Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction (26 page)

Lola did not respond. She stared into her bowl, head down, and would have seemed asleep, had her eyes not been open.

My Nanay shook her shoulder gently. “Please? Just a few bites, and then you can rest.”

Lola did not respond, and when my Nanay shook her harder, she went completely limp and slumped sideways out of her chair, toppling to the floor. When she struck the ground, my Lola didn’t sound like a woman any more. She rattled like the stranger’s parcel.

My Nanay screamed as Lola split apart on impact. Her dry, wrinkled brown skin shattered, leaving behind a bundle of twigs and branches in a dress. A face stared up at us from the pile, hastily sketched in dark, dry blood.

§

I am old now, older than Lola was, and the soldiers have gone. When I was old enough to join our local militia, I did, even though the war was over. Day by day, soldier by soldier, I spread my influence throughout our militia and made sure no man raised a hand against lolas, or children.

I no longer wear the uniform or carry a gun, as I am now too tired to bear their monstrous weight. But I tell my tribe of grandchildren all the stories I know, all the warnings of the aswang and the manananggal, and they listen well. Each one carries a bulb of garlic and a packet of salt, and each one knows to look a stranger straight in the eyes.

I’ve often dreamed of meeting the aswang again, and of what I’d do differently this time. It is too late for all that now, but perhaps my Lola’s lessons can keep my grandchildren safe, and reflected right side up. Because of her, I have taught them to find something to laugh about, no matter how sad, or scared, or lost they feel. Because of her, their tears will never call to monsters.

About Shenoa Carroll-Bradd

Shenoa lives in Southern California and writes whatever catches her fancy, whether it’s horror, fantasy, or anything in between. Say hello on Twitter @ShenoaSays or join her fan page at
www.facebook.com/sbcbfiction
.

When the Rice was Gone

Dominica Malcolm

~ South Korea ~

Rugged up in thermal underwear, a long-sleeved blouse, jeggings, and a winter coat, Song Ae-jung walked into the bathroom-sized freezer and made her way directly to the only shelf on which frozen vegetables remained. She knew exactly what was in each clear plastic zip-locked bag—zucchini, cucumber, spinach, white radishes, soybean sprouts, and
doraji
. After placing each bag into the basket she held in her left hand, she headed back to the freezer door. As she turned around, she looked back in at the now empty room and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, allowing the cool air to fill her lungs, before opening her eyes again and shutting the door behind her.

Ae-jung placed the basket onto the counter, then removed her coat and placed it over the back of a wooden chair. While waiting for the the food to thaw, Ae-jung moved to a nearby cupboard to pull out a package of
gim
, sealed in an aluminium vacuum-pack for freshness, and the last clay pot of white rice. She looked inside and estimated about two cups remained; just enough for herself and her companions.

As Ae-jung poured the rice into a saucepan, Deangelo Freeman walked into the military base’s large kitchen, carrying a four-litre bottle of water.

“I still can’t tell if it’s a good or bad thing that we’ve still got so much water, but we’re down to the last of our food,” he said.

Ae-jung turned around, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed Deangelo’s dark cheek. “I don’t care what it is,” she said. “I’m sick of this place and can’t wait to get out.” She handed Deangelo a measuring cup. “Now please fill this up and get the rice started. I’m going to go check on Ki.”

She found her husband, Ki-ryong, snug beneath a half-dozen blankets and laying on several pillows spread over the stone-cold floor. Kneeling down next to him, Ae-jung placed the back of her hand over his forehead and felt the heat sear up through her skin. She frowned thoughtfully, and hoped the meal she and Deangelo were preparing would help take some of the fever away. The last thing she wanted was to lose him the way so many others had perished, deep beneath the city of Seoul.

Her mother was the first person she knew to go, when Ae-jung was only ten. That was a quarter of a century ago now. She was orphaned after that, as her father had remained above ground to help with the battle against the North. Once the US base lost contact with the outside world, they were on lockdown. No one went in or out. But that was about to change.

§

“Bibimbap’s ready,” Ae-jung said, bringing in a tray with three bowls of rice topped with julienne vegetables, each ingredient separate from the others.

Ki-ryong sat up and let his blankets fall off his shoulders as he took the bowl in his hands. He inhaled deeply and savoured the scent of the cooked vegetables and rice before Deangelo handed him a set of chopsticks and a long-handled spoon.

“This looks so good, Ae,” Deangelo said as he took his own bowl and kneeled down on a cushion at the table that was placed inside a hole in the ground.

Ae-jung sat down next to him, placing her feet in the hole. Deangelo picked up the bottle of sauvignon, which he claimed to have found in some long-dead army official’s quarters, and had been saving for such an occasion as this.

He poured the wine into each of the glasses in front of them, and turned to Ae-jung. “Do you wanna make a toast?”

Lifting up her glass, Ae-jung said, “To our last meal in this hell-hole. May whatever is left above ground not be as shit as this.”

“Hear, hear!” the men agreed, lifting their glasses, too.

They clinked together, and then moved immediately to mix their bibimbap. The meal was enjoyed in silence so that they could remember every taste that crossed their lips, not knowing if this meal would be their last ever upon the Earth.

§

The trio stood at a metal ladder that reached two floors above them, and led to a manhole cover. Time had not been well kept in the last couple of years, with more important survival issues to deal with, so they had no idea what month it was or what the weather would be like outside, if it was even habitable. Each of them were dressed in as many clothes as they could find in case it was winter, and therefore colder in the sun than underground, and carried a backpack full of various equipment they considered they might need.

Deangelo stood nearest to the ladder. “Let me go first,” he said. “My Pa trained me to deal with anything when I was young. He didn’t want me to be just another civilian.”

Ae-jung and Ki-ryong had heard the story countless times of Deangelo’s army-trained father getting stuck inside during the lockdown and wanting to make himself useful. He didn’t just train Deangelo, but several other children born of military parents, no matter their age. They didn’t interrupt him, however, as they both knew how important it was for Deangelo to keep his father’s memory alive through the repetition.

“Stay down here until I know it’s safe, okay?”

The Koreans nodded.

“In case I don’t come back,” Deangelo added, “know that I love you both.”

He kissed them both firmly on the lips: Ae-jung first, followed by Ki-ryong.

“I love you,” Ki-ryong mouthed, having lost his voice to illness.

Ae-jung simply held in a breath and tried not to cry, not wanting to consider the possibility of Deangelo not coming back.

§

Secured to the ladder with climbing equipment, Deangelo pounded a sledgehammer against the manhole several times until he finally pushed through. Pieces of rubble fell to the ground beneath him, and he was glad he couldn’t see his companions below. As he pulled himself through the hole, it took Deangelo a few blinks before he could see anything. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might be nighttime, what with having just finished lunch, unless there was some other reason for there to be no sun. The lack of heat from the sky thus made Deangelo glad he was wearing a ski suit, though there had not been as much as a speck of snow on the ground.

The second thing Deangelo noticed, after the absence of light, was how still everything seemed. It was eerily quiet, with not even a hint of insects chirping. In the short distance that was visible to him in the dark, he could see weeds and shrubs growing over building ruins. He suspected he could even see a cherry tree further out, and felt inexplicably drawn to it. Each shallow step closer he took, the more it felt like someone’s spirit was drawing him to it. His mother’s?

A memory of springtime in one of Seoul’s beautiful gardens came to him. His mother, a short Japanese woman, picking a cherry blossom from a low-hanging branch, and placing it in the short, tight curls atop his head. She kissed him on the cheek and called him “Prince.” Two weeks after that, Deangelo was told she’d been shot dead by a North Korean spy because of his father’s position in the US Army.

When he reached the tree, Deangelo felt a feminine-sounding whisper in his ear. It sounded like, “Save them.”

He turned around, but he couldn’t see anyone. If there had been even a light breeze, he could’ve blamed the whisper on that, but there was none. It was definitely not his mother’s voice, though.

Deangelo, they need you.

This time the voice sounded more like it was inside his head rather than a whisper in his ear.

“Who are you?” Deangelo asked the voice, feeling rather foolish. “Who do I need to save?”

The Songs
.

“How do you…?” he started to ask, but hesitated. “This is ridiculous,” he said to himself. “I’ve just been underground too long. And now I’m talking to myself.”

Deangelo shut himself up and turned back to the cherry tree, picking a bud from the nearest branch. He decided that if there was life like this here, there couldn’t be much nuclear fallout remaining, if indeed there had been at all.

§

Ae-jung and Ki-ryong were curled up on a tarnished brown leather couch when Deangelo returned.

“There’s no one out there,” Deangelo said, “but it looks safe enough.”

Ki-ryong coughed in reply, and Ae-jung added, “We have no other choice.”

Deangelo agreed and held out a hand to Ki-ryong. As he pulled Ki-ryong to his feet, Deangelo asked, “Are you going to be alright to climb to the surface on your own?”

A shrug was all Ki-ryong could muster.

“He’ll manage,” Ae-jung said, standing up and putting her arm around her husband’s shoulder. “But if not, we can tether him to you, and you can go first.”

With a nod, Deangelo agreed, and added, “There’s just one more thing. There’s no sun, at least not right now.”

“So what do we do? Wait until it’s light?” Ae-jung’s brow was raised, but there was not enough skin on her forehead to furrow.

“I don’t think so. We can find somewhere to hide in the dark without disturbing anything, and wait. See if anyone else is around then.” Deangelo’s thumb rested on his five o’clock shadow while he scratched his nose, then added, “Sound good?”

§

When they reached the still air, the sky seemed darker to Deangelo. From a pocket in his backpack, he pulled out a flashlight, compass, and map of Seoul. With the bombed buildings that surrounded them, he knew he wasn’t necessarily going to be able to get his bearings so well, and his memory of the city from when he was a boy of eleven—the age he was when he entered the lockdown—was rather shaky.

“I think we should head north,” Deangelo said, “away from the river.” He was referring to the river that separated Old Seoul from New Seoul. “I want to try and find out just how much damage the North did here.”

With Ki-ryong’s condition, the journey to Gyeongbokgung from Itaewon-ro took several hours, but still the sun did not rise in that time. Many of the buildings they passed were in ruins, and empty cars with blown out windows littered the streets.

“It looks like there’s not a soul left in Seoul,” Deangelo joked, trying to lift their spirits rather than focus on the negatives of possibly being the last people alive, but the others didn’t laugh.

One notable structure that remained standing was a Buddhist temple, where they temporarily stayed to allow Ki-ryong to catch his breath.

Deangelo explored the temple grounds while the others rested, and came across the skeleton of a monk. The only way he could tell who the body belonged to was the orange cloth that covered the bones. After his eyes could no longer focus on it, he returned to his partners.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We can’t stay here.”

“Ki still needs time,” Ae-jung said, watching Ki-ryong’s short intakes of breath.

Deangelo handed her his backpack. “Carry this,” he said, “and I’ll carry Ki.”

Ae-jung did as she was asked, and Ki-ryong climbed atop Deangelo’s back, wrapping his puffy-coat covered arms loosely around Deangelo’s neck. Deangelo checked the map and his compass in the light of his flashlight, and continued navigating them to the north.

When they reached the ancient palace and took in the features of Gyeongbokgung, there was not an eye that did not water. The red paint had faded due to lack of care, but the dark-green roofs were there, and the whole place looked untouched.

“I guess the North didn’t have a complete disregard for our history,” Ae-jung said, once she was able to lift her jaw up from her chest.

From Deangelo’s back, Ki-ryong dropped down to the large stone field that stood between the palace walls and the palace gate that they had just walked through. The emotion that overwhelmed his entire being came out in a passionate kiss for both his wife and Deangelo. He then pulled them both close to him on either side of his body.

“It doesn’t make sense, though.” Ae-jung looked between her husband and lover. “Not from everything we’ve been told about the North. Why would they have saved this place?”

They got their answer when they made their way through to the double-roofed Geunjeongjeon Hall. As they climbed the steps to the building that was once home to the king’s throne, an acrid stench began to fill their noses. It was too dark for them to yet see what was causing the smell, but they had to know.