Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 568

The commotion was caused by a mobile, just as I thought. The vehicle, a marriage of
luxury and practicality with its extravagant interior and large capacity, was parked in the
middle of the former Town Square, its sleek white exterior gleaming as it stood proud in
the middle of the square, its engine purring in the silence. Flaring headlights illuminated
the night, casting its beams onto the surroundings.
A tent was set up at the edge of the clearing, the red fabric billowing in the wind, standing
out like a flag against the stark palette of the ruins. A gang of kids were huddled
underneath. Exclamations of joy emanated from the kids as a tall willowy figure passed. I
recognized a few of them, Margot, Stefan, kids relying on scavenging food from corpses a
few miles away on the No Man’s Land.
The figure flitted around, and as it stopped by a lamp, I could briefly see her features. I
couldn’t help but gasp.
She was quite an old woman. By old, I meant around thirties-something, older than the
Wastes’ inhabitants. A sad thing really, when becoming a teenager was lucky and reaching
adulthood like winning the lottery. But war is no light matter, and no one in their right
mind would help the refugees first.
Apprehension and desperation fought within me. Maybe there was food. Maybe the
woman was just trying to help. My feet carried me forward against my dwindling
willpower.
There was food. A lot of it.
My belly growled.
My willpower crumbled into ashes.
It was almost like a dream. Sitting on a cushion in a warmly lit tent, a tuna sandwich
thrust into my palm, and no one to take it--it was almost Paradise.
The woman reached me as I stared at the bread in wonder. Yet I couldn’t care less if she
thought me mental.
“How is it? Do you need more?” She smiled and asked.
In a stupor, I stiffened. Something about the accent...
“Great, thanks, I’d…”
She shifted and I recognized the insignia embroidered on her right sleeve.
I dropped the bread, brandishing my blade from a pocket, and spat, “You’re a bloody
Rightie.”
I wasn’t loud, but somehow the whole tent heard.
There was a moment of silence, and bedlam ensued. Dozens of people were rushing to
the exit.
A kid screamed bloody murder.
I shouldn’t have hoped. Hoping means climbing up a ladder. And the higher you climb,
the worse you fall.
Starvation makes one desperate, and desperation makes one a fool.
In an instant, the tent was empty, except for the woman, standing alone, her face an
unreadable mask.
I regret not finishing the meal. Even though it might be spiked. Maybe drugged or
poisoned. I assume that the Rightie wasn’t even here. News from the front claimed the
Right Wing had invented a type of hologram that could be projected from afar, and was
so real there was no way to tell if a person or object was present or not without touching
it.
“Hi.”