We Had Flags (Toxic World Book 3) (7 page)

They didn’t find one. The citizens of New City had turned the peninsula into a fortress. They’d fought off the Righteous Horde and before that a bunch of bandit groups. He’d heard adults saying that twenty years ago it was even tougher because there had been more bandits then. The scavenging had been better and parts of the old armies had still been around. But now most of the food in the wildlands had been eaten up and the bandits had starved or been shot. There hadn’t been a big fight for years except with the Righteous Horde. The other times Pablo had been sent inside it had only been because of small bandit groups. They’d come and steal stuff and run off, too chicken to attack the wall.

The Chinese could, though. They had a freighter and maybe other ships too. And if they could get a freighter running they probably had lots of other good stuff. They could blow up the wall and charge inside with machine guns and Big Ones and steal everything and kill everybody. It wasn’t just Hong-gi who was in danger. He was too, and Greg and Aunt Rosie and Mom and everyone.

Everyone.

Suddenly Pablo wasn’t walking along the perimeter anymore. He was sitting on the ground bawling like a baby.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Every community has its meeting places and its traditions. Even the Burbs, with all its lawlessness, all its stabbings and fistfights and thefts and despair, has places where people come together to celebrate. Maybe it was because the Burbs were so filthy, so chaotic, that people clung to these places even more when things were at their worst.

Roy’s famous bar, $87,953, was one of those places. It had electricity piped in from New City to run its lights and its stereo and twice-weekly movie nights. For those with less to trade there was the fried fish stand down in the Hollows, where raggedy scavengers and Burbs riffraff traded a few rusty bolts or pieces of driftwood for a bite of fish that would fill their belly today and give them cancer in a decade.

And there was another place, an in-between place for those with too much trade, pride, and sense to eat fish but who couldn’t afford Roy’s meat pies and beer on a regular basis. Like with $87,953, this place was open to everyone and everyone went there.

That place was Joe’s Chicken Shack.

Joe’s Chicken Shack stood on the edge of the market and did its best trade at night when the market cleared out and most of the other food vendors packed up and went home. The pit fire for the spits was like a beacon, shining from under the open plank counter that surrounded them to illuminate the bare field the market became after hours and casting its warm glow on the haphazard collection of shelters that noncitizens called home for a season or a lifetime.

You could tell how big a night it was at Joe’s Chicken Shack by how far the light penetrated the shantytown. On lean days like Mondays and Tuesdays, or during the summer when the scavengers were out in the wildlands, it shone to the very edge of the Burbs, only a few silhouettes of customers standing around the counter getting in the way of the glow. On other days more people gathered around, having picked up some more trade after weekend flings that were still popular even though the concept of the workweek had disappeared along with civilization. The thicker crowd dimmed the light so that it cast only a flickering glow on the nearest shacks.

On Saturdays the Burbs was plunged in darkness. Saturday was sesame chicken night, when Joe and his new wife Lashonda changed from their usual fare of roast chicken to make a secret recipe of crunchy, sweet chunks of chicken rolled in sesame seeds. The chicken came with a side of vegetables, not boiled like usual but fried up in oddly shaped metal bowls called “walks”. Joe said they were called “walks” because in the Old Times people used to carry them on their heads when they walked from one town to the next.

Everyone, simply everyone, loved Joe’s sesame chicken. The crowds around Joe’s were so thick that not a sliver of light cast a momentary beam on the marketplace. Virtually no campfires blazed in the Burbs, adding to the darkness. Most nights the light from Joe’s could get you back to your shelter even if you lived pretty far to the edge of town. On Saturdays you better hope there was a full moon or you’d be tripping over tent ropes and walking straight into tin shacks.

Not that there was much danger of that. On Saturdays everyone was at Joe’s anyway, unless they were at $87,953 or the fish fry. Even the citizens sent orders, and in exchange for a few bites of sesame chicken a scavenger would deliver a sweet-smelling package to the wall, where it would be lifted up into the safety of New City in a bucket at the end of a rope.

This Saturday was no exception. Despite the panic, despite some scavengers lighting out for the wildlands, despite most children being sent to sleep behind the dubious protection of New City’s walls, Joe’s was packed. Song Yu-jin supposed $87,953 and the fish fry were packed too. It wasn’t the sort of night people wanted to spend alone. The Doctor had posted his best guards in the hills by Toxic Bay and promised that if the Chinese made a move, everyone would be allowed inside the gate. Everyone took him at his word and settled into their regular night out. The people of the Burbs knew life was short and they grabbed what they could while they could.

Yu-jin and Randy had gotten there early, and while they hadn’t managed to get a seat by the warped plank supported by old oil barrels that passed for a counter, they were pressed right up against it. They leaned against the greasy wood, the warmth of the pit fire and the crowd all around them making them feel hot despite the chill winter night. Lashonda, her face beaded in sweat and her dreadlocks tied back in a damp kerchief, was cooking up some more sesame chicken over the fire, brushing on Joe’s secret sauce and rolling the pieces in sesame seeds. Like Joe’s first wife, Lashonda was quiet and hardworking. She tended the fires and made the food and rarely interacted with the customers.

That was Joe’s job. Bobbing from one conversation to another, taking an order from one group while serving another and talking to a third, Joe was a dynamo. Everyone loved him.

Tonight, however, he looked glum. He still cracked a smile and made jokes, but didn’t participate in the babble of conversation as much as usual. His eyes had taken on an uncharacteristic sadness Yu-jin hadn’t seen since his first wife had died of cancer the year before.

Yu-jin was surprised. Nothing got Joe down for long. Like everyone else he’d had his share of trouble. He had a deep scar down one side of his face from his hairline to his neck, and one hand was missing the three smallest fingers. It took some getting used to to get served your dinner by that gnarled claw, but most people bore scars. Yu-jin sure had her share, at least on the inside. Whatever had marred his body hadn’t stopped him, and losing Alice hadn’t stopped him either. Within a few months of her death Lashonda had started hanging out at Joe’s Chicken Shack more than usual. A few months after that he started noticing. Then it was only a matter of weeks before they were hitched. Life was too short to deny yourself happiness.

Tonight, though, Joe’s face was as dark as the Burbs. Randy and some others tried to draw him out but failed.

Yu-jin barely tasted her meal. She was still stunned by what had happened that morning. She’d followed the crowd and had seen the ship floating in the bay like some ghost from the Old Times. She’d seen the rowboat come ashore. When the guards ordered everyone back she managed to slip around them and stay within earshot.

She had heard everything.

Chinese. A boat full of Chinese was moored in Toxic Bay. She’d heard and understood every word when the officer told that African interpreter to express their desire for peaceful trade. Then she’d heard the interpreter’s broken English mess it up. The fumbling conversation raised tensions and frustrations on both sides until the interpreter made a fatal mistake—he’d mentioned the crew was Chinese.

There’d almost been a gunfight at that point. Only some quick screaming from The Doctor and Gebre Selassie had avoided a bloodbath. The Chinese officer had ordered his men back to the ship, all the while cursing “paranoid Westerners who couldn’t see beyond their past mistakes.” The Doctor had ordered a retreat at the same time, saying they “couldn’t defeat them within range of that cannon.”

Since then, the Chinese hadn’t budged from their ship as far as she knew. She couldn’t really tell, seeing that The Doctor had banned anyone but his troops from approaching the hills.

Idiots. They’d almost started World War Four just because of paranoia and a language barrier.

Randy’s hand stroking her hair woke her up to the here and now.

“You OK?” He had to shout to be heard over the babble of voices.

“Yeah, just worried.”

Randy laughed. “You, worried? You’ve never been scared of anything, why would you be scared of the Chinks?”

Yu-jin winced and looked away. Chinks. That’s all anyone was saying right now. Damn Chinks. Dirty Chinks. Fucking Chinks trying to take our land again. Like the Chinese had started it. She knew her history. It had been greed and mistrust and stupidity on both sides, not some Yellow Peril wanting to destroy Western civilization.

And now it looked like history was going to repeat itself.

That word, that word. Everywhere around her that word was spitting out of angry mouths and jabbing at her spirit. Of course she’d heard it before; it was one of the things that kept her family from coming here. Better to be alone with your own people than wearing a mask in a crowd.

And her mask hadn’t slipped. She stood right here with the rest of them, invisible. She had her bow strapped to her back like she was ready to defend civilization from the Yellow Horde. Everyone else carried their best weapons too. Even Randy had strapped a big knife to his belt.

She felt like she should be rejoicing. The mother country had got in touch. In all her life she’d known maybe thirty Chinese people, all of them keeping it secret. The Yaos were the only ones she knew here. Most preferred to do what her family had done and stay in the wildlands.

Someone nudged her. She turned and saw a fat Anglo sitting on a stool next to her. His pockmarked face ran with sweat from the pit fires.

“Nice bow,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and Yu-jin saw that he had a bow too.

“When the Chinks come over the hill let’s have a shooting contest, eh? Loser buys drinks!”

He laughed at his own joke.

“Sounds like a blast,” Yu-jin said.

The guy leaned closer. His breath smelled like cheap beer.

“Korean or Vietnamese?” he asked.

“Korean.”

Yu-jin felt like punching herself in the face.

The bowman made a gesture at the crowd all around.

“Don’t mind all the stuff they’re saying about Asians. You know we don’t mean you.”

Yu-jin put on her best smile. “Of course you don’t. I’m one of the good ones.”

“Damn right. Ha!” The bowman slapped her thigh and tossed a small packet of flour onto the counter. “Hey Joe! Get some more sesame chicken for my Korean friend here.”

Joe turned from a conversation he was having with someone else and, with that constant fluid motion he kept up all night, scooped up some chicken and put it on a ceramic platter, turned and placed it in front of Yu-jin with that mangled hand of his.

“Hey Joe!” the fat man bellowed. “Bet those Chinks would spit out your chicken. They only eat worms and Anglo babies over there. Har har!”

Joe gave him a ghost of a smile and turned away.

“What’s eating him tonight?” the guy asked Yu-jin.

“Probably just worried like the rest of us,” Randy cut in. He looked jealous. As if this guy was competition. Randy glanced over across the bar and his face fell. “Aw, hell, it’s Tom Cooper.”

“Who?” Yu-jin asked.

“Farm worker. Lost his wife during the cult attack and started huffing.”

Pressing through the crowd was a dirty, thin man of about forty years of age. His eyes were bugged out and bloodshot, and a string of mucous dangled from his nose and mouth. A lot of the old chemicals would get you high if you sniffed them, but the shot to the brain came at a terrible price. Within weeks the brain got fried and the addict couldn’t think straight. Within a few months they’d be permanently insane and join the ranks of the tweakers, irrational and dangerous addicts who tended to live in the ruins around Toxic Bay, where the chemicals were plenty and there was no one around to kick them.

The crowd parted for the filthy apparition, casting disgusted and fearful looks in his direction. Tom stumbled up to the counter. Joe shooed him away with a dismissive gesture and turned to talk to someone else. A glimmer of shame passed through Tom’s fevered eyes and his shoulders slumped. Just as he started to turn, Lashonda glanced at Joe to make sure he wasn’t looking and handed Tom a packet of sesame chicken. An idiotic grin came to the addict’s face and he staggered away, munching on his meal.

Yu-jin curled her fingers around her boyfriend’s hand.

“I don’t know how people can kill themselves like that,” Randy said.

“I get it,” Yu-jin whispered. “When you lose everything you start asking what it’s all for.”

Randy hugged her. “Oh baby, I know this winter’s been rough, but life goes on.”

A life where I can only be myself with the Yaos? And when they finally accept that I won’t be marrying Da-bin, then what?

The fat man next to them broke in with a drunken leer. “So nice to see two little lovebirds. Bet those Chinks still got arranged marriages and shrunken feet, har har!”

I swear to God I’m going to put an arrow through this guy.

“Excuse me, please,” a feminine voice said next to her.

A young Anglo woman carrying an infant in a baby sling edged her way through the press of people. Yu-jin leaned against Randy to give her room.

Joe was there in an instant with a big helping of sesame chicken.

“Hey Elsa, on the house,” he said with the first real smile he’d made all evening. “Happy three months!”

Yu-jin bent over the infant. “Three months? Oh, how adorable. A boy or a girl?”

“A girl,” the mother said. “Her name’s Lakota.”

“Hey Lakota,” Yu-jin said, stroking the fine hair on the top of the girl’s head. “Oh, you’re beautiful.”

“Not when she’s coughing up in the middle of the night!” her mother laughed.