Wei-Dong spacebarred through the article, skimming down. It was interesting to see one of his mother’s feeds talking about Webblies, but they were so…old school about it. Explaining everything.
Then he stopped, scrolled back up.
…mysterious, influential pirate radio host who calls herself Jiandi, whose audience is rumored to be in the tens of millions, creating a rare and improbable alliance between traditional factory workers and the gamers. This phenomenon is reportedly repeating itself around the Pacific Rim, in Indonesia, Malaysia, Cambodia and Vietnam, though it’s unclear whether the “IWWWW” chapters in these countries are copycats or whether they’re formally affiliated into a single organization.
Wei-Dong looked up from his screen at the mattress where Lu and Jie had collapsed after staggering in from the latest broadcast, Jie’s face so much younger in repose. Could she really be this famous DJ that Mom—Mom, all the way across the world in Los Angeles—was reading about?
There was more, screens and screens more, but what really caught his attention was the mention of the “market turmoil” that was sending bond and stock prices skittering up and down. He didn’t understand that stuff very well—every time someone had attempted to explain it to him, his eyes had glazed over—but it was clear that the things that they were doing here were having an effect, a massive effect, all over the world.
He almost laughed aloud, but caught himself. Matthew was sleeping all of six inches from where he sat, and he’d run the picket-skirmishes for 22 hours straight before keeling over. Wei-Dong had fought too, but he’d been mostly tasked with recruiting more Turks to his little list of friendly operatives, a much less intense kind of game. Still, he should be sleeping, not pecking at his laptop. In six hours, he’d be back on shift, with only a bowl of congee and a plate of dumplings to start the day.
He folded down his laptop’s lid and stretched his arms over his head, noting as he did the rank smell of his armpits. The single shower—ringed with a scary-looking electrical heater that warmed up the water as it passed through the showerhead—wasn’t sufficient for all the Webblies who slept in the flat, and he’d skipped bathing for two days in a row. He wasn’t the only one. The apartment smelled like the locker rooms at school or like the homeless shelter near Santee Alley that he used to pass when he went out for groceries.
He heard a little chirp from somewhere nearby, the cricket-soft buzz of a mobile phone ringing. He watched as Jie sleepily pawed at the little purse by her pillow, its strap already looped around her arm, and extracted a phone, blearily answered it: “Wei?”
Her sleepy eyes sprang open with such force that he actually heard her eyelids crinkling. Her bloodshot eyes showed her whole iris, and she leapt up, shouting in slangy Chinese that came so fast he couldn’t understand her at first.
But then he caught it: “Police! Outside! GO GO GO!”
There were 58 Webblies sleeping in the safe-house, and in an instant they all shot out of their blankets, most of them already dressed, and jammed their toes into their shoes and grabbed little shoulder-bags containing their data and personal possessions and crowded into the doorway. They worked in near-silence, the only sound urgent whispers and curses as they stepped on each others’ shoes. Some made for the window, leaping out to grab the balcony of the opposite handshake building, and now there was shouting from the street as the oncoming police spotted them.
He joined the crush of bodies, pushing grimly into the narrow hallway, then sprinting in the opposite direction to most of the Webblies, for he had seen Jie running that way, holding tight to Lu’s hand, and Jie seemed to have the survival instincts of a city rat. If she was running that way, he’d run that way, too.
But she’d gotten ahead of him, and when he skidded around the corner and found himself looking at a short length of corridor ending with an unmarked door, neither she nor Lu were anywhere to be seen. He paused for a second, then the unmistakable sound of a gunshot and a rising wave of panicked screams drove him forward, hurtling for the unmarked door, hand stretched out to turn the knob—
—which was locked!
He bounced off the door, stunned, and went on his ass, and shouted a single, panicked “Shit!” as he cracked his head on the dirty tile floor. As he struggled back into a seated position, he saw the door crack open. Jie’s bloodshot eye peeked out at him, and she swore in imaginative, slangy Chinese. “Gweilo,” she hissed, “quickly!”
He got to his feet quickly and reached the door in two quick steps. Her long fingernails dug into his arm as she dragged him inside the dimly lit space, which he saw now was a kind of supply closet that someone had converted into sleeping quarters, with a rolled-up bed in one corner and a corner of one shelf cleared of cleaning products and disinfectant and piled with a meager stack of clothes and collection of toiletries and a small vanity mirror.
“The matron,” Jie said, whispering so quietly that Wei-Dong could barely hear her. “She gets to live in here for free. She and I have an arrangement.” Lu was on his hands and knees behind her, silently rearranging the crowded space, working with a small LED flashlight clamped between his teeth. He was breathing heavily, his skinny arms trembling as he hefted the giant bottles of bleach and strained to set them down without making a sound.
“Can I help?” Wei-Dong whispered.
Jie rolled her eyes. “Does it look like there’s room to help?” she said. She was so close to him that he could see her individual eyelashes, the downy hair on her earlobes. If he took a deep breath, he’d probably crush her.
He shook his head minutely. “Sorry.”
Lu made a satisfied grunt and detached the entire bottom shelf from its bracket. Wei-Dong could see that he’d uncovered an access-hatch set into the wall, and it showered dust and paint-chips onto the floor in a cockroach-wing patter as he worked it loose. He passed it back and Jie tried to grab it, but there wasn’t room to maneuver it in the small space.
From the other side of the door, he heard the tromp, tromp, tromp of heavy boots, heard the thudding and pounding on the doors, the muffled and frightened conversations of people roused from their beds in the middle of the night.
With a low, frustrated, frightened sound Jie grabbed the hatch cover and moved it out of the way, bashing him so hard in the nose that he had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop from crying out. She gave him a contemptuous look and shoved the hatch into his hands. It was about 30 inches square, filthy, awkward, made from age-softened plywood.
Lu had passed through the hatch already, and now Jie was following, her bare legs flashing in the half-light of the room, and then Wei-Dong was alone, and the tromp of the boots was louder. Someone was scuffling in the hallway, a man, shouting in outrage; a woman, screaming in terror; a baby, howling.
Wei-Dong knelt down and peered into the tiny opening. It was pitch dark in there. He carefully leaned the cover up against the wall beside the opening and then climbed in. The floor on the other side was unfinished concrete, gritty and dusty. He couldn’t see a thing as he pulled himself forward on his elbows, commando-style, his breath rasping in his ears. He inched forward, feeling cautiously ahead for obstructions and then discovered that he was holding something soft and pliant and warm. Jie’s breast.
She hissed like a snake and swiped his hand away with sudden violence. He began to stammer an apology, but she hissed again: “Shhh!”
He bit back the words.
“Close up the grating,” she said. He cautiously began to turn around. The little space was a mere meter high and he repeatedly smashed his head into the ceiling, which had several unforgiving metal pipes running along it that bristled with vicious joints and tees. And he kicked both Jie and Lu several times.
But he eventually found himself with his head and arms outside the hatch, and he desperately fitted his fingers to the inside of the grill and inched it into place. It was nearly impossible to maneuver it into the tight space, but he managed, his fingers white—and all the while, the sounds from th
e corridor grew louder and louder.
“Got it,” he gasped and slithered away. There were voices from just outside the door now, deep, impatient male voices and an angry, shrill woman’s voice telling them that this was the stupid broom closet and to stop being so stupid. Someone shook the doorknob and then put a shoulder into the door, which shuddered.
Wei-Dong bit his tongue to hold in the squeak and pushed back even more, the fear on him now, a live thing in his chest. Jie and Lu pushed at him as he collided with them, but he barely felt it. All he felt was the fear, fear of the armed men on the other side of the door, about to come through and see the closet and the obvious gap on the bottom shelf where things had been shoved aside. Wei-Dong was suddenly and painfully aware of how far he was from home, an illegal immigrant with no rights in a country where no one else had rights, either. He would have cried if he hadn’t been scared to make a sound.
“Come on,” Jie whispered, a sound barely audible as another crash rocked the door. Someone had a key in the lock now, jiggling it. She clicked a tiny red LED to life and it showed him the shape of the space: a long, low plumbing maintenance area. The pipes above them gurgled and whooshed softly as the water sluiced through them.
Lu was beside him, Jie ahead of them, and she was arm-crawling to the opposite side of the area. He followed as quickly as he could, ears straining for any sound from behind him.
Jie swore under her breath.
“What?” Lu said.
“I can’t find the other grating,” she said. “I thought it was right here, but—”
Wei-Dong understood now. The maintenance area occupied a dead-space between their building and the one behind it, and somewhere around here, there was a grating like the one they’d come through, a little wormhole into another level of the game. Jie’s survival instincts were incredibly sharp, that much had been obvious, so he wasn’t altogether surprised to discover that she had a back door prepared.
He peered into the darkness, his whole body slicked with sweat and grimed with the ancient dust covering the floor.
“The last time, there was a light on the other side. It was easy to find,” she said, her voice near panic. He heard the unmistakable sound of the police entering the utility closet behind them, then voices.
“We need to search the whole wall,” Lu said. “Split up.”
So Wei-Dong found himself squirming over Jie’s bare calves, tearing his jeans on one of the low pipes as he did so. He patted the wall blindly, feeling around. Away from the small red light, it was pitch black, disorienting, frightening. Nearby, he heard the sounds of Jie and Lu searching too.
And then, he found it, his baby fingertip slipping into a grating hole, then he patted around it, felt its full extent. “Here, here!” he whispered loudly, and the other two began to struggle his way. He jiggled the grating, trying to find the trick that would make it come away, but it appeared to be screwed in. Increasingly desperate, he shook the grating, causing a rain of dust and dried paint to fall on his hands. He was gripping the metal so hard he could feel it cutting into one finger, a trickle of blood turning into mud as it mixed with the dirt.
“Light,” he said. “Can’t see anything.”
A hand patted the length of his leg, feeling its way up his body, to his arm, then pressed the little light into his hand. Jie’s hand, slim and girlish. He clicked the red light to life and peered intently at the grating. It wasn’t screwed in, but it needed to be pushed slightly forward before it would lift out. He stuck the light’s handle between his teeth and pushed and lifted and the grating popped free.
Just as it did, a long cone of light sliced through the crawlspace, and then a martial voice demanded “Halt!” The light bathed him, making him squint, and Jie thumped him in the thigh and said, “GO!”
He went, commando-crawling again, Jie’s slim hands pushing him to hurry him along. He emerged into a tiled space, dirty and dark, the floor wet and slimy. He stood up cautiously, worried about hitting his head again, then stooped to help Jie through. There were more shouts coming from the other side of the grating now, and the light spilled out of it and painted the greenish scum on the old, cracked grey tile floor. “Halt!” again, and “Halt” once more, as Jie finished wriggling through and he bent to grab Lu, peering into the now-brilliantly-lit crawlspace. Lu had been searching for the grating at the other end of the crawlspace and he was going as fast as he could, his face a mask of determination and fear, lips skinned back from his teeth, blood flowing freely from a scalp wound.
“Halt!” again, and Lu put on a burst of speed, and there was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Lu’s eyes grew wide and he flung his arms out before him and dug his hands into the ground and pulled himself along, scrambling with his toes.
“Come on,” Wei-Dong begged, practically in tears. “Come on, Lu!”
A gunshot, that flat sound he’d heard in the distance when he was living in downtown LA, but with an alarming set of whining aftertones as the bullet bounced from one pipe to another. Water began to gush onto the floor, and Lu was still too far away. Wei-Dong went down on his belly and crawled halfway into the space, holding his arms out: “Come on, come on,” crooning it now, not sure if he was speaking English or Chinese.
And Lu came, and: “HALT!” and another gunshot, then two more, and the water was everywhere, and the whining ricochets were everywhere and then—
Lu screamed, a sound like nothing Wei-Dong had ever heard. The closest he’d heard was the wail of a cat that he’d once seen hit by a car in front of his house, a cat that had lain in the street with its spine broken for an eternity, screaming almost like a human, a wail that made his skin prickle from his ankles to his earlobes. Then, Lu stopped. Lay stock still. Wei-Dong bit his tongue so hard he felt blood fill his mouth. Lu’s eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting. He opened his mouth as though he had just had the most profound insight of his life, and then blood sloshed out of his mouth, over his lips, and down his chin.
“Lu!” Wei-Dong called, and was torn between the impulse to go forward and get him and the impulse to back out and run as fast as he could, all the way to California if he could—
And then, “STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” in that barking, brutal Chinese, and the gun was cocked again. He smelled the blood from his own mouth and from Lu, and Lu slumped forward. Then a gunpowder smell. Then—
—another shot, which whined and bounced with a deadly sound that left his ears ringing.
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” the voice said, and Wei-Dong scrambled backwards as fast as he could.
Jie yanked him to his feet, her face grimed with dust and streaked with tears. “Lu?” she said.
He shook his head, all his Chinese gone for a moment, no words at all available to him.
Then Jie did an extraordinary thing. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, drew it in and in, squeezed her fists and her arms and her neck muscles so that they all stood out, corded and taut.
And then she blew it all out, unclenched her fists, relaxed her neck, and opened her eyes.
“Let’s go,” she said, and, with a single smooth motion, turned to the door behind her and shot the bolt, turned the knob and opened it into another apartment-building corridor, smelling of cooking spices and ancient, ground-in body odor and mold. The dim light from the hallway felt bright compared to the twilight he’d been in since diving through the bolt-hole, and he saw that he was in a disused communal shower, the walls green with old mold and slime.
Jie dug a pair of strappy sandals out of her purse and calmly and efficiently slipped them on. She produced two sealed packets of wet-wipes, handed one to Wei-Dong and used the other’s contents to wipe her face, her hands, her bare legs, working with brisk strokes. Though Wei-Dong’s heart was hammering and the adrenalin was surging through his body, he forced himself to do the same, shoving the dirty wipes in his pocket until there were no more. There were more shouts from the grating behind them, and distant sounds from the street below, and Wei-Don
g knew it was hopeless, knew that they were cornered.
But if Jie was going to march on, he would, too. Lu was behind him, with the coppery blood smell, the bonfire smell of the gunpowder. Ahead of him was China, all of China, the country he’d dreamed of for years, not a dream anymore, but a brutal reality.
Jie began to walk briskly, her arm waving back and forth like a metronome as she crossed the length of the building and opened the door to the stairway without breaking stride. Wei-Dong struggled to keep up. They pelted down three flights of stairs, the grimy, barred windows allowing only a grey wash of light. It was dawn outside.
Only one flight remained, and Jie pulled up abruptly, wheeled on her heel and looked him in the eye. Her eyes were limned with red, but her face was composed. “Why do you have to be white?” she said. “You stand out so much. Walk five paces behind me, three paces to the side, and if they catch you, I won’t stop.”
He swallowed. Tried to swallow. His mouth was too dry. Lu was dead upstairs. The police were outside the door—he heard calls, radio-chatter, engines, sirens, shouts—and they were murderous.
He wanted to say, Wait, don’t, don’t open the door, let’s hide here. But he didn’t say it. They were doomed in here. The police knew which building they’d entered. The longer they waited, the sooner it would be before they sealed the exits and searched every corner and nook.
“Understood,” he managed, and made his face into a smooth mask.
One more flight.
Jie cracked the door and the dawn light was rosy on her face. She put her eye to the crack for a moment, then opened it a little wider and slipped out. Wei-Dong counted to three, slowly, making his breath as slow as the count, then went out the door himself.
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