Chapter 2: Tying Up Loose Ends

The sky shone blood-red as dusk approached the horizon. The last beams of daylight stroked the dilapidated radio tower built atop Yushan Hill, overlooking the glimmering lake Shanghu. The hill used to be a scenic park, and was known as the home to the tomb of an ancient disciple of Confucius, whose name has since been long forgotten. During the War it was forcibly converted into a forward operating base and listening post by the Chinese, and later by the Americans. The wall that crossed the hill found new use as a defensive structure, with the gatehouse being built up as Fort Washington; a headquarters and personal keep of the Lord-General.

The nearby town of old Changshu had been stripped to its bones, with residents of the wasteland cannibalizing building materials off the dilapidated rubble to build new towns; new societies for this new world they were forced to live in. Crisscrossing every ancient street were a system of rivers, creeks and ancient canals that all connected to the Yangtze. Surrounding each checkpoint were flags and banners: A blue stripe in chief with three white stars bisected a white field with two red stripes. Eerily similar to the forgotten American flag, but distinct in its own way, here it was a symbol of the Lord General's iron grip over the Yankee State.

As the darkness approached, the fusion generators were turned on, fires and electric lights were lit. Guards switched shifts and began patrolling the streets with torches on their hips. Mark had to act quickly. He only had three days to find and kill this man, and the day was coming to a close. Given the description of the man he was given, he was sure of the first place to search…

The Golden Horse.

Hidden among the shacks and cement huts that dotted the outskirts of town, the existence of this chem den was nonetheless an open secret. Even its name was a mystery to all but the oldest ghouls who lived in the Yankee State, as horses went extinct after the Great War. The town guards simply ignored this part of town due to the graces of an officer who owned land in the area; Yankee officers and warlords were not known for their incorruptibility.

Before Mark stepped even a foot near the den, he loaded a full magazine into his pistol and set it "cocked and locked", so the second things would break down, he'd be ready. He made himself look as inconspicuous as possible, contorting his expressions into a "poker face". As he stepped closer he took a deep breath to steel his nerves. The air that entered his nostrils reeked of chems, prostitution… and villainy.

He stepped in the building. All around him were an array of chem addicts, dozed on the floor. Some were the opposite, jittery and shaking uncontrollably. Empty syringes and inhalers littered the floor, and Mark had to be careful not to step his boots on any of them. Psycho, an American-made military psychostimulant, and Taiko, short for "Spaceman", were the favorites of the Yankees. But Mark didn't come here to get high, and not even to indulge in his favorite vice, not for himself anyway. He came here to set his trap, and first he had to look for his prey.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, which gave him a jolt. It could've been an addict begging him for chems, or worse, someone strung-up on Psycho looking for a fight. If he drew attention on himself he could end his plan quicker than it began.

"Hey man… you look new around here. Looking for something? Maybe some Taiko?"

Indeed, Mark looked new. He didn't have the strung-out look of the usual patrons, and he didn't have any plans to. But he played along, and thought of an opportunity by holding on to a chem or two.

"Y-yeah… I'll take some some, I could use a fix."

He pocketed the inhaler and continued his search. He scanned the room, looking for anyone matching the description he was given earlier. There were people of all manner of description in the den, from the most disheveled and wretched of the poor, to even what seemed to be soldiers still wearing their armor. At each corner were scantily-clad women, what he deduced to be prostitutes looking for new customers. Many ghouls came here as well, not finding much else to do under Yankee discrimination. Vice was the great equalizer, it would seem.

Focusing his eyes to the back of the room, he caught a glimpse of a bomber jacket. He inched closer. The man wearing the jacket fit the description perfectly, with a dark, bald head, a scar on his face, and sunglasses on his shirt. The man seemed to be alone, not accompanied by anyone like a gang or such, but Mark could never be sure, so he approached with caution. He circled the walls of the building to look inconspicuous, and slowly approached the man. As he drew close, Mark nudged him,

"Hey man…"

The man was clearly very jumpy and irritable, probably from the drugs he was ingesting, and barked back at Mark,

"Gun dan! The fuck do you want!?"

The chips were falling into place. His target's aggression meant it would not take much to provoke him into attacking first, but Mark had to get into an advantageous position. He played his gambit, and offered the man in his snarkiest, most annoying voice,

"How about a game? I bet I could screw you out of your money's worth. Some Taiko for the trouble?"

This irritated the man… falling right into his trap. He angrily grabbed the taiko from Mark's hands,

"Yeah I'll take that taiko, and fuck you if you think you can get any of my brass!"

They set up on an end table and placed their bets. Mark placed his brass onto the table, and the man followed suit. A days' wages in the pot... he felt confident in his gambit, and besides, if he failed, he'd be dead anyway wouldn't he?

Roll the dice.

Two days' wages lost… for the target

The man grimaced. Mark grinned. He tried to keep his composure and maintain his poker face but it seemed like his plan was working. They both put more money into the pot, and continued with their game.

Roll the dice.

Another two days' wages lost… it was coming up to four. The man was determined to recoup his losses and bet even more into the pot.

Roll the dice again.

He wins his money back, if only a fraction that he bet. Mark furled his eyebrows. While he knew his dice were loaded, any chance that his target would gain just a fraction of relief from the unlikeliness of a win would complicate his plan. He had to make sure his target was infuriated, enough to draw his gun on him. That was the plan, anyway. Mark bet more money into the pot, which startled his determined target.

Roll the dice.

And a win for Mark. This continued on for what seemed like an eternity, Mark winning over and over. By the seventh bet his target was becoming suspicious. How could he only win once? Was he just absurdly unlucky? He took out the inhaler of taiko Mark gave him and took a hit, his hands trembling as he passed the vapors through his lungs.

Half an hour had passed. The two were at their fifteenth bet, and the man had only won once. Again, Mark made his bets and rolled his "lucky dice"… and another win for him. Enraged, the man banged the table so hard one would think he'd break the table in half. All the brass, now in Mark's hands, and his dice, jumped in the air. The man noticed something. Mark's dice landed on the same spot, at the same number when they bounced! Infuriated, he violently grabbed Mark's dice and rolled them, as a test. And as he suspected… they were loaded.

Time slowed down for Mark. His hairs stood on their ends, and his right arm twitched towards his holster. He smirked, unable to tell whether it was from the fear, the thrill, or both. The chips were falling into place, his bet was working.

"You cheating rat bastard, I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

Mark grabbed his pistol, almost by instinct, and unlocked the safety. Without any time to aim, he merely pointed it at his target. The trigger pull was crisp, the slide was well-oiled. The hammer struck the firing pin and loud shots erupted from the muzzle of his pistol. 10 millimeters of lead flew into the air, directly into the body of the man Mark was ordered to kill.

One shot.

Two shots.

Six shots.

With only half a conscious thought Mark had peppered the man with half of his entire magazine. His body slumped to the ground before he could even react to Mark's shots, and his blood drained onto the floor. The man fell for Mark's trap, and paid his life for it.

The room glanced at Mark, and he could feel the forest of eyes looking down upon him. Some were too high and dazed to even pay attention to the assassination they had just witnessed. And just like that, they returned to their normal affairs. It almost seemed like a regular occurrence to the denizens for a man to gamble and kill over it. One could even smell the apathy in the room, the aroma mixed in with the smell of smoke, gunpowder, chems and blood.

At least, the job was done. Mark grabbed half of the pile of brass set on the table that he "won", and left the rest to the corpse. He ripped off the necklace from his target as proof that the deed was done, and hurriedly left the Golden Horse. The other patrons saw the pile of brass and scurried towards it like rats to a feast. It was time to leave this place for good, he thought.

The night hours have struck. From a distance one could see the dim lights of the city bleed away the stars until only the gibbous moon could be seen. Civilization was scarce in the bombed-out wasteland, but Fort Washington was one of the few pockets that had something resembling it. Beyond the city's edge was nothing but bleak, enveloping darkness occasionally pockmarked by the campfires of travelers and caravans. The growls of beasts and the occasional gunshot were normal out there.

Mark could think nothing of it for the moment. Fatigue weighed down his eyes, and all he could think about was going home for a good night's rest. Snaking down the alleyways, past the night market and up stairs above other houses was his shack, made of corrugated metal and car parts. Technically it wasn't really his, belonging to a landlord, something which would've been an anathema to the communists in the age before the War, but he paid his rents well enough and was polite, so there weren't really any problems there.

Strewn across his floor was a crude mattress and an old crate with a padlock. He opened the lock, set his rucksack inside the crate, and locked it back up. He let out an exhausted sigh and fell on his mattress, where he fell asleep immediately. In his exhaustion he didn't even have time to unholster his pistol, but it's common practice for people in his dangerous line of work to keep their weapons at the ready, even when asleep.

He went into the land of dreams. Tonight was a little different. The great Yangtze river laid out flowed as far as the eye could see, pods of dolphins jumping and splashing across what seemed to be endless sea. Great statues of Lenin, Marx and Chairman Cheng glowing under candlelight. A woman's voice reverberating,

Find us

Mark woke up.

Dreams…

Were dreams always this vivid? Could it mean anything? Mark thought about it for a moment then shook it off. He could hear the morning gongs echoing throughout Fort Washington, signaling the dawn of a new day. Light passed through the cracks of his walls, and he noticed his lights were off: the city generators were usually turned off in the day to conserve energy use, as fusion cores were a limited commodity. He needed to report to Wang of his… "success".

The marketplace was quiet but active this time of the morning, many of the hawkers and vendors setting up shop and arranging wares. Meat and skins were hung on display, sacks of grain and mutant vegetables were put on racks and baskets, weapons were cleaned and polished, assorted junk was cataloged and arranged... all in what constituted as orderly fashion.

Wang, the elderly ghoul, anxiously awaited for Mark to arrive with news. A chill morning breeze swept through his naked, skinless face as his grayed-out eyes scanned the market for the unmistakable half-Black, half-Chinese mug of Mark Liu. Perhaps it's just too early, he thought, as he turned his attention to his young, foster son, who was playing with a toy fighter jet. He reminisced of the time before the War when real fighter jets soared through the skies during military parades, and grimmer memories still of them firing bullets and explosives in the air as bombers and artillery leveled the once-bustling cities of old China.

He thought of the Lord-General's armies marching through Fort Washington readying themselves for another "grand campaign", the reasons inscrutable and purely human. Where once he had to contend with state-controlled shortages under the Communist system, now he had to contend with market shortages under the Yankee system. He had the freedom to buy and sell as he pleased now, but what use was it for a world where he has to hire his own friends to murder others just to keep himself safe? Where were the golden promises Chairman Cheng and the Party made of a bright and prosperous future, only to nuke it all away? Is this the truth of human nature?

Wang realized his thoughts were burdening him and looked at his foster son again. He's too young to realize any of this… maybe he'll learn it in time. I should let him enjoy his few moments of innocence while they last. He's just a kid. Maybe this wasn't really his child, maybe he's too old and frail to teach him everything he needs to live, but he'd be damned if he couldn't raise this kid as best as he could, at least.

Mark looked for the sign again. "Wang's Guns & Repairs". He saw Wang from a distance and grabbed the necklace from his bag. He walked towards the shop with almost a bit of proud swagger, as if he had just conquered a country. It was a conquest in some crude way, though he isn't altogether proud of the killing as much as he was of the gamble.

"Hey old man, look at what I got. I got the job done, you wouldn't believe how I got the-"

He saw the boy, who was shyly hiding behind Wang's leg.

"Hey little buddy, I got this for ya."

Wang gave out a hearty smile and assured his son,

"Don't be shy now Fai, it's just Uncle Mark, and he has a present for you!"

Fai took the necklace of bullet casings, and looked at it with awe and curiosity.

"Whoa… that's awesome! How many guys did you kill for it?"

Mark and Wang looked at each other nervously. Children are known both for their innocence, and… their cruelty, and Mark didn't want to leave a bad impression on the kid, let alone to Wang. He squatted down to reach the boy's height and replied,

"Uh… well, kid, I killed… one guy… but it's a dirty job I have to do. You shouldn't be too proud of things like these… or you'd become…"

He made his best scary face,

"An evil Raider!"

The boy was startled, which caused Mark and Wang to give out a hearty chuckle, and Fai followed suit. When the laughter died down, Wang shooed off his son to the back of his store,

"Alright now, you can play with your other toys in our room. I have to talk business with Uncle Mark, okay?"

He let out a relieved sigh.

"I really owe you one now. I don't even know how to adequately repay you, I-"

Mark stopped him right there,

"Shhh, It's alright old man, I'm just glad you and the kid are safe. Though... I have a contract offer coming up, and some supplies and ammo might be nice."

"Oh, anything, whatever you need! I think I have a few pre-War rations stored in the back."

He rummaged through his items, finding anything that may be of use to Mark.

"I'm curious though… now you don't have to tell me the details, I know it's 'job confidentiality' and all, but I'm curious regardless, where are you going?"

"The Big Hu, but I don't yet know the route."

Wang's eyes opened up in surprise,

"Shanghai? The city's blocked off, isn't it? 'Information quarantine' or something. Who knows what's going on? Packs of wild ghouls? Freak radstorm coming from the sea? Rebellion? Sounds dangerous either way. I think you of all people can handle it, but you'll need good supplies."

He reached in to his supplies, and grabbed two large, red boxes of large needles,

"Health-Paks, essential supplies. Not too different from the American Stimpak stuff, and it's all I have. Don't know how they did it in the Pre-War, but this stuff will make you feel better almost instantly."

He grabbed an IV bag plastered with a large radiation sign on it,

"Homemade RadAway. This is just as good as the real thing; those barefoot-doctor types are really good at coming up with prescriptions out of modern resources. I think it's made of crushed fungus or something."

Next he grabbed an olive-drab bag that rattled a bit as he shaked it,

"Field rations, Chinese-issue. I don't know what kind of preservatives they pump into these things, but they're still quite edible and safe to eat. If you swap out the meat with a fresh hunt and cook it with the rice pack, you can make field-fried rice that's pretty good, plus you get the drink pack and the field biscuits. They'll find much greater use with a traveler such as yourself, as my adventuring days are long over."

Finally, he grabbed a handful of ammunition,

"Four full magazines for your rifle, plus a couple extra mags for your pistol. I just hope you won't have to use it too often…"

Mark nodded his head and smiled,

"You're too kind, Wang. I'll make good use of these, and maybe I'll bring over a souvenir for you and the kid."

Wang let out a chuckle,

"Heh, you don't need to give me one. I used to work in Shanghai, way back before the War, before I became… this."

His face turned a bit sullen,

"I know you can't make these kinds of promises, but please, stay safe out there. It's a dangerous world now."

"I know Wang. I know."