the money he’d saved to bribe his boss into letting him skip the night shift. The amount must have been more than what he thought, because after he struggled to get the words out, his boss had happily loaned him a business suit as well.
“I take it you’re seeing someone? And every night, from the looks of it.”
The man smiled and did not answer.
“You’re going to wear yourself out,” his boss said. “Catching rats by day and women by night. Quite the busy man, you are.”
The boss’s suit was a little big on him. It looked like the kind of thing a cheap man would buy his growing son.
Just as he was starting to think that he may as well he
ad back early this time instead of waiting until midnight, the security guard slowly stretched his stiff muscles and gazed up at a large clock on the wall. There were only twenty minutes left in his shift. The guard seemed to be debating something. He glanced up at the clock again and stood. He looked like he was considering whether to go to the toilet, but instead he raised his arms overhead, stretched his body out long and tall, and sat back down.
The man’s shoulders sagged as he realized he had spent another evening hiding in vain. His bladder was full to bursting. In the past, he would have unzipped right there and taken care of business. But instead, he tentatively made his way to the back door. When he stepped into view, the guard snapped to attention as if greeting a high-ranking manager.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but could I use the facilities?” the man asked.
The guard’s stiff expression relaxed as he studied the man in the business suit. Other than the fact that it was a little big on him, the suit was more or less impeccable. The man stood stock-still for fear of straining his already taut bladder.
“Must be pretty urgent,” the guard said. “Even your face has gone yellow.”
The guard pressed the button to activate the sliding glass door and gestured politely toward the restrooms next to the emergency stairwell.
The man took his time relieving himself and washing his hands. When he came out, the guard was sitting as stiffly as ever, his back turned to him. The man cracked open the door to the stairwell, half-expecting an alarm to start blaring. But his trespass was silent, muting all worry that he had tripped an alarm. Only his footsteps echoed in the darkened stairwell.
The door to the nineteenth floor, Mol’s department, was locked tight. A warning sign in red letters written on white paper was taped to the metal door: AREA UNDER QUARANTINE; ENTRANCE STRICTLY PROHIBITED. The man went up to the twentieth floor instead. The door was open. The walls and floor of the hallway were a uniform murky green. The ceiling was a brighter shade of green, but the bright fluorescents made it look like everything had been painted white. The parallel rows of long fluorescent bulbs lit everything so brightly that the air itself looked cold. Square doors stood at regular intervals down the length of the hallway, all shut tight. None of the rooms could be entered without a keycard.
He stood there quietly. Just then, a male employee appeared abruptly, as if he had tunneled straight through a wall. The employee carried a towel in one hand and seemed to be headed for the restroom. The man slowly approached the employee and asked where he could find Mol’s department.
“Some of the people from that department used to work on this floor,” the employee said.
“That’s good to know. I’m looking for someone who works there.”
“Well, it is and isn’t good. I heard most of the people in that department were fired. They either got sick or are being monitored for signs of infection. It won’t be easy to find the person you’re looking for. On the other hand, if you had found them sooner, you’d be infected too. So that’s good news for you.”
“Oh, no. That would be terrible if my friend is infected.”
“This person is a friend?”
“Yes, but I haven’t heard from him in a long time. I felt bad about not calling him even though we work in the same building. I figured since I was here tonight working overtime, I may as well try to find him.”
“Is your friend also a foreigner?”
“No. His name is Mol. He’s been very kind to me, even though I’m not from here.”
“I know the people in that department. But I don’t know of anyone there named Mol. I mean, I’ve heard the name before, so maybe I do know him. You must have been doing a lot of overtime lately. You look tired.”
“That’s how it is.”
“Same for me. I haven’t been out of this building in over a month. I guess it’s true that when you do nothing but work, work, work, you can’t help but suddenly think of old friends. Follow me.”
The employee led the way. Just as he had said, it was the kind of night when you couldn’t help thinking of old friends. One of those nights where you want to see everyone but can’t see anyone.
The office the employee led him to was the same as any other office in any other building. The only difference was that, in a normal office, only one or two employees would be working that late after hours in their scramble to beat out others for prized promotions. The employee told him to wait at the door while he got someone.
A few people glanced over at him as he stood there, but other than that no one paid him any mind. He looked at the hunched backs of the employees as they stared at their computer monitors. Their indifferently turned backs and well-oiled movements told him that he was no threat to them.
After he had stood there for some time, picturing himself being dragged away by a security guard, a man in an industrial-strength dust mask appeared from where the other employee had gone. His button-down shirt was wrinkled, and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows; he looked like he’d taken a break from working to catch a quick nap. The masked employee directed him into a small conference room that looked like it was intended for visitors there on business. The friendly manner with which the employee treated him, despite the late hour, gave him hope that he would somehow get to meet Mol.
“I understand you’re looking for Mol.”
“Yes, I’m looking for Mol.”
“Are you a foreigner? Your accent . . .”
He nodded.
“I guess I better speak slowly then. Are you aware that Mol is contagious?”
“Excuse me?”
“Ah, you’re not. Mol is on sick leave.”
“How long has he been sick?”
“I’m not sure. He was among the first to become infected, but I don’t remember exactly when that was.”
“In that case, maybe I could see the person who took over his duties.”
“Took over? If there were such a thing, then we could get sick without any worries. You say you’re his friend, but you seem more concerned with his job. We all have so much to do that we’re on the verge of dying from overwork. We work and work without a single day off, and yet it just keeps piling up. Every time I look at the endless stack of papers on my desk, all I can do is sigh. Look for yourself: it’s almost midnight, but the office is still full. Even in the midst of an epidemic, the one thing that doesn’t change is the fact that work has to get done. It’s important not to get sick, but I guess what matters more is not letting sickness mess up your work, right?”
The man nodded.
“We’re already overloaded, so there’s no such thing as ‘taking over’ other people’s work. It wasn’t always like that, but as more and more people got sick, it became impossible. At some point, their responsibilities do end up falling to other people, but only when the boss has no choice but to make that order. And no matter how we try to limit outside visitors, people like you just keep showing up. . . . If you get sick, that’s it. Game over. The work you did is ruined, lost. Not because you’re sick, but because you can’t keep working on it. No one can voluntarily take over anyone else’s work. The documents the contagious person touched are all scrapped. You can’t look at them or touch them anymore. They’re useless. Even the person’s computer is never turned back on, except in the most extraordinary of circumstances. Sure, you can put on several layers of gloves and try to work the keyboard, but it’s too much trouble. Once someone goes on sick leave, their work is either shelved or scrapped.”
“What happened with the employee transferred here from the branch office?”
“Branch office? In all my years here, I’ve never seen anyone from the branch office.”
“I’m from the branch office. Mol selected me.”
“Oh, so then Mol’s not your friend? Sorry, even though we’re in the same department, the work we do is completely different. Everyone minds his own business. And in Mol’s case, most of the human resources work he did was conducted under strict co
nfidentiality.”
“So you never heard Mol say anything about transferring an employee from the branch office overseas?”
“It’s a big office. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the same department. If you don’t sit right next to the person or work on the same projects together, then most of the time you have no idea what they’re up to. Mol and I were close enough that we’d stop and chat when we saw each other, but that doesn’t mean he would have brought up something like that with me. The nature of his work meant he never mentioned specific individuals. That kind of talk tends to spread fast and never stays secret. If you let a secret get out, it will always come back to bite you in the end.”
“Would it be possible to find out where Mol lives?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Even if I did know, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never seen you before in my life. And to be honest, you keep mispronouncing things, and your grammar . . .”
A troubled look passed over the employee’s face, and he hesitated before continuing.
“He may be a friend of yours, but frankly I doubt whether you were really transferred here. There was discussion at some point of transferring a foreign employee to our department. The most fundamental criterion was their ability to communicate. There was no disagreement whatsoever on that point. But looking at you now . . .”
The employee ran a careful eye over the man.
“I’m sure you have your strengths. Either you’re amazing at your job, or you’re very trustworthy.”
The employee looked at the clock.
“That’s all I know. I’ve nothing more to say. And now you’re out of time.”
“What?”
The employee shrugged. The man understood. Through the glass door of the conference room, he saw two guards approaching. The employee opened the door and reprimanded the guards.
City of Ash and Red Page 16