I keep swiveling my head as we walk, taking in as much as I am able to in the dark of night. We are bordered by vegetation on all sides, though a lot of it is bare owing to the season. The thin, spindly branches of the trees and bushes remind me of pointing fingers, accusing, aware.
“We are in the Yangtze province,” Trigger says softly as he leads us forward. “The Yangtze river is not too far away. You can see even if you escape on foot, you wouldn’t get too far, yeah? Brutal, ‘specially in the winter. No food grows out in the jungle this time of year.” That explains, at least partly, why it’s a low-security compound. “The main crop grown on this sector is rice, but in the winter they flood the paddy fields and farm winter beans and fish. Hell of a job, but keeps us fed. That’s what you ladies will most likely be assigned to do. Shale will prob’ly have to help build the compound wall. They want to make it taller, and the Chinese think hard, physical labor is a good way to learn the art of righteous living.” He grunts, as if he disagrees. “Anyway, it’s important that you finish the task you’re given at the end of your shift every night. They don’t like slow-pokes.” He winks at Ceres, but she doesn’t respond.
As we continue to walk, I look over my shoulder at Shale, wondering how he will manage the heavy physical labor, being wounded the way he is. But the determined set of his jaw, the resolute glint in his eyes—those don’t escape me. He will find a way. And I know I will, too.
“Do we have access to doctors?” I ask, glancing at Ceres. It has been one of the topmost concerns on my mind—getting her quality medical care to begin to repair what damage was done in the Asylum.
Trigger shakes his head. “Some compounds have Monitors who are more reasonable than others...here, I’m afraid to say, they seem like a bunch of government drones.”
My heart sinks, but I rally. It’s all right. We don’t plan on staying here too long anyway. “When should we move on?” I ask Trigger. “How long do you think it will take New Amana and China to catch up to us here?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out yet, but we’re workin’ on it. Just a matter of listenin’ to the radio signals for some advance warning. I’d estimate two to three weeks, with all they’re dealing with over there.”
I nod, a bit relieved. Two or three weeks to catch our breath doesn’t seem too unreasonable. Then we can move on to somewhere safer and, hopefully, more permanent.
Finally, when my hands are so cold that I cannot feel my fingertips anymore, we arrive at the large iron gate bordering the wopung. From so close, I see that each of them has a number painted on the front.
A movement catches my eye; a short Chinese man stands just inside the gate, hitting his open palm with the large stick he holds in his other hand. In his dark uniform, cloaked by shadows, he was invisible to me until now. Trigger’s tone is easy as he says, “New immigrants coming through.”
The Chinese man responds in a thick accent. “IDs.” We all hand over our new IDs. The man checks them, then hands them back and marks something on a form he produces from his pocket. Then he unlocks the gate. “Jìnrù. Enter.”
We file through after Trigger. I examine the profile of the muscular guard, but he keeps his eyes trained outside the gate, as if we are invisible, as if he can’t see us at all.
The gate swings shut and I hear him lock it behind us. We are in.
"Monitor Aiguo is one of our allies on this compound,” Trigger says once we are out of hearing distance. “But I imagine his allegiance will only last as long as the free drugs and alcohol we get him and his comrades.” He shrugs. “At least the black market here is much better stocked than le marché noir back home.”
Suddenly, Trigger’s posture stiffens and his expression turns guarded. I follow his eyes and see a man, about forty years old, dressed in a navy blue uniform. A wooden baton hangs from his belt. Though he stands motionlessly at the front of the row of wopung, there is a tense, fevered energy just beneath the surface. When he sees that we’ve noticed him, he starts forward, his footsteps bounding as if he can’t contain his eagerness to meet us. Addressing Trigger, he says in a thick Chinese accent, “Go home. Turn on your TV. Time for Book of Laws.”
“Yes, sir.” Trigger bows his head and with one sidelong glance at Shale, scurries off.
The man turns his fervent gaze to us. One of his hands grips the top of his wooden baton. He is much shorter than Shale, but he leans in, looking up with eyes that blaze like black fire. When he grins, intense dislike for him churns in my stomach. “I am Monitor Wang. Welcome to Great Land—greatest nation in world. You are lucky. You learn art of righteous living; you are saved. Your life is changed!” Flecks of spittle fly from his mouth as he speaks. Shale’s face remains impassive as he looks down on the older man. “Don’t worry, I teach you.” His grin never wavers, and I wonder what he means. “Now, you get housing according to availability.” He points to Shale. "You. Number twenty-eight." Next, he points to Ceres and me. "You two share number twenty-four. Wopung stocked with food and laundry. Clean your own laundry. Food handed out every new moon. Not like New Amana. China have plenty!” He looks from Shale to me and back again. “Any questions?"
We shake our heads. All I want to do is get away from him and his zealous patriotism to the relative safety of our wopung.
He continues, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. "When morning song plays, assemble outside with rest of New Amanians for the start of righteous day. Glory be to Great Land!" And with that, he rushes off.
I look around at the orderly wopung, crouched low to the ground as if in fear of a stalking hunter. Their single windows are lit from within, but the light seems empty, without warmth.
The one closest to us is number fifty-two. They seem to descend as they go forward, so we begin to walk quickly, our shoes digging into the packed-dirt ground. Our bodies cast long shadows in the streetlamps, a trio of dark, faceless figures invading the compound. Beside the whispering wind and our shuffled footsteps, there is absolute stillness.
Ahead, I see a willowy, tall Chinese woman speaking with a young Chinese man. They are dressed like Monitor Wang was, in dark blue jackets and pants. Thick wooden sticks hang from their belts. They must be Monitors.
“It’s best if we go our separate ways for tonight,” Shale says softly. “We don’t want to attract any unwanted attention. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“All right.” I can’t tear my eyes off the Monitors, though they haven’t noticed us yet.
Shale forks away from us to go on to his wopung while Ceres and I continue forward. The Monitors are deep in their conversation and do not look our way. I breathe a sigh of relief when we turn and are no longer in their line of sight. Something about the Monitors disturbs me on a deeply personal level, though I can’t yet put my finger on it.
Our wopung has the number 24 painted on in a dark red hue by the lone window. I wonder if the color was originally meant to infuse warmth. Now, in its peeling, dirty state, the effect is anything but.
The door doesn't have a lock, and yawns open at the slightest push of my hand. The inside is neat and smells of citrus and cleaner. There are two knotted rope cots with thin mattresses on top, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a tiny main area with a small television set. A laminated note taped to it says: Turns on nightly at 8 p.m. The small green clock on the wall says it’s thirty past. We’ve managed to miss the programming for one night.
I open up the closet, riffle through the gray wool tunics and pants in there. When Ceres walks up to me, I put my arm around her thin shoulders. "I think this will be good for us. It’s a new beginning.”
We change into a pair of clean, but clearly not new, wool pajamas that we pull from the closets, and wash our hands and faces. Then we sit on our cots, facing each other. We are only a few feet apart in this small house, the only light coming from a small oil lamp next to me. I watch my sister, her big golden eyes darting from one shadowed corner to another. She looks impossibly small, impossibly frail. A wave of weariness washes over me again at the thought of having to keep her safe in this strange land. In New Amana the dangers were ghastly, but they were familiar. How do you keep ahead of something you don't know?
"It'll be okay, Ceres." My words fall flat; I fail to convince even myself. "You know that, don't you?"
Her eyes catch mine, then jerk away as she continues to survey the space, looking for unseen threats.
"I'm going to keep you safe," I say with a conviction I’m fighting to feel. "And Shale's going to keep you safe."
I turn off the lamp and we lie in the darkness, the scratchy rope strings of the cot digging through the flimsy mattress and into my back. I command my heart to slow down, to cease its erratic jumping. Tomorrow—I don't know what tomorrow will bring. Or when we will have to pick up and move once again. For now, in the black darkness of tonight, I can fool myself into believing nothing has changed. That we are still at sea, sleeping peacefully, waiting for sunrise.