Skin Food

by Type A

  “Like he said, maybe they died badly. They were violently killed. Murdered. Wrongfully executed. Prematurely buried. Suicides,” Mimi translated.

  “But people die horrible deaths everywhere, every day,” said Lana. “And they don’t collectively come back from the dead. So why would this happen here and now?”

  Mimi consulted Mr. Shin, froze up, then consulted her phone. Lana took a sip of warm water.

  “I had to look up a word,” Mimi said. “Shaman. Witch doctor. Necromancer. Mr. Shin thinks someone might be controlling the corpses.”

  “Imagine that,” Lana said with a hollow laugh. “Someone raised an army of the undead.”

  “Is it possible to track down a necromancer?” Sam asked.

  “Not that he knows of,” said Mimi.

  “I’m sorry,” Lana said, “but this is a lot to digest. Can you please thank Mr. Shin for the meal and ask if we can come back tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Mimi spoke for Mr. Shin. He shook open a yellow plastic Mapo District garbage bag and filled it with tuna, ramen, chips, nuts, and water.

  Sam accepted the bag with both hands and thanked Mr. Shin. “Kamsahamnida.”

  “I’ll stay back and do the dishes,” Mimi told the group.

  “I’ll help,” said Sam, handing the bag off to Tyson.

  “Thank you. We’ll wash them next time,” Lana said.

  “What’s your passcode?” Tyson asked Sam.

  “Eight-four-three-zero.”

  “Can I borrow your knife for a second?”

  Tyson stepped out into the hallway, ready to fend off an attack, and picked his own knife up off the tile floor. Lana returned Sam’s steak knife and nodded goodbye to Mr. Shin.

  Sam put his hand on Mimi’s arm, just below her shoulder. “Thank you for translating for us, in spite of our skepticism.”

  “No, I get it. It’s all right. I’m just as lost as you are.” She flipped on the faucet and waited for the water to warm up.

  ______

  Lana and Tyson plunked down on the couch. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close.

  “I’m not used to this side of you,” he said.

  “Elaborate,” she said with an upward inflection. “Are you talking about my right profile or my personality?”

  “Remember when you took Intro to Religion?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And you studied everything from the Amish to… what was the Z religion?”

  “Zoroastrianism,” she replied.

  “Right. And—”

  “You got the idea for your class—to write a business proposal for an Amish taxi service.” Lana laughed with crinkly eyes and nose.

  “Hey! I got an A on that project,” he bragged. “My professor said it was literally ahead of its time.”

  “But that it wouldn’t work.”

  “I bet it would work now.”

  “Oh? How so?” she asked.

  “As a ridesharing service.”

  “What would you do—make a ridesharing app for the Amish? For them to use on phones they don’t have?”

  “A lot of the new generation has phones.”

  “I stand corrected. And I apologize to the Amish.”

  “Consider the potential. Ridesharing is now worth more than the entire taxi industry. And there are a few hundred thousand Amish. How many Zorro… ass… tree… inns,” he mumbled, “are there?”

  “I have no idea. But you should apologize to them for mispronouncing their name.”

  “I apologize to the Z people,” Tyson said with sincerity. He pulled her in and kissed her, half on the lips, half on the cheek.

  “So when you took Religion 101, you said you went to class with an open mind.”

  “I did. I wanted to suspend disbelief… rule out all possibilities,” Lana explained.

  “Do you think you can do that again?”

  “With what? Mr. Shin’s theory?”

  “Yeah,” Tyson replied.

  “Look in my eyes.” Lana paused. “I’m scared. And it’s not fair to compare this to a college course. This is real life. There are dead people running around out there, and I’m having a hard enough time wrapping my head around that. The idea of gangshi… of a necromancer… that’s even more unbelievable.”

  {beep} Sam and Mimi stepped into the officetel and kicked off their shoes.

  “We’re invited for breakfast tomorrow,” Sam said.

  Tyson and Lana offered no response.

  “Thanks again for washing the dishes,” Lana said some seconds later.

  “It was no trouble at all,” Mimi replied. “There’s a strange comfort in doing the dishes.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Lana nodded. “Water has a calming effect.”

  “Mimi,” Sam spoke from across the room, “can you check your phone?”

  “What for?”

  “Mine has no signal.”

  Hers didn’t either. She scrolled through the phone’s settings. “Let’s try restarting them?”

  Still no service. Sam fired up the computer and tapped his nails on the table.

  “Phew!” he exhaled after the startup sound.

  “Do we have Internet?” asked Tyson.

  “Yeah.” Sam hunched over and clicked over to HuffPost. Lana came up behind him and looked over his shoulders.

  “What’s the word?” Tyson asked.

  “It’s a slaughter out there,” Sam reported.

  “Please spare us the details,” Mimi said.

  Hongdae was ground zero for the gangshi invasion. Outside the university’s main gate, an art major and her masterpiece lay in pieces. At a cutesy coffee shop, a couple in matching outfits was torn to shreds. The playground became a battleground, littered with bottles and bodies. Hostels became hostile. On a Sangsu sidewalk, a stroller was tipped over and caked in blood. A closer look revealed a dead teacup dog inside. At a Hapjeong gimbap shop, a ramen-haired grandmother left her last meal untouched. A zombie-like gamer exited a PC bang. Instakilled.

  “We’re being evacuated,” Sam said.

  “Who is we?” asked Mimi.

  “Americans,” he replied with a gulp.

  “I thought so,” she spoke slowly, solemnly.

  “Families of the U.S. military and government employees are being ordered to evacuate.”

  “What about us?” asked Tyson.

  “We’re authorized to evacuate.”

  “Where’s the evacuation point?” Lana asked.

  “Mokdong Ice Rink or Jamsil Sports Complex. We’re closer to the ice rink.”

  “Do you know how to get there?” Tyson asked.

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Let’s get going,” Tyson cut him off.

  “How?” Sam questioned. “There’s no public transportation.”

  “And taxis aren’t running,” Lana added.

  “People are recommending that we fly commercial because there’s no guarantee of evacuation. Of course, that’s assuming we can book a flight and get to the airport. And we’ve already been over this. It’s not safe outside.”

  “So you still wanna wait it out?” Tyson asked Sam.

  “Yes, that hasn’t changed.”

  “You’re psyching yourself out,” Tyson said. “Why stay stuck to the computer screen? Waiting might mean dying.”

  “Then what do you propose?” Sam asked.

  “Well, there’s a taxi driver next door.”

  “He’s a man who happens to be a taxi driver,” Sam said. “I’m a teacher, but I’m sure as hell not teaching today.”

  “Guys, what about Mimi?” asked Lana.

  “You don’t have to protect me,” Mimi said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Tyson said. “But we’ll find a way to get you outta here. If not outta Korea, then at least outta Seoul.”

  ______

  Mimi and Tyson stood side by side. {ding}{dong}{ding}

  “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Shin…”
r />   “It’s no bother,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard that the Americans are evacuating.”

  “Yes, I follow the news.”

  Mimi nodded. “My friend wants to know if you’d consider driving us to Mokdong Ice Rink or one of the airports.”

  Mr. Shin stared at Tyson. “Tell your friend he’s crazy. It’s absolute hell out there.”

  “You’re crazy,” she deadpanned to Tyson. He looked away, half-embarrassed, half-disappointed.

  Mr. Shin bit his lip in thought. “I’ll tell you what, though. You and your friends do some research on gangshi. Then, if you still want to make a run for it, we’ll talk.”

  “Thank you,” Mimi said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay. Eight o’clock.”

  ______

  Mr. Shin cracked in the fifth and final egg and covered the skillet until the whites set. Tyson put spoons on the table and water in the plastic tumblers. Mimi scooped the kimchi fried rice into the ceramic bowls.

  “The bowls, please,” Mr. Shin said with his right hand out. He slipped a spatula under the eggs and set one on each bed of rice. The garnish was dried and seasoned seaweed.

  “You’re forcing my hand,” Mr. Shin said when they sat down. “I didn’t expect you all to show up with bags.”

  Three bags of essentials: food, water, clothes, towels, a flashlight, toilet paper, garbage bags, ibuprofen, bandages, credit cards, cash in two currencies, passports, weapons, phones, and chargers.

  “The Internet was down when we woke up,” Mimi said. “And we all agreed it was time to go.”

  “Your generation,” Mr. Shin said with a grumble. “You can’t live without technology.”

  “Well, we don’t know what’s going on out there or whom to trust. What if the government shut down the Internet?” Mimi asked.

  “What weapons did you bring?” Mr. Shin asked in return.

  Knives, scissors, lighters, forks, and chopsticks.

  “Didn’t you research gangshi?”

  “Yes,” Mimi replied, “but assuming that we’re dealing with gangshi, some of the information we found seems… inaccurate.”

  “Like what?”

  “We read that gangshi don’t do well in the sun—that the heat can burn them to ashes. But it was midday when the woman downstairs chased Tyson and Sam.”

  “Okay. What else do you think is inaccurate?” asked Mr. Shin.

  “The woman downstairs didn’t dress the part. Traditionally, gangshi wear Qing dynasty clothing,” Mimi replied.

  “Do ghosts dress in white sheets?” Mr. Shin asked rhetorically.

  “It’s like Mr. Shin is speaking in riddles,” Mimi said to the group. “He just keeps asking questions. Who has the list?”

  Tyson rested his spoon in his bowl. He’d broken his fast, as had Lana and Sam. Mimi and Mr. Shin had only swallowed their words. Tyson reached into his right pocket and handed Mimi a pink note. In his chicken scratch handwriting was a list of gangshi weaknesses: sunlight, fire, mirrors, the blood of a chicken or black dog, rice, garlic, salt, vinegar, urine, running water, their blindness, and placing a yellow talisman on one’s forehead.

  “Right,” Mr. Shin agreed. “Rice is a weakness because gangshi suffer from arithmomania, a compulsion to count. They have to stop and count each and every grain of rice. But their blindness isn’t necessarily a weakness. They make up for it with a heightened sense of smell. That’s how they find you. They smell your breath.”

  “So what if we hold our breath?” Tyson asked.

  “Then you get away.”

  “Don’t the rice and mirrors and blindness contradict each other? I mean, if they were blind, how would they know that there’s rice to count? And why would mirrors bother a blind… person?” Lana asked.

  “I see your point, but I don’t have all the answers,” Mimi translated for Mr. Shin.

  “Still, how does he know so much about gangshi?” asked Sam.

  “Childhood books and movies.”

  “In these childhood books and movies, how did people kill gangshi?” Lana asked.

  “Like this,” Mimi said, holding up the pink note.

  “Is there a cure for gangshi?” Sam asked.

  “No, because this is supernatural—not science,” Mimi translated, in spite of her scientific studies. “It’s not a virus.”

  “So what’s it gonna take for Mr. Shin to drive us to the airport or ice rink?” Tyson asked. “Do I need to piss in a pot or sacrifice a chicken?” Mimi only translated his first question.

  “He won’t take us,” Mimi said, shaking her head, “to either place.” Lana, Sam, and Tyson stared at one another, wide eyed. “He’ll try to get us to the U.S. Embassy.”

  “Wait, what?” Lana asked, half relieved. “Why the embassy?”

  “For one, the airports are too far away,” Mimi replied.

  “Okay,” Tyson spoke with understanding. “And the ice rink?”

  “The U.S. evacuation plan has been on the Internet for years. Someone writes an article about it every time North Korea threatens to attack us. And it was all over the news yesterday. So Mr. Shin is convinced that the ice rink will be overrun by Koreans and other non-Americans. Call it a gut feeling.”

  Gangshi felt the guts of their victims, warm to the touch. Mokdong Ice Rink was a mucky mess, knee deep in body parts of Americans who’d expected to be evacuated and Koreans and other foreign nationals who’d hoped against hope for evacuation. Tens of thousands of broken limbs and dreams. Plans on ice.

  “So why would Mr. Shin drive us to the U.S. Embassy?” asked Sam.

  “He thinks it’s your best chance for evacuation. And the embassy is in Gwanghwamun, so we wouldn’t have to cross the river. No doubt the bridges are backed up by now,” Mimi explained.

  A mass exodus ended with an early exit for thousands of Seoulites. Bridges south, including the neighboring Seongsan, Yanghwa, Seogang, and Mapo, became bridges to the afterlife. Cars crashed. Trucks crushed. Motorcycles flipped. Ambulances stalled. Jaws of death ripped away at vehicles and passengers. People plunged into the Han River in despair. The city was cut in half.

  ______

  Mimi and Lana tied their shoelaces. The latter had had an extra pair of lattice-laced running shoes and ankle socks.

  “Sharing is caring,” Lana said.

  Tyson heaved up the heaviest of the three bags, a black canvas backpack. Sam handed Mr. Shin a note with his officetel passcode.

  “Mr. Shin is welcome to take anything he wants,” he told Mimi.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Mr. Shin said through Mimi.

  “It’s not as noble as it seems,” Sam explained. “My employer pays for my housing. And they furnish it.” He flashed a smile.

  Beyond his dining area, Mr. Shin’s officetel was bare bones. No bed, no couch, no art. Yet the divorced taxi driver had let them into his humble home and life.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Shin said. “I’ll drive you as far as I can.” He and Sam picked up the two other bags, leather messenger and teal drawstring.

  “Ready?” Tyson asked the group. He held the door handle. His knife was in his left hand.

  “Remember,” Mr. Shin said, “gangshi aren’t human. They may look or act like us, but they’re predators. They just want to feed on your energy.”

  “What energy?” asked Sam.

  “Your qi. Your life force,” Mr. Shin answered. “Protect yourselves. Gangshi are mindless killers, senseless slaves.”

  “The necromancer is their master,” Lana thought aloud.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Shin. “There are powerful, evil people in this world, and we lose sight of that.” Mimi finished translating, Mr. Shin looked at the door, and Tyson opened it.

  ______

  Tyson shut and locked the door. He, Lana, and Sam squeezed the bags between their legs. Lana rode bitch. Mimi rode shotgun. Mr. Shin gunned the engine and made a sharp right turn out of the parking garage,
his orange taxi the only vehicle visible on Yanghwa Road. He went well past the speed limit, past high-rise after high-rise.

  Lana caught a glimpse of graffiti on a storefront. A winged silhouette. Was it a guardian angel or an angel of death? A savior or a slayer? Were its wings divine or dark? Would it deliver or destroy humanity?

  Lana had contemplated angels ever since she was one herself. Growing up in a three-generation Cuban-American household, she’d received a double dose of Catholicism. Bible study on school days and Sundays. Rigid nuns and nannies. Devout grandparents and parents. A heavenly and earthly father. She’d been daddy’s little angel.

  Mr. Shin angled onto Sinchon Road, weaving in and out of the way of wrecked and abandoned autos. He sped through traffic lights and CCTV cameras, none of which were working. When he made it to the top of the hill, Mr. Shin cursed and slammed his palms on the steering wheel. They all saw what he saw. A car graveyard with gangshi creeping around. It was like Judgment Day. Glass, metal, and plastic appeared to have fallen from the sky. Gangshi were hunched over, gagging and vomiting.

  Mr. Shin crossed the median and continued driving in the wrong direction—past department stores and just past Sinchon Station. But both sides of the street were blocked up. A dead end. The taxi came to a sudden stop.

  “You’ll have to take it from here, or I’ll take you all back with me,” Mr. Shin said in a rush.

  “We’ve gotta go,” Mimi translated to the backseat.

  Mr. Shin pursed his lips and took one last look at them. “Jal ka.” Go well. Take care.

  The left rear door of the taxi was locked, so they got out on the right side. Mr. Shin rolled down his window and scattered a pocketful of rice across the concrete. The friends didn’t see it, and the gangshi ignored it.

  Mr. Shin hit reverse and floored it, and the Haechi logo on the rear door became a blur. Haechi, Haetae, the mythical unicorn lion. The symbol of Seoul. The protector of Korea.

  “Over there,” Sam said, thinking on his feet.

  They sprinted and dropped their bags and weapons on the front steps of the police station. {tap}{tap}{tap} Sam looked through the glass. {tap}{tap}{tap} They all cupped their palms to the glass and leaned forward, their brown eyes scanning the room. Empty desks and coffee mugs. Bureaucratic forms waiting to be filled out—in pen. Pens adorned with the Korean National Police University’s eagle logo. Stellar’s sea eagle, Haliaeetus pelagicus, a species that winters in South Korea. But where were its watchful eyes and protective wings in the dead of summer?