Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction

by Dominica Malcolm

  Zhēn cleared the tears welling in her eyes so she could read the face of the geared clepsydra standing in the corner. “It’s nearly noon!”

  Grandpa was already handing her the nearest scroll. “Here. Take this. Gather up as many as you can in the next five minutes. Then get out of here, Zhēn! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I’m going to the archive.”

  “But you’ll be blown up!”

  “Don’t worry about me, Zhēn. I’m depending on you. Save what you can here but, above all, get out before this cave blows or my heart will be too broken to mend.” And Grandpa vanished.

  “He has gone crazy!” feared Zhēn as she ran from workbench to workbench gathering scrolls, sketches and Grandpa’s steam-powered nutcracker. Did she have time for the wind-up messenger pigeon too? Glancing over at the clock, she stopped short.

  Zhòu Lì stood in the doorway and, like Zhēn, he held something in his arms—something big.

  “Dog Fart! You’re not supposed to be here!” he shouted.

  “And neither are you.” Zhēn’s heart pounded its way up her throat. “You haven’t set the explosive yet? So that was just a lie to get us out of the workshop.”

  “Your weak brain is overheating, girl. Take it outside to cool off.”

  “And leave you to destroy Grandpa’s inventions? Uh, uh.” Keeping her eyes on Lì, Zhēn bent down and placed her precious cargo on a shelf below the nearest workbench.

  Lì likewise crouched down and unloaded his burden onto the floor. “I gave you a chance to leave, but if…”

  Like a graceful mountain lion, Zhēn leapt high over a workbench and grabbed onto the closest ceiling support beam. Swinging around it she rammed her feet into the side of Lì’s head. He staggered, stunned.

  Zhēn dropped to the floor, disappointed the blow hadn’t knocked him out. She needed a more powerful move. How about the dim mak strike Grandpa had taught her?

  It could kill. He’d said to use it only if her life were in danger. But was it? Nothing was stopping her from leaving the cave—nothing but wanting to save Grandpa’s workshop at all costs.

  Zhēn ran at Lì, her right hand pinched to a point and aimed at the side of his neck. As she threw all her strength into the jab, Lì’s left hand came up and grabbed her arm in mid strike. Her calmness training quickly forgotten, Zhēn screamed in pain and anger as he held her at arm’s length, her free arm chopping at nothing but air.

  Lì threw her to the ground and put his right foot on her stomach. Wrenching a leather drive belt from a milling machine, he tied up Zhēn’s hands and feet then hung her from a pulley hook descending from the ceiling grid. She had no choice but to watch, horrified, as Lì set the explosive device’s geared timer.

  §

  Grandpa saw the power source for his guard devices, a boiler hidden outside the tunnel entrance, had been disabled so he entered the family’s archive with careful haste. Inside, Fletcher was kneeling over an explosive amid piles of dusty scrolls.

  “Stop!”

  Interrupted, Fletcher rose. “So you have decided not to heed my warning.”

  “No honourable man would. Do you not understand the value of these scrolls? What they mean to me and my people?”

  “Of course I do. But do you, Sir, understand what they mean to me and my people in Great Britain?”

  Grandpa edged a few feet closer to Fletcher, wary but curious. “I suspect you could use their wisdom to your advantage. So why do you want to destroy them?”

  The old man narrowed the gap a few feet more.

  “You have a lot to learn about us Brits, Sir. For example, we pride ourselves on being the most technologically advanced and moral civilisation on Earth.

  “I, personally, have built an excellent reputation and popular following in London by giving public lectures based on my travels. And do you know why?”

  Grandpa continued his slow advance.

  “Because I demonstrate the superiority of British ingenuity and technology over the primitive efforts of low-lifes like you.”

  Grandpa lunged at Fletcher, but the professor deftly reached beneath his jacket and pulled a revolver from his trouser waistline. Grandpa stopped with a jerk.

  “I truly do not wish to use this, Sir, but I will if I must.”

  Eyes fixed on the pistol, Grandpa said, “Now I see. Your name would be dishonoured if other Englishmen learned of the knowledge contained in these scrolls.”

  “Bravo, Sir!”

  “You brag about British morals, yet you value your reputation above scholarship and truth. You’re truly a dishonourable man.”

  Kablam! The shockwave from a nearby explosion rocked the archive. Scrolls crashed to the floor raising a cloud of dust.

  Zhēn! The workshop!

  Heartbroken and furious, Grandpa kicked high and knocked the revolver from Fletcher’s hand. Fletcher scrambled for it but Grandpa grabbed him by the neck and tossed him into the air. Then, lightening fast, he reached into his apron and flung a bayonet-sharp scraper tool at the surprised man.

  §

  Blowing sand from nearby dunes wailed as Lì dragged Zhēn, still bound, toward the archive’s entrance. Her head hung low, weighted by shame. She’d failed to save Grandpa’s workshop and the precious scrolls inside.

  But on entering Zhēn cried, “Ha!”

  Grandpa was climbing out over piles of fallen scrolls while Fletcher, pinned to a ceiling beam by the collar of his tight-fitting jacket, struggled high above.

  Zhēn saw Lì gasp and acted fast. Falling, she twisted and swung her body around, knocking Lì’s legs out from beneath him. In unison, Grandpa whipped another scraper from his apron and sent it flying at Lì. The tool’s rounded wooden handle struck him mid-forehead, knocking him out.

  Grandpa untied Zhēn and they hugged hard, each relieved to see the other alive. Then Grandpa gently pushed Zhēn aside and, arms extended, moved his palms over Lì’s body.

  “What are you doing, Grandpa?”

  “Ensuring nothing can move but his head. I’ll teach you how some day.”

  “Okay…” Grandpa could do that?

  Lì awoke and struggled to move. Zhēn saw panic in his eyes. He addressed Grandpa with a shaky voice. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Wáng Jié,” Grandpa said.

  Lì’s eyes opened wide. “The Wŭshù Master? The one who fought off an attack on the Daoguang Emperor? Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  With new respect, Lì bowed his head toward Grandpa then looked up and sneered at Fletcher.

  Zhēn’s eyes opened wide, too. So Grandpa wasn’t crazy! He was smart and famous. And I am his student, she beamed.

  §

  Grandpa tied up the two men and handed them over to local villagers who had rushed to the caves concerned about the blast.

  Over the next few months, Grandpa and Zhēn talked with the villagers about how best to protect the archive. After much arguing, they decided to hide its entrance beneath sand.

  Convicted of their crimes, Fletcher and Lì were, likewise, buried in jail.

  * * *

  Factoid: In 1900 Wáng Yuanlu, guardian of the Mògāo Caves near Dūnhuáng, discovered an archive hidden by sand. Decades later, British scholar Joseph Needham, in his work Science and Civilisation in China, used material from the archive to prove the Chinese were the true inventors of several technological advances previously claimed by the West.

  * * *

  About Celeste A. Peters

  Celeste A. Peters is an author of seven published non-fiction books who is trying her hand at fiction. Her short story “Without Blemish” was published last year in Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy’s Urban Green Man anthology, and her story “A Fable for Those Who Would Mess with Fate” received Honourable Mention in the 2011 Robyn Herrington Memorial Short Story Contest. Celeste’s website is www.celestepeters.com and you can follow her on Twitter @CelesteAPeters.

  The Seventh Month

&nbs
p; Agnes Ong

  ~ Malaysia ~

  Staring danger in the eye always made me feel more alive than ever. A firm grip on the handle of my cleaver, the sole of my left shoe scrapping the dirt on the ground, muscles tensed, eyes on the target, I saw my present, no past, no future, just frozen in time. Someone shouted and all hell broke loose.

  The cleaver was one with my body now, moving with my thoughts fluidly. It went where my eyes fell and cut up flesh like paper. Blood splashed onto my face and soaked into my shirt; warmed my heart and I caught myself smiling. No one was ever going to get past me without getting a taste of my blade. After all, I needed to preserve my reputation as the most notorious gangster in Old Town, Maniac Butcher, they called me.

  It was another typical day at work for me, a gang fight at a deserted corner of an oil palm plantation in the outskirts of Selangor. That was how we settled our differences among the gangs, whether it was territorial, women or money. We let the fist, steel pipes, knives, cleavers and parangs do the talking. Guns, you say? It was too risky to use them then as the police had been cracking down on weapons smuggling syndicates in the country lately. So, no guns for now, back to the old days of fighting with real weapons and not just a piece of metal with a trigger which any sissy can wield and call himself a hero. These weapons that we used drew blood, broke bones, severed limbs and scarred faces. If you survived, you carried the mementos to show your heroic deed, just the way I liked it.

  I was flying through the crowd, driven by adrenalin like jet fuel. All the faces I passed were a blur. Their screams of agony gave me pleasure. I was unstoppable. Sensing an imminent attack from my right, I swung my cleaver around to block my enemy’s advance but my arm stayed limp. I looked to find my cleaver lying on the ground, shimmering red in blood. It was only then that I saw blood oozing out from my right sleeve.

  My enemies were no fools. They could smell an easy prey from miles away and I was standing before them, stunned from my injury. Within seconds, three opposing gang members zoomed in on me and pounced!

  Reaching for my cleaver with my left hand, I felt a dagger digging into my lower back. Swinging around to fend off my attacker, I missed. Another guy took advantage of my blind spot and dealt me a blow in the head with a steel pipe. I doubled over in pain. Simultaneously, a skinny lad gave me a boot and sent me crashing to the ground.

  This was how it ends for a guy like me. When the strong fell, the weak swarmed in to feed on the remains like a pack of hyenas. I had no fear as I surrendered to Death, my vision turning red, grey and fading to nothingness.

  A sharp stab to my back woke me. I sprang up, thinking that I was still in the battlefield, only to find myself drenched in sweat, panting like a dog at Death’s door. As I surveyed my surroundings, a blinding pain shot up my shoulder causing me to see stars and collapsed onto my pillow.

  “Easy. The doctor said you need to rest.”

  I recognised Ming Chai’s voice. It was a sign that I was alive and safe.

  “What happened?”

  “Ma Ko saved you. We won the fight. Now, the eight-hundred-and-eight members will not cross over to our territory any more.”

  My boss had saved me yet again. But then, we never kept count of these things. As his right-hand man, it was my duty to protect him but we always had each other’s back, no matter what.

  So, we succeeded in securing our territory, and I asked the same question I always did after each fight, “What’s the head count?”

  “Three dead, ten injured.”

  The score was not bad at all considering our gang was outnumbered in the first place.

  “Have you collected the money for the dead from the other members?”

  “Ah Mun will take care of that.”

  The pain on my shoulder had subsided and I opened my eyes. Ming Chai was sitting beside me on a stool, examining my wound. He looked skinnier than I remembered but he had always been skinny since the day I met him.

  It had been five years since I found Ming Chai in a back alley lying in the cold rain. He was 13 years old then, trying to make a living on the streets picking pockets. He was a terrible thief. That night, I found him half dead after he was beaten up for getting caught. I guessed I grew fond of him after I found out that he was abandoned by his parents just like me. He was also grateful to me for saving him. Naturally, he followed me everywhere after that and became my shadow man.

  “Eat this. It will stop the pain,” Ming Chai gave me two yellow pills, “The doctor will not be coming again, so I suggest you stay in bed and don’t get your wounds infected.”

  For gangsters like us, going to the hospital to treat our injuries was never an option. That would be like walking into a lion’s den to be eaten alive. With our record, the police would be all over us the minute we stepped into a hospital. So, we had to rely on illegal doctors to do the job but they were not always available.

  “How many days was I out?”

  “Three.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t worry, I have informed Sue.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her you were away on business.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Keeping such bad news from Sue was of utmost importance to me. She was the love of my life and I would never do anything to hurt her.

  You find this strange coming from a ruthless killer like me? Well, every man has his weakness, and Sue was mine.

  I grew up in an orphanage where love, like food, was never enough. Being a scrawny kid then made me an easy target for bullying. That was where I trained to be a fighter. At age 15, I ran away and ended up working as a runner in one of the many pubs owned by Ma Ko. I was tough, fearless and loyal. By the time I was 18, I rose through the ranks and earned Ma Ko’s trust to let me manage one of his pubs.

  Sue came into my life when I turned 21. The pub was crowded with gamblers and drinkers who were betting on the football matches of the night. It was a rowdy group but nothing I could not handle. In the middle of an intense match, this petite girl entered the pub and she immediately caught my attention. Girl looking for boyfriend, perhaps, I remembered thinking then.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched her squeeze through the crowd and moved towards a middle-aged man sitting at a table in the corner. He was obviously not into the game as he just sat there staring at his empty beer bottles. I was intrigued.

  The girl sat beside the man and started talking to him. At first, he did not respond. Then he began to cry. She continued talking, rubbing his back to soothe him. The man was becoming more and more upset. He started to shout and pushed her away roughly. A few other guys standing nearby tried to interfere and ended up starting a brawl.

  To minimise the damage, a few of my handlers and I broke up the fight. Then, we chased the man and the girl out of the pub. There was no exchange of words. As soon as I left them out on the curb, I turned to go back inside when she said, “Thank you.”

  Those two words sounded so foreign to me that it made me stop in my tracks. Why would a perfect stranger thank me for throwing her out so unceremoniously? I nodded without turning around.

  Just as I was about to take another step, she asked, “Could you help us get a taxi? My father is really drunk and I can’t manage him alone.”

  This time I turned around and surveyed the situation. The man was lying, half passed out, on the pavement, unaware that his daughter was left to fend for herself alone. Then, I looked at the girl for the first time.

  Under the yellow street lights, her features were sad. The big round eyes were bloodshot and her shoulders sagged under an invincible burden. Her dark hair which shone in the light seemed to envelop her face in a sort of halo. But, make no mistake, she stood tall and strong despite her slight frame. There was no fear in her face.

  As a gangster, I have seen many girls and women, most of them were sluts or gold diggers. There were also the other girls and women who avoided people like us, they were usually afraid to look us in the eye because
we had the tattoos, street swagger and reek of trouble. The girl standing before me that night was different. This made me curious and I wanted to get to know her.

  We ended up sitting by the roadside for almost an hour. She did most of the talking. She told me that the man was her father, a butcher. He was upset because her mother had run away with another man. As she told me her story, there were no tears, just strength and dignity in her voice, telling it as it was. I remembered thinking that I admired her for her courage and calmness. After she left in the taxi that night, I could not stop thinking about her.