by Xu, Lei
Brandishing the twisted club, he charged at the vent. With the door impassable, this was our only chance for survival. Sparks flew and the club shook as Wang Sichuan smashed it wildly against the iron bars. At last he could persist no longer. The club slipped from his hands. Shining my light on the grate, I despaired. It had barely been dented. Ma Zaihai was starting to panic as well. No longer worrying about rank or seniority, he grabbed the club from Wang Sichuan's hand and began striking it against the grate. His force appeared even greater than Wang Sichuan's, his movements more precise. He must have perfected his skill while leveling mountains with the Engineering Corps. Still, he could do no more than dent the bars. With his final swing the club flew from his hand and smashed into the grate. His efforts had all been in vain—the vent remained closed and by now the smoke was so thick we could barely breathe. Covering my mouth, I watched as it flooded the room. My mind was nearly empty, only one miserable thought endlessly repeating: This is how I'm going to die.
It was at this point that something suddenly drew Wang Sichuan's attention. He swung his flashlight around and aimed it at a spot beneath one of the long wooden tables. Ma Zaihai and I followed suit. Under the concentrated light of our three beams I saw it.
Something was drawing the smoke down into the floor.
CHAPTER
6
The Way Out
The three of us rushed over and pulled the table out of the way. Underneath it was another air vent, much smaller than the last. A little fan was concealed behind an identical iron grate, each bar as thick as a finger, but this time there was no cement. It had been merely screwed on. Still, I wondered, could we fit inside? The space was tiny. But there was no time for such worries.
Wang Sichuan immediately wedged the iron club between the bars and began to pry. The screws had already been loosened. Had people already been through here? And if so, why had they replaced the grate?
By now Wang Sichuan had already pulled it free and was attempting to tear apart the fan, blade by blade. The Japanese military bases constructed towards the beginning of the war often used an excess of materials, ensuring each part – even the most inconsequential – was impressively sturdy. Thus the fan's iron blades and its central axis were astonishingly thick and solidly welded together. Wang Sichuan tore at it until his hands were covered in dust and grease, but the thing wouldn't move. At last, Ma Zaihai asked Wang Sichuan to let him try.
On the side of the fan was a large bolt attaching it to the wall of the shaft. Using the diagonal openings of the grating as a makeshift wrench, Ma Zaihai managed to twist the bolt free. Wang Sichuan grabbed the fan with both hands and tossed it away. It hit the floor with a deep clang. It had to weigh at least 20 pounds. The thing must have been built in the early days of the war. By its end, the Japanese would never have been willing to waste so much metal on a little part like this.
The projection room was now hidden behind a haze of smoke. Even with our flashlights on, we could barely see anything. I squinted down the air shaft. A mass of electrical cables, each as thick as an arm, ran through the tunnel at its bottom. The ventilation system was connected to the electrical canal.
Skinny Ma Zaihai went first. As I watched him squeeze himself inside, my heart sank. I wasn't worried about myself – if Ma Zaihai could make it, then aside from a few cuts and scrapes I should be fine – but what about Wang Sichuan? At the bottom of the airshaft the space widened. After dropping all the way down, Ma Zaihai signaled to us that it was safe. Wang Sichuan and I looked at one another.
He laughed. "You go first. I need a moment to limber up."
I shook my head. This guy didn't have a chance of making it by himself. "No," I said. "You'd better go first. I'll stay up here and help push. We're getting you to the bottom, even if it means breaking a few bones along the way."
What could he say? He didn't want to die. He tried different contortions. None worked. Finally, and without preamble, he stripped off his clothes and climbed in headfirst. Then sure enough, after having wriggled only halfway in, he became utterly stuck. Without a second thought I jumped on him. As he wailed in pain, I used my full body weight to force him down the tunnel, little by little. Both his shoulders were scraped raw, leaving a pair of bloody trails on the walls of the shaft, but he made it through.
I gathered Wang Sichuan's clothes and climbed in headfirst. It was a tight fit, but with the two of them pulling me along I was soon out the other end. To our left the tunnel ran below the corridor outside the projection room, where the spy was hiding. Air vents lined the ceiling and a faint light streamed through. I crawled toward them. Smoke continued to pour into the tunnel, filling it with an acrid odor. Once I judged myself somewhere beneath the outer corridor, I squeezed up under one of the vents and stood up. My head was just below the iron grate. I peeked through the bars. Smoke swirled down the dark corridor above me. I could see the flickering beam of that son of a bitch's flashlight, but everything else was obscured. Had I a pistol, I could easily have shot him dead from this range. His brains would already be splattered across the wall. But I didn't even have a rock to throw. My only consolation was that he, too, was weaponless. After sliding back down to the electrical canal, I gauged the topside locations of the other vents. I wanted to sneak up on the bastard and slit his throat—let him know I was not one to be messed with.
The wide halls and corridors of the dam were bathed in silence. If we chose an air vent too close to him, he'd hear us when we broke through the grate. No reason to disturb a snake in the grass. It would be wisest to continue down the tunnel until we were a safe distance away. He'd wait awhile for us to suffocate before checking, so we should still have some time before our escape was discovered.
With my two comrades close behind, I crawled cautiously forward, following the electrical cables. More ventilation shafts opened overhead, each containing a motionless iron-bladed fan. The tunnel system was cramped and intricate. I guessed we were passing beneath various rooms and hallways, though not a single light was on. Darkness surrounded us and the air smelled of mildew. Shining my flashlight through the openings, I could see only the dim outline of objects strewn chaotically about. A thick layer of dust and grime covered every inch of the tunnel. Soon it was all over me. The stuff was disgusting, a sort of gray, gelatinous grease that wouldn't wipe off. After passing six ventilation shafts I decided we'd gone far enough. It was time to ascend. But when I tried to lift the grate atop the seventh shaft, I found it had been tightly screwed in place. We had nothing to wrench it off with and time was running out.
We stared at the grate for several minutes before Wang Sichuan cried, "This is no time to sit back and wait! Let's just kick the damn thing out! Do you want to suffocate down here before the spy even finds us?"
He was right. At this point we had no other choice. Ma Zaihai lay on his back, threaded his legs between the blades of the fan, and gave the grate several vicious kicks. It didn't flex an inch. The grate was too solid, had been attached too securely. I knew this would never work. Wang Sichuan and I tried as well, both with no effect. We checked the next grate, but it was just as immovable. My spirits fell. Would this tunnel be our grave?
We continued on, attempting to force our way through every opening we passed. The grates were all equally, immovably sturdy. I had no idea how long we crawled through that dank hole in the earth.
Just when I was about to give up hope, Ma Zaihai called out, "Hey! This one is loose!"
I hurried over. Sure enough, the grate moved slightly outward from the force of his kicks. Ma Zaihai looked over at us, grinning gleefully, then gave it several more strong blows, loosening it even further. I shined my flashlight on the grate. Unlike the others, this one was secured only from the top. Ma Zaihai gave the grate a final, savage kick. It flew into the air, clattering down a few feet away. He rolled over, reached up and began to remove the bolt holding the fan in place. It was already loose.
Strange, I thought. Had someone already come this way?
It seemed rather unlikely. The opening was clear. Like a baby escaping his mother's womb, Wang Sichuan desperately wriggled through. Ma Zaihai and I followed shortly after. We found ourselves in a great gloomy tunnel, three-stories tall and wide enough for two trucks to drive comfortably side by side. Every inch was covered in bare concrete. It was a desolate expanse. My heart sank. Now where were we?
This appeared to be the inner dam's main transport road. We were already some distance away from the projection room and its surrounding maze of offices and living quarters. We'd left the once-populated part of the dam behind. The tunnel was a dreadful place, in every aspect eerie and unfamiliar. I was sure that strange, terrible things had happened here. We needed to keep our wits about us.
I swept my flashlight beam across the immense tunnel. Rows of tracks, assumedly for transport, ran along the floor, joining and diverging as they extended into the black distance. Looking at them, I was reminded of a brick and tile factory in my hometown. My flashlight beam passed across an iron sign hanging on one of the walls. I strode over and wiped off the dust. Just as I was attempting to parse a meaning, I heard Wang Sichuan call for me to hurry up. I jogged toward the sound of his voice, passing boarded-up rooms and passageways on both sides. The tunnel showed no sign of stopping. My curiosity rose. This place was even stranger than the rest of the dam—more obviously abandoned, sunk deeper into bleak ruination. And all the exits were sealed. What had happened here? Were the entryways blocked to protect whatever was inside? This would hardly be an effective deterrent. When leaving a base, the Japanese usually showed no hesitation in destroying what they were unable to transport. So what had been different here? At last I caught up with my companions.
Wang Sichuan was looking at the thick wooden boards nailed to the outside of a doorway. "Did they use these to seal the Chinese laborers inside?" he muttered to himself.
I shook my head. The Japanese method for dealing with laborers was never this complex. Once a project was completed they simply massacred them.
Wang Sichuan shined his flashlight through the cracks in the boards. The space inside seemed to be arranged similarly to the projection room, though much was obscured. We kept going and soon we'd reached the end of the tunnel. Every room and corridor along the way had been tightly sealed. The Japanese hadn't missed a single one.
"This whole area is closed off," said Wang Sichuan. "Seems like we'll have to head back down the ventilation shaft."
"I don't think so," I said. "After sealing this place up the devils would have needed a way out themselves. There must be an exit somewhere around here."
We headed back down the tunnel, weaving from one entryway to the next. I watched the left side, Wang Sichuan looked right, and Ma Zaihai watched the ceiling, but all rooms and corridors were blocked-off. At the far end of the tunnel, however, we discovered something else—a pair of giant iron doors, cut into the concrete. They were magnificently rusted and tightly welded from within. How were we supposed to get them open?
Not wanting to give up, I took a closer look, but they were sealed seamlessly shut. A feeling of deep gloom set in.
We gathered beside the door and talked it over. This didn't make a lick of sense. If every exit was closed, then whoever had done the job must have remained inside, but then where were their corpses? Except for a few empty wooden boxes, the tunnel was entirely bare. Wang Sichuan didn't say much. He, too, was clearly at a loss. The three of us looked at one another hopelessly. Suddenly, Wang Sichuan turned and marched toward one of the boarded-up rooms.
"Come on!" he called over his shoulder. "Let's pry this thing open and see what's inside. Maybe we'll be able to figure out what's going on!"
Wang Sichuan was holding the iron club, by now our trustiest tool. The boards across the door nailed across the door were poplar, a common tree in this region. They likely had been cut from the forest. The wood had softened over the years and Wang Sichuan was able to pry the boards apart. The opening was soon wide enough for us to pass through. I shined my flashlight ahead. Inside, numerous beds were arrayed in the darkness. As I swept the beam across them, I felt a sudden stab of terror.
Something was lying on each of the beds.
CHAPTER
7
The Sealed Room
I shined the dim beam of my flashlight through the opening. Dark shapes were lying on every bed, absolutely motionless. My hair stood on end. Was this a mortuary? I looked back at the great span of the outer tunnel and thought of all the boarded-up rooms we had passed. If it was, then how many corpses were sealed inside?
Wang Sichuan was pressing me to hurry up. I turned around and explained the situation. His expression didn’t change at all.
Stepping in front of me, he peered into the gloom. "What are you so scared of?" he asked. "They're already dead, aren't they?" And with that he climbed through the opening and into the room.
Forcing myself to be calm, I told Ma Zaihai to stand guard, then cautiously followed Wang Sichuan. I scanned my surroundings. Things were not entirely as I had expected. Crude, sleeping bag-like sacks were arranged atop rows of wide, three-story bunk beds. The canvas sacks were greenish-yellow, just like the devils' military attire, and stuffed full so that the room appeared filled with fat cocoons. Each was filthy, covered in dark red stains that seemed to have seeped from within. They could be only one thing—body bags.
I felt a wave of nausea. Wang Sichuan was not at all squeamish. "Get ready," he said. He used the iron club to flip over one of the sacks. It was filled to the point of bursting. As he pried it open, out lolled a rigid black hand. After all the dark days we'd spent down here and all the horrors we'd encountered, a sight like this made barely an impact on me. Wang Sichuan continued to lift away the canvas covering. Soon the upper body of a desiccated corpse was revealed.
"He's dead all right," said Wang Sichuan.
Ma Zaihai had never seen anything like this before. He was so scared that he cowered behind us a step or two.
Patting him on the back, I told him to toughen up. How was he going to make it to squad leader if he couldn't handle a little blood and guts?
Wang Sichuan shined his flashlight beam across the body. From the tattered military uniform we could tell it was a Japanese soldier. His clothing was covered in coagulated bodily fluids and had gone completely stiff. His skin was black and unevenly rotted down to the bone in parts, in others not at all. Riddled with hollows, it looked like a dark honeycomb, just like the pilot's corpse I'd found in the Shinzan, the first plane we had discovered. We opened another canvas bag. The corpse inside looked the same.
"These two were both poisoned," said Wang Sichuan in a quiet voice. "Probably victims of the toxic mist. Where the poison builds up, everything rots away. And I'd bet that where the skin looks untouched, the toxins have killed everything, even the germs. That's why they look so messed up. But what's with the color?"
He had a point. The corpse was much too black. Hefting the iron club, Wang Sichuan dipped it into a hole rotted in the torso. He stirred it around for a moment, then pulled it back out. Stuck to the end were what appeared to be pieces of cotton batting. Lifting the club to his nose, he gave it a sniff. Ma Zaihai looked as if he were about to vomit. I shook my head. This kid wasn't as promising as I'd thought. Wang Sichuan held the club up for me. The smell was indescribable, but not disgusting—or at least not as disgusting as I'd imagined.
"The mist must be extremely poisonous if it caused a change in skin color this severe," said Wang Sichuan. "When toxins are simply inhaled this doesn't happen. This stuff must also seep in through touch. If we encounter it again, we need to be extremely careful."
I nodded. We'd learned all this in Attack Preparation class, but I'd never imagined it would actually come in handy. After wiping the club on the side of the canvas bag, Wang Sichuan turned and walked farther into the room.
I looked down at the filthy bag surrounding the corpse. Suddenly it occurred to me. "Wait a second," I said. "These soldiers loo
k like they're part of the Japs' forward unit. I bet they were the first ones down here."
"How can you tell?" asked Wang Sichuan. He had climbed atop one of the beds and was surveying the room.
"This kind of simple canvas sleeping bag is standard equipment for troops in the field," I replied. "If these devils were garrisoned here fulltime they would surely have been given regular bedding. After all, it's freezing down here. I'm sure this whole area can't just be filled with corpses. Think of all the boarded-up rooms we passed. Even if everyone working on the project died, there still wouldn't be enough people to fill the place. The Japs' forward unit wouldn't have known the mist was poisonous when they first arrived and began construction on the dam. A heavy rain must have fallen, filling the underground river. Then, when the mist rose up, it massacred the Japanese soldiers and Chinese laborers who were down here."
