A couple hundred meters away, a modern ten-story hotel rose up out of the rubble, the bottom twenty meters stripped bare of its external walls. It was a wonder that the building still stood, given the shoddy construction. All of the lower windows were shattered and blown out. That's how high the wave had been. Above it, the exterior sheathing was largely intact.
“We better get moving,” DeBryan said.
From her elevated vantage point, Angel made one last assessment of the devastation surrounding them. Anyone remaining on the bottom five or six floors of the luxury hotels and many of the permanent residents in their tiny houses would have been swept away by the force of the water.
From oceanographic data, she knew that the wave had struck in the middle of the night, when nearly everyone would have been sound asleep. There must have been alarms though, some kind of advance warning. People would have scrambled to the upper floors, survived. Yet she hadn’t found a single eyewitness account.
She checked her phone for the location of the IRC team’s staging area on the other side of the narrow island, then nodded at the photog. She’d seen enough by now to know which questions to ask. Now she needed answers.
* * *
The kilometer trek through the debris field took them the better part of an hour to cover. At times there was simply no road, either because it was coated in mud or had washed away. The two were forced to climb over piles of wreckage, some several meters high, and through erosion dikes deep enough to swallow small houses. The mounds kept shifting, threatening to avalanche and bury them. Armies of rats scurried out of every heap.
They spoke little, continuing to be shocked at the sights, disbelieving their own eyes that nothing had been done to respond. It wasn’t like this was that difficult a place to bring in the necessary people and equipment. There were two public docking areas sturdy enough to accommodate some very large boats, one on each side of the isle, plus a good dozen private ones. It was to one of the latter that they’d arrived.
Angel thought back to her experience at the State Department in New York three days before, easily one of the most frustrating she’d endured in recent memory. When she first told them where she wanted to go and why, they had granted her an emergency travel visa, just like always. But hours before she was to leave, she received a text telling her that it had been rescinded. They couldn’t give her a reason why. Or wouldn’t. When she went to resubmit, the consular general himself came out to meet her. He told her no and recommended, in very strong terms, that she drop the matter.
They didn’t know how persistent she could be. She contacted the World Health Organization and arranged for a replacement visa through France’s Ministère des Affaires Étrangères instead. Sometimes it helped having dual citizenship. The French system was a lot easier to navigate than the American one, if you knew how and had the right connections. Nevertheless, even that hadn’t been without its hiccups. She knew some backroom wrangling had occurred on her behalf. And some money had exchanged hands. She didn’t really care about that. She could afford it. And her reporter’s nose was really itching by then.
The visa was granted just the day before — an extension, actually, of one that was still valid — and she’d wasted no time booking the flight to Seoul and chartering the boat. That was where she met the UN photog, who’d overheard her trying to get to the island, and he managed somehow to finagle his own paperwork to accompany her. She tried to discourage him, insisting that she worked better alone, yet he persisted, even suggesting that his UN credentials would gain them greater access should they encounter local resistance. He also promised to allow her to break the story, whatever it might be. It wasn’t about the scoop, she countered. It was just a lot easier if she weren’t dragging around dead weight.
She had expected him to get angry and launch into some self-righteous tirade about his qualifications, but he hadn’t. He simply shrugged it off.
Now that they were here, Angel was actually grateful for the company. Something was clearly off about what they were witnessing, and it sent alarm bells jangling inside of her.
“Ange?”
But then he had to go and call her that. It was one of those American customs she could never quite get used to, people she barely knew lopping off bits and pieces of people’s names, like they were extraneous things. David had done it, when they’d first met. The familiarity of it had always irked her.
She frowned in irritation, and considered telling DeBryan that it was either Angelique or Angel. Not Ange. Not Angie. And certainly not Angelica.
“We got company.” He pointed with his free hand, but kept on recording.
They were boys, mostly, no older than twenty, twenty-two. About a dozen quickly coming toward them. Angel guessed that they were locals, though their clothes were new, brightly colored, and almost certainly looted from one of the upscale shops. Rather disturbingly, they carried weapons, chains which scraped and rattled along the ground and pipes that they slapped threateningly against their palms.
“I don’t think that’s a welcoming committee. They don’t look so happy to see us.”
Angel grunted and dug out her media pass, held it up when they got close enough to see it. The boy in the lead gave it a cursory glance as he passed her. He placed a palm over the lens of DeBryan’s camera and pushed hard while shouting something in Chinese.
“English?” DeBryan yelled back. “Do you speak English?”
“What you doing here?”
“We’re journalists,” Angel said. “We’ve come to report—”
One of the boys grabbed her arm and jerked her to the side while shouting in Chinese. Overbalanced by the pack on her back, Angel tripped and fell to her knees, scraping them on the muddy gravel. She let out an angry cry and pushed back, and the boy stumbled. He raised his fist, readying to strike her. Biker gloves covered his palms; his knuckles were crusted in blood.
“Stop!” DeBryan shouted.
He was struck on the side of the head with a pipe and he fell. The camera clattered to the ground. He scrambled to recover it, but a kick sent it skittering across the road. The boy who did it laughed, then feigned attacking him, hoping for a reaction. DeBryan stood his ground. Blood trickled from his temple. The other boys snickered.
“We’re trying to help you,” Angel snapped. She struggled back to her feet and out of reach of the boy who’d grabbed her. She could feel herself shaking, could feel the rage building up inside of her, the fear. The helplessness. Where were the police? The Red Cross?
Where were the UN forces which had been dispatched to the other islands in the region?
“You not help,” the leader said, speaking in broken English. “You only make worse!”
“Where are the CAPF?” DeBryan asked, referring to the Chinese People’s Armed Police Force. He had recovered the camera and now cradled it in his arms. His chest rose and fell as he worked to keep himself under control. He didn’t look scared, just angry.
The lead boy sneered. His lips were crusted white, just like all the others’, and the rancid smell of his breath cut through the stink of the dead. “They gone, dead. Not dead. You leave.”
Not dead? Angel felt a chill crawl up her spine.
“You should not come here or you be dead, too.”
“Look,” she said after a moment, “whatever it is you’re doing here, we don’t care about that. All we’re trying to do is understand why the government hasn’t stepped in to help. I fear there may be an outbreak of disease, cholera. Surely you must be feeling—”
“There no disease! We not sick!”
Angel’s gaze flicked from one face to the next. The signs were obvious, the dehydration in their sunken eyes, in the bluish tinge to their skin. The split and bleeding lips. These boys were sick, and she pointed it out to them. “You need medical care, antibiotics. When was the last time you had clean water? Or a proper meal?”
But the leader just shook his head. Fear flickered across his face. “You go! Now. Before d
ark.”
“What happens after nightfall?” DeBryan asked, his eyes narrowing.
The leader turned to him but didn’t answer.
Okay,” DeBryan finally said, breaking the gaze first. He gestured at Angel not to argue. “We’ll leave. But it won’t be today. Our boat left and isn’t scheduled to return until tomorrow afternoon.”
The leader of the gang hesitated a moment. He spoke briefly with the other boys, then turned and pointed to a hotel at the other end of the quad. “You stay inside then, in room until morning. No come out.”
Chapter Two
She could sense DeBryan standing close behind her, could feel the heat coming off his body as she stood at the dusty abandoned hotel room window and looked down at the destruction beneath them. She wrapped her arms tighter against her chest and tried not to shiver. It was all she could do not to scream out in frustration.
The room had a good vantage point, once you got past the horrifying aspects and saw what was interesting about it, which came naturally to her journalistic eye. She’d learned long ago how to compartmentalize her feelings, stowing away her fear and horror. It helped her to be clinically objective. Sometimes, though, it was a struggle. Like now. She’d been trying hard to hold it together since the initial shock of their arrival.
The boys were just leaving, down below. She could hear them shouting at each other, laughing, though the sound was muffled by the glass. It was still intact but hazy with dirt. There had been fourteen boys in the group, which meant that three remained behind inside the hotel, undoubtedly to ensure they stayed put inside their rooms until morning.
What happens after nightfall?
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she’d seen a flash of fear in them when DeBryan asked his question. They were scared, and the fear told her that they weren’t killers, just kids playing at it.
A moment later and it was gone from them all, leaving nothing but resentment toward her and DeBryan because they weren’t locals. Because they were more well-off.
On the morrow, they would be escorted back to the dock to wait for their boat, and whatever was happening here would remain a mystery. She couldn’t let that happen. Leaving now would only ensure the boys’ deaths, too.
She turned her head slightly and found DeBryan there, just as she’d expected, not half a meter away. The filtered sunlight illuminated his face, drawing her focus to a vein throbbing in his temple. But he wasn’t looking outside. The dark orbs of his eyes were aimed at her own. He was staring hard, looking worried.
“I’ve been in tighter situations,” she said, turning away. “We’ll figure it out.”
The room was trashed. It had clearly been in use when the tsunami struck, but what had happened to the occupants since then was a mystery. If the visitors had fled, they’d taken little with them. A large tan suitcase was upended on the bed, its contents rifled through. Nothing of any value remained. Takeout food containers, traces of uneaten dinner now spoiled and petrified, littered the top of the dresser.
At least they put us in adjoining rooms.
“I called the contact at the charter,” he said.
She whipped back to him. “How? They took our phones.”
“I always carry two. It’s not the first time this has happened. Or something like it.”
She felt her face burn, and she looked away. “Well, I’m not leaving.”
“Nor am I, but my camera’s busted,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s a twelve thousand dollar Alexa. I had a backup camera as well, tucked away inside my pack, but no way can you hide something like that. Those boys took it and my accessories. They really don’t seem to want any record of this.”
Angel sniffed. “I still have my little laptop. The webcam sucks, but I suppose it’ll do.”
“That won’t be necessary. I asked my people to bring another camera. I want to get pro footage of this.”
“So, you’re not planning on leaving.”
He sighed and finally turned toward the window. She could see his reflection in it, faint and pale, the thin line of his lips. “No, but we still need to deal with the boys. They’re playing a dangerous game.”
“They’re kids.”
“I know, which is why I think their little Lord of the Flies operation here will crumble in the face of a more . . . determined force.”
“Force?”
“I have a friend on the mainland, a guy in Beijing. He’s former CAPF, but now runs a private security firm. Hires out off-duty police. I told him we needed some bodies. Just enough to scare the boys off, let us do our jobs.”
Angel nodded and felt herself relaxing.
“They’re very likely orphans,” he quietly told her. “I imagine they must be in some sort of shock. PTSD or something. They certainly aren’t acting like you’d expect.”
“Shock, yes. They should be in the hospital. They’re sick and need to be treated.”
“And they will be, hopefully soon. But that’s not what we’re here for. There’s a bigger story just begging to be told. I’ve no idea what it is, but we need to figure it out.”
She coughed, shifted slightly. Her cheeks felt warm, though not because of his proximity. She hated feeling helpless, looking weak and dependent, but that’s exactly the position she was in right now. And she could tell by the look in his eyes that he considered it his obligation to protect her simply because he was a man and she a woman. Well, she’d always managed well enough on her own, and in worse situations.
He turned away from her, perhaps sensing her annoyance, and crossed the room. She could hear him tinkering around in the bathroom, checking switches. There was no electricity, and after reappearing he reaffirmed that there was no water, either.
“Dinner’s going to be a little light tonight,” he said, smiling wryly. They’d brought a case of emergency rations on the boat, but had left it at the dock. “I’ve got a bag of airline peanuts and a granola bar. I’m willing to go halvesies on them both for a share of your water.”
* * *
Sleep was long in coming that night. The world outside seemed unnaturally dark and still. There was no wind to speak of, and the shore was too far away to hear the ocean breaking upon it. Angel lay in her mummy bag beneath a layer of moldy-smelling blankets and breathed a ghostly fog into the cold and silence of the room. She wondered if she was the only one still awake, and whether the boys in the hallway outside and DeBryan in the adjacent room had managed to escape their own private insomnias.
The two of them had spent the afternoon reviewing their strategy for the following day, comparing theories as to the reasons why the PRC government had kept the disaster to itself, and why it had essentially abandoned the island’s survivors to succumb to sickness and starvation. But the subject soon exhausted itself and so the conversation inevitably shifted, as it always will do when two strangers are left alone together for any length of time.
DeBryan remained until darkness stole the last of the light away, when it became painfully clear that they’d finally run out of things to say to each other and had no more desire for small talk. Although, to be fair, it was mostly him carrying the conversation by then. She had never been good at social intercourse, even with the people she felt closest to, which lately numbered very few. She had little tolerance for chitchat, especially with strangers, and had zoned out much of what he told her. Later, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, she could only remember bits and pieces.
He’d told her about some of the places he’d been to on assignment, the things he’d seen. He said his first job was as a college student covering the hurricane in New Orleans, and how, because of the people he’d met, he had felt obligated to tell victims’ stories through pictures. He was an only child, and his parents still lived in a tiny mobile home in Palm Springs. “Dad golfs three times a week, and Mom goes to the malls.” This last bit brought an awkward chuckle out of him, as if the admission were shameful, though she couldn’t understand why it would be. It sounded
like a nice way to retire.
Then he had to go and ask her about her family, and what could she say? Only an idiot would have missed the gracelessness with which she bumbled the answer, muttering something only half intelligible before hurriedly changing the subject. Thankfully, he followed her lead with the tact of a gentleman, valiantly filling in the spaces she left empty by her stubborn silence with aimless mentions of this or that. But after a while her reticence wore at him, and he excused himself and returned to his own room, gently shutting the shared door behind him but not latching it. She knew he had done it on purpose, just as she knew it wasn’t an invitation of any kind.
He was very professional, almost fatherly. There was none of the tension that sometimes came with working with men who spent months at a time in the field, often in utter solitude, who seemed to carry on in the belief that their female counterparts shared the same carnal needs as they and a willingness to satisfy them at any opportunity. There had been a few times when she might have been tempted, though she never did. Did that make her frigid?
She knew from what DeBryan told her that he wasn’t married, and the absence of a ring on his finger supported this claim. There wasn’t even the telltale groove or pale band of skin signifying a wedding ring had ever occupied a place there. In the end, however, it didn’t really matter. The tragedy outside and the frustration of their confinement simply loomed too large on their minds for there to be room for anything else.
She unzipped her bag and crawled out of it, naked save for a pair of plain black panties and bra. The chill bit at her skin, and the carpeted floor seemed to draw the heat out of her through her feet. But she felt little of this. She went and stood over at the window, her arms crossed over her breasts and her hands absently rubbing the gooseflesh on her elbows, and gazed out into the darkness.
It was a moonless night, clear but for a few wispy clouds. The stars cast their delicate glow upon the island, turning the dew-crusted buildings into shapeless husks. She could almost feel their emptiness. In the distance, the tiny orange glow of a campfire was the only other proof that they weren’t alone.
THE FLENSE: China: (Part 1 of THE FLENSE serial) Page 2