The Last Rose of Shanghai(110)

The old man was sinking in the rubble, his groans barely audible. I climbed up to reach him. Hurry, hurry. But he was too far. I lay flat on the pile, reached farther, grabbed his hand, and pulled; he was heavier than I had expected. With some struggle, he finally crawled out, slid down the rubble, and landed on the ground. Exhausted, I had to lie there for a moment to gather some strength. Where was Ernest? I still hadn’t seen him. Was he nearby? I got up, but my foot was trapped by a web of boards. I pulled. The pile beneath me rumbled, and I sank to my waist. Frightened, I cried out frantically. “Help! Here! I’m here!”

A voice replied in the black air laced with debris and soot, but all I could see were fuzzy figures in the dusty haze, rushing around—so close, yet so far away.

No one could see me; no one could help me. My body ached, my strength was running out, and the burning heat and smoke mixed with sizzling fuel wrapped around my throat like a hot towel. Above my head came another heavy hum.

I screamed.

Silence answered, followed by a salvo of gunshots in the distance. The mound of rubble quivered again, and I tumbled deeper down to my chest, pinned between the smoldering beams, broken bricks, and coils of scalding metal. I panted for breath, to loosen the clasp around my chest, just as a thunderous sound roared near me. A shell detonated.

Before me, the entire row of wooden buildings crumbled, a crimson blaze ricocheted from behind the rubble, and then everything vanished. Everything, except the thick coat of smoke.

Something lurked in the smoke.

The vague shapes of two beasts. One was overturned, the gun motor sparking fire and the steely wheels rolling on a metal belt; the other stalled, with a running engine. Near the tanks, surrounded by the raging fire, were two figures. One I loved to see; the other I hated.

Yamazaki, the metal clips on his boots flashing like shards, was kicking Ying on the ground.

“Stop, stop!” I screamed.

Yamazaki didn’t stop—crazy, like a rabid animal, his face red in the fire. Abruptly he paused and stumbled sideways, turning to face something across from him—another figure. I could only see his back by the sputtering fire, but I would have known that back anywhere. My heart leaped with happiness.

“Ernest! Ernest!”

His entire body was covered with red welts, burns, blisters, and ash. A piece of shrapnel had struck his right arm, the arm with the wounded hand that had pounded out note after note. He crouched, wavering, facing the man who had killed my husband, the man who was going to kill my brother. But Ernest should know—didn’t he know?—he was not Yamazaki’s match.

But recklessly, he drove himself toward Yamazaki like a spear, knocking him to the ground with such a force that both folded over, slammed into the overturned tank, and crashed in a heap. Ernest, to my greatest joy, got up on his feet first. His face bathed in blood, he struck my enemy with his left fist, again and again; it was hard to believe, but every delicious blow from Ernest made Yamazaki groan until he finally lay flat on the ground. Panting, Ernest fell to his knees. He looked utterly spent after having been powered on a spurt of energy to kill Yamazaki. But Ernest didn’t see that, behind him, Yamazaki was crawling to a long rifle near the rubble. He grabbed it and sat up.

“No!” Gathering all my strength, I heaved; inch by inch, I pulled myself out. I was close to swinging my legs out, close to freeing myself and helping Ernest. But suddenly a rush of air swept my feet, and I dropped through the crosshatched boards to the bottom of the rubble.

From outside my prison of detritus came the sound of the world ending.

Gunshots.

Then silence.

I saw nothing; I heard nothing. I was beyond tears.

With the last of my strength, I crawled. Through the burrows of splintered piles of wood, through the cavern of dark smoke. The sharp shrapnel rent my skin, the ragged edges of stones and bricks crunched against my bones, and the smoldering metal coils ensnared my flesh. I kept crawling.

The air outside was pungent, scalding, and chalky like ashes. The earth burned, sticky like blood, soft like melting skin. The sky ruptured, a crimson, bleeding wound. Where was he?

A hand grasped mine, and I looked up, ready to spit on Yamazaki.

“Aiyi?” said a voice, faint, but exploding in my ears.

I gripped him with two hands. Ernest!

His eyes were swollen and bruised and his cheeks were coated with blood and ash, yet it was the most beautiful face I had ever seen.

“I thought . . . I thought . . . What happened?”

He gave a wan smile. “Your brother.”

Behind him, in the shower of dust and sparks, I saw Ying, a silhouette, holding a machine gun. He had shot Yamazaki before he could fire at Ernest.

And Yamazaki, the murderer, my nightmare, was finally dead, half of his face blown away by the bullets.

“I didn’t know you were in the rubble, Aiyi. How did you get there?” A trickle of blood flowed down Ernest’s face.

I had many questions too. How had he ended up with Ying, how had the two come across Yamazaki, and what had they done with the tanks? But I only nodded and nodded.

“I thought I would never see you again . . . I thought . . . I’ve missed you.” He wept.

I put my hand on his face. So close he was. So real he was. It was as if he had never left me.

“Get out of here. You two, get out.” Ying was shouting. His face was ruined, blood gushing from behind his ear.