The Last Server

by H. J. Pang

  “Eh, uncle! We got visitor! Liang say you give him something to eat,” blared Rashe. The cook turned around.

  “He from where?” he asked. Greg could see that his tattoo was replicated on his chest. “Wah, you got pisang don’t want share with me?”

  “How I know you want? Here lah, here lah!” Rashe picked out a piece with a grubby hand, tossing it over to the cook. The cook snatched it deftly, popping it into his mouth. He crunched the snack with evident pleasure, eyebrows raised to Greg. With greying hair and a pockmarked face that always seemed to smile, the cook looked to be about fifty. Despite his evident gang affiliation, Greg couldn’t quite picture him as a foot soldier.

  “I’m a runner from Teluk Ramunia,” confirmed Greg. “A raiding party gave me a lift to the other side of the Causeway.”

  “Must be hard to come here,” said the cook. “I don’t think now have enough bridge left to cross.” Like many of the older people Greg had met, he spoke Singlish in the old style.

  “Where got enough bridge,” Greg replied. “A car almost took me along when it pitched forward.”

  The cook laughed, slapping his hands onto his rotund sides. “Wa kau. Someone’s COE gone forever liao. But then, the gahment always tell people don’t buy car.”

  Greg forced a smile, and the cook continued, “Really sibei jialat, but probably no longer his pasa. We haven’t got runner come for very long time. You ride on truck so long then cross bridge, must be very tired. Here, you come eat.” He held up his wok, scraping the rice out onto a large dried banana leave. “Uncle give you extra fish I catch yesterday.” He plopped a small fish on top.

  Rice wasn’t all that common after The Storm. What little rice was available was now grown by slaves primarily in the fields of Selangor. And the slaves didn’t get any of it. Although fish was plentiful in the rivers and sea, the fact that few remembered traditional fishing methods meant that gathering it was too much effort to feed a settlement of any size. An exodus of people travelling in search of food meant many were scattered far from their hometowns.

  The ikan kuning and rice had the faint smell of unrefined palm oil, which was the cause of the rancid smell, but Greg wasn’t going to turn down a free meal. He took the leaf bundle gratefully, and rolled the contents into a cone. He then proceeded to eat it Minelord-style, biting the rice wrap, leaf and all. As he chewed, his tongue found the leaf fragments and spat it out.

  “So what’s your name, and how long’ve you been a mine runner?” asked the cook. “You want you can call me Uncle Ong.”

  “I’m Greg Lin. It’s been about three years.”

  “So what you do to prove yourself?”

  If he wasn’t that well-versed in triad traditions, Greg would have been taken aback. “I pursued an escaping slave and killed him. I had to track him through tough terrain. Very swampy.”

  “Wah, really shiong, sia,” said Uncle Ong as he scratched his belly. “Very easy have foot rot like that. So how? You 49er now? Got family or not?” Greg’s mouth opened, then closed. “No, I don’t.”

  “Guy like you, how can not have? You go other mining town cannot find meh?” Uncle Ong laughed. “Not just lucky for you, also lucky for her. Your kind of looks very hard to find, confirm can get one. Uncle tell you, find someone higher, then you yourself can go higher easier.”

  Greg chewed his fish carefully. “As you say, Uncle,” he replied. He looked around his surroundings. Rashe still sat at the corner, sifting through the stray pisang crumbs at the bottom of the packaging. He couldn’t see the other two gangsters he had met earlier, so he took the chance to ask, “How often does anyone come down here? It’s hard to believe you just grow and fish for your own food. Is it just the four of you here?”

  “Of course not lah,” said Uncle Ong. “There are actually ten people stationed here. Not including me, Uncle old liao but still can cook. Each outpost by the right have someone bring rice and other barang-barang every two weeks. But then here rarely got people want to go through Causeway, what more very hard to reach.” Uncle Ong gestured towards the open side of the kopitiam. A wide expanse of broken highways and buildings went as far as the eye could see. A faint haze stood in the air, and somehow Greg knew it was the wind stirring dust from the old concrete.

  “I mean, here got what?” continued Uncle Ong. “So end up we have to go collect our food and extra water ourselves. Bur what to do? Our Red Pole say do then must do lor. So six of our guys are now coming back from The Mountain with the makan and water.”

  “How do you know they’re not still there?” Greg asked carefully. He figured The Mountain had to mean the 418 Headquarters, but confirming it would only lead to suspicion. Suspicion that could get him killed.

  “Aiyoh, three days already! Go there only need two days mah,” said Uncle Ong. Having reclined on one of those rubber-threaded deckchairs similar to what Greg had seen his grandfather use years back, the plump cook was now fanning himself with a plastic fan sporting a faded logo. “Hopefully this time they manage to get some Coca-Cola.” He licked his lips.

  Greg was glad the 418 didn’t keep in contact with this outpost by radio. Few working electronic devices were available after The Storm, and certainly not two-way radios. The only electronics that had a chance of surviving the geomagnetic storms that made The Storm a reality were those that had been kept in metal containers. From the radio equipment he’d seen back at Teluk Ramunia, the 418 must have been resourceful enough to raid the police and military stores for it, and repurposed them for their own uses. Despite being secured by near-indestructible Abloy locks, an abandoned camp and police station could only hold out scavengers for so long.

  “So how do the guys go to The Mountain? Do they walk across the Old City?” asked Greg.

  “They have ways. That’s all you need to know.” Uncle Ong winked.

  Greg didn’t know it at first, but he had made his first mistake. After looking over his shoulder for last few days, getting the chance to relax had made him lower his guard. He should have noticed that Rashe, who was supposed to be watching him, was now at the entrance to the kopitiam with his leader and Shen Ren. The hostile glares they directed at him told him something was up. As he made to stand, the click of a revolver hammer reminded him of his place.

  “You know, I just realised something strange,” said Liang thoughtfully, the eyes behind his revolver glittering with malice. “You say you’re delivering messages from the Ramunia mine. And yet, they didn’t have the coloured logo of our brotherhood. Take off his jacket!”

  “I’m one of yours!” protested Greg as Shen Ren came forward, his own parang raised. Uncle Ong looked worried, but didn’t get up.

  “Then you won’t mind showing us the Tattoos of Loyalty!” yelled Shen Ren.

  Greg slammed the sharper end of his spoon into Shen Ren’s neck as he neared. Shoving the spluttering Shen Ren forward as a shield, the 49er jerked as he took two shots from his boss before bowling Liang over. Rashe screeched as he leapt atop a table, swinging a plastic stool into Greg. The ex-soldier grunted as the sun-bleached plastic shattered, but otherwise remained standing. Knowing that it wouldn’t be long before Liang got back up, Greg flattened his left hand, slamming it hard into Rashe’s throat. The thug let out a strangled gasp just before hitting the floor.

  Greg reached Liang just as the 49er pushed the motionless Shen Ren off him. He fired off a deafening shot as Greg dodged, and the two of them scrabbled for the gun. Greg knew that ammo was scarce, so he slammed Liang’s hand hard against the uneven concrete. The gun fell with a clatter, and Greg then set about demolishing the crew leader with his fists. Rage from years of being locked up in those foul mines exploded out of him, and soon all that was left of Liang’s face was a dark, crimson mess.

  Greg sat astride his victim for a while, panting. He took hold of the revolver, and checked on Rashe. He now lay with his head at an unusual angle. No way had he survived that. Greg was about to search the place for anything of value when he heard pant
ing from the back of the kopitiam. Raising the sights of his revolver before him, Greg rounded the corner.

  Uncle Ong was sprawled against a mess of broken wood, one of the piles that had fed the cooking fire. He was clutching his leg as he grimaced, and by the look of the swelling on his ankle, it had gotten twisted during his escape. His eyes opened wide as Greg came closer, the worn revolver posing an unspoken question.

  “Don’t shoot Uncle Ong! Uncle Ong never fight you …” whimpered the old gangster.

  “How do I get to Fusionopolis?” demanded Greg. “What?” Uncle Ong’s face looked confused.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know!” The toe of Greg’s boot slammed into Ong’s ankle, causing him to yell. “Where is the HQ of the 418 Dragons? You want me to shoot, is it?”

  “You mean The Mountain?” gasped Uncle Ong. “Only Liang and the others know the route. I old liao, never go there before …”

  “I can always shoot you and find the way there myself,” shouted Greg. He didn’t have much time; if what Ong had said earlier was true, he had only maybe an hour to search the place before the rest of Liang’s crew turned up. Even with fully-loaded gun and parang, it would be presumptuous to assume he could take on a group of seven and live. “Does Liang have any maps? Where the hell are his quarters?”

  “No maps.” Uncle Ong slowed his breathing, wincing as he moved his leg slightly. “There’s no easy way to walk across the country. The guys have their own route through the old HDB estates. But then … look, Uncle also don’t want you to die. There are raider patrols all across the island, and the old HDB places sibei dangerous.”

  “I’m touched. Is there another way there?” demanded Greg. “I don’t think my finger can hold on any longer.”

  “W-w-wait! Got another way!” Uncle Ong’s eyes flickered. “Nearby here got an MRT station. I think called Woodlands Checkpoint. It leads underground to the Brown Line. From there you can make your way to your Fusionopolis.”

  It looked like there was no escaping the use of the MRT even after The Storm. The rapid transit network of Singapore’s public transportation system was mostly underground, and could have bypassed much of the topside’s destruction. A number of these stations were designated bomb shelters, after all.

  “Why don’t the guys use it?” Greg asked. A trap, perhaps. All these criminal types were well known for that.

  “A lot of barang-barang block the way … the guys need to bring stuff through …” wheezed Uncle Ong. “Also, they scared got things down there …” The old triad member looked up. “Look, I already say what you ask. I even warn you the place damn dangerous. I go now, can or not?”

  Greg lowered his gun. He remembered his family being taken from him. He remembered his wife being beaten and killed as her murderers laughed. He remembered his children being taken away, never to be seen again.

  He really hated the triad responsible for that. Greg raised his gun and fired.

  Greg would normally have cleaned up after himself, but here there wasn’t any point. Even if he removed the corpses, there was way too much blood for him to clean off, and the disappearances of the remaining guards would raise suspicion anyway. There wasn’t much of value in the shacks—it was obvious that even among their own triad, nobody trusted each other enough to leave their valuables behind. Greg found a Swiss army knife and several water bottles, taking care to fill them up at the water points he had seen earlier. He also got hold of a small, china-made alarm clock that had somehow escaped the ravages of The Storm and a roll of nylon rope he recognised as SAF-issued tenting line. He was down to his last round of ammunition for his revolver, and Liang didn’t seem to have any more. However, the 49er had one of those angle-headed flashlights the army used to issue, that appeared to be powered by home-made batteries made of electrical tape, washers and salt water. The triad members also carried at least two pieces of gold and silver each, along with some differently-coloured leaves of paper. Greg peered closer and saw the insignia of the 418 Dragons at the top, followed by a serial number. This had to be their in-gang currency. A search of the shack that Liang kept locked yielded a poster with the 36 Oaths handwritten in English, a fresh set of clothes, and some dried strips of meat, but no ammunition or even an empty speedloader. Guns must either be in really short supply, or reserved for the best 418 fighters. Greg knew he didn’t have long to leave, but something Uncle Ong said bugged him.

  There had to be a reason why the guys didn’t use the MRT tunnels. Perhaps there were parts that were structurally unsound, and all that was needed was a careless scavenger to loosen enough of the rubble. There would be loose wires and faulty electrical components along the stretch of the track, but Greg doubted there would be any electricity left after all these years. But he was in unknown territory, and he wouldn’t last long out in the open. Skulking in the tunnels would be the best option for now, and he could always get out at any station along the way. Greg recalled what he remembered about the route, and walked into the old immigrations building.

  The MRT network of Singapore was so ingrained in Singapore infrastructure that many of its exits led straight into public buildings like malls and hospitals. During the planning of new train routes, a member of parliament had proposed that an MRT station leading directly to the basement of the immigrations building would ease the daily jam faced by the vehicles queuing across the causeway. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The ease for day-trippers heading into Malaysia had resulted in a threefold increase of visitors to the checkpoint, and getting one’s passports stamped had taken longer than before. Incidents of people illegally walking across the Causeway multiplied, and the MRT station then known as Woodlands Checkpoint soon became something of a joke.

  Large gaps that had sprung in the immigrations building allowed Greg to enter. He found himself in what was once a vast hallway, now criss-crossed with crumbling sections of wall and columns. Being a short building, it hadn’t fully collapsed under its own weight. Halfway across the hallway were the faded immigration booths and automated gates, with a ray of sunlight illuminating them. Several skeletons littered the floor, their mouths open in silent screams; one was sitting against the wall, his bony fingers raised in the grasp of a phone long-since stolen. A section of metal ceiling covered him below the waist. He was probably trying to tweet about it—#apocalypse #ohgodwhy #woodlands #rockandhardplace—when The Storm happened. The silence was reminiscent of a graveyard. And in many ways, Greg thought, he was in one. Reaching the booths, Greg saw that anything of value, including the fingerprint and passport scanners, had long been stolen. Two Immigrations and Checkpoint Authority officers could be found among a few other civilians near a broken side door—probably died trying to herd them out of the building. Greg found two biometric passports and a couple of pens on the ill-fated travellers, and pocketed them. He could do with something to write on. And perhaps one day, the passport’s ID page could be placed in a memorial to those who had passed on.

  Greg had never alighted at this MRT station, but he was able to follow the dusty signs that led towards it. The LED display signs that used to show train departure times lay over the escalators leading into the station. Greg half-expected the signs to indicate that the train service in all lines were currently disrupted, and to expect ten more hours of travelling time, but The Storm had done its job well. With most of the metal steps and steel sheeting gone, exposing the broken screws and sharp edges within, Greg treaded his way carefully down into the station entrance. The shutter doors that had once kept out intruders had been wedged open by a concrete slab, with a couple of gouges suggesting where others had pried it open. Peering cautiously into the unlit tunnel, Greg crawled into the belly of the beast.

  The mines were a harsh, unforgiving place. It was a place where people worked, lived and died. It wasn’t like they had any other choice. All who worked there were slaves.

  Greg had been slaving away for five years by then. In the first week after The Storm, he and his family travelled f
ar enough to find a village to stop in. There wasn’t much to be done, but the local police sergeant understood the value of a man like Greg. Along with a few other able-bodied refugees, he was given a job as a militiaman, while his family helped out at the palm oil plantation and farms. The Storm did not seem to have altered any natural life in the slightest, and life still went on in the farming towns. About half of the palm fields were razed and turned to farming food crops for the village. Several times, the village saw soldiers of the Malaysian army pass through on bullock carts, stopping long enough to load them with food and other supplies. No one had ever thought they would see the old modes of travel make a comeback, but almost all motor vehicles were toast after The Storm.

  The first few months after The Storm were chaotic. Refugees and soldiers alike could be seen passing the roads, including members of the Singapore Army. There were always wounded to see to, and those who didn’t seem to have any useful skills were turned away whenever they tried to settle. More times than he could count, Greg and the other militiamen had to intervene when bands of looters raided the village—he still had the scars to show for that. He had since learnt to keep his parang close. Eventually, even the soldiers stopped passing through.

  One year was a very long time. Long enough for the organised gangs to build and equip their standing armies. Long enough for them to start looking for greener pastures. And Greg’s village was in their way.