The Last Rose of Shanghai(109)

Fear raced up Ernest’s spine. Without a lid on the tank, he was an easy target. He pounded the buttons in front of him and grappled with the lever to propel the metal beast to move. Nothing happened. He put all his weight on his foot and pulled the lever again. The transmission roared and the machine pitched, thrusting him forward just as a bullet grazed his hair. His heart jumped to his throat. He was going to die before seeing Aiyi for the last time.

Then the tank rambled forward at a surprisingly fast speed, rammed into the row of motorcycles with sidecars, and grazed the wire fence, setting off a blaze of sparks.

“No!” he shouted, but the tank kept jolting forward, slamming into the landing gear of a Zero fighter, hauling it through the vast field. The plane’s crew screamed, jumping aside. Shots popped around him like fireworks.

Suddenly all shots ceased, replaced by staccato shouts of warning.

He smelled it. The fuel.

He had slammed into the fighter fuel tank, or perhaps he had run over the fuel hose. Now he must find the entrance to the base and get out of here before it exploded. Crouching, he struggled with the lever, searching frantically among the maze of smoke and sparks for the entrance. Where is the entrance? His body bounced in the air as the tank thrust forward, a cacophony of running engines and clashing metals booming in his ears. He peered through the swirling waves of dust, looking for the building with a gate.

Nothing but a thick wall of dust and smoke.

And the tank sped on, a wild metal beast.

Rivers of sweat ran down his face; the pungent smell of fuel and smoke choked his throat. “Shit!”

He must have pushed something wrong; desperate, he tried to reverse his action. But when he took his hands off the lever, the tank threw him, and he smashed against the inside of the turret. Struggling to rise, he managed to hold on to the opening, just as the tank crashed into a building. Bricks exploded. A dull sound rang in his ears; his vision blurred.

When he could see again, a man ran toward him in the suffocating smoke. He had a massive bag on his shoulder, and he was waving at him wildly. It was Ying, who had promised to wait for him outside the base.

“I’m here, I’m here!” Ernest waved, raising his voice above the booming of the tank, which, to Ernest’s relief, had slowed down considerably.

“Stop the tank, damn it!” Ying was shouting by the side of the tank, digging into his bag.

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder!”

He fumbled for the lever, jammed at it. “It won’t stop!”

Then he saw what was in Ying’s hand. A machine gun. Aiming at him. He would shoot at him? After he stole the tank for him?

“Duck, Ernest!” The flame shot out of the machine gun. Ying fired—not at him, but at something behind him.

Ernest turned around. A raging mountain of fire had engulfed what used to be the base, and an orange cloud flooded toward him, torching his body. He cried out in agony, and unbelievably, he heard a scream answer him—a scream from another tank, right behind him, charging at full speed.

“No!” he shouted as a massive force rammed his tank, and he was tossed up in the air.





91


AIYI


A violent volley of gunshots rose, and a choking storm of smoke engulfed the metal bridge and the rows of buildings behind it. I couldn’t see the tower or the guard on the other side of the bridge. Holding my painful stomach, I shuffled along, crossing the shaky bridge, waiting for the shouts or the click of a gun that would shoot me when I least expected it.

None came.

I crossed the bridge, passed the wooden board with the sign THE DESIGNATED AREA FOR STATELESS PERSONS, and limped as fast as I could. “Evacuate, Ernest! Evacuate!” I burst into a wooden building near me, holding on to the doorframe to stop my head from spinning. It was deathly quiet inside. I staggered out, gasping, feeling woozy.

A low hum came overhead; the black silhouettes of Superfortress B-29s skittered in the sky, dropping something that looked like a string of mah-jongg tiles.

Boom. The ground throbbed beneath my feet, and all around me the bare tree stubs, the telegraph poles, the wooden buildings, and the brick walls crashed like a pile of bones. A torrent of shrapnel, flashing and whistling, hurtled by and scissored the wires above the roofs; a violent wave of heat and rubble hurled toward me.

I was thrown back and knocked into something. My face burned, my throat burned, my legs burned. I couldn’t get up, lift my hand, or scream. But how strange the world was. People seemed to be doing a jig on the bare trees, on the top of the roofs, on the broken beams, and on the crushed telegraph poles. They screamed but were unable to free themselves. From the caverns of collapsed buildings, children crawled; on the smoky street, people ran in circles.

They were foreigners, Chinese, children, men, and women. My head feverish, I scrambled to my feet.

“Cross the bridge, everyone cross the bridge!” I shouted, waving my hands, fanning away the thick smoke and dust, and pushed whoever came my way. Stunned, they went, their heads crowned with white ash and black soot, their faces splattered with blood.

But some were caught in the destructive roar. A bald old man, a foreigner, gaunt and feeble, moaned on a pile of rubble near me; a child in a gray short cotton dress bawled, crying for her mother; and a blonde woman sat on the ground with nothing in her eyes. I shoved her to walk toward the bridge; I shoved the child too.