Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 207

The New Tales of Old Shanghai Hong Kong Academy, Kng, Darrion - 13 D roplets of water litter the ground, footsteps echo as howls pierce the eerie silence, an englishman takes slow strides, trudging the ground with utmost silence, splashes of water resound through forsaken streets. Nervous eyes dart from to shop to shop, murmurs unheard for years, promptly start again, ghosts seem to be dancing. Wisps of smoke puncture the cold thin air, wearing an overcoat, the man takes a cigar from his back pocket, he strikes a match swiftly without hesitation, lights a cigar, and takes a long drag. Tears of water drip off his hat, the glint of metal can be seen in the moonlight, 12:00 AM, the man eyes a worn out bar with glimpses of light, his contact had arrived. A pair of neon coloured eyes dart in the blood-curdling darkness, the lean furry creature shrieks as a looming shadow appears on the doorstep. “Cling, cling, cling……”, an impeccably dressed figure appears, scurrying like a rat, he approaches a shadow. Inaudible words are exchanged, the air is full treachery and misgiving, drunken cheers are heard inside. Materializing from the darkness, our fine old fellow nods his thanks and shuffles into darkness, the figure gives a curt bow. With a glance inside, he runs onto the street. Golden shards of light flew through the air, a well dressed Chinese man beckons the overcoat man forward. With a glass red wine in his hand, he dismisses the waitress. “Good morning William, you’re looking well dressed. . . ,” states the Chinese man with a slight tinge of Oxford in his accent. “I have no time for jokes, Wang, what have you got for me?”, the man replies with a gruff voice. He takes a seat and takes his hat off. With rigged lines ran through his face, locked in a permanent frown, William gestures with his hand, and nods. Wang places a briefcase on the table, it clicks, two files are then produced, dust covered the files from head to toe, with a glance, William opens it. A 50 miles away, a building appears in the never ending darkness, guards patrol the area as water spears strike the ground as a figure runs, water splashes on his face, swearing, he makes his way inside. A uniform armed guard stops the man and salutes, bowing, he explains the current situation in a foreign language, leading the man towards a telephone booth, the guard stops, gives a smart salute, and marches away. Glancing back, the suspicious character rams a variety of buttons, the telephone hums, then crackles. “He’s here,” the man says. “Commence Operation Cherry Blossom,” replies a muted voice. 50 miles back, a muted discussion is in progress as a shadow lurks through the darkness. Frowns have been developed as the conversation went forward, William asks Wang a question, Wang nods his head, a mixture of disbelief and shock develops on William’s face. He lunges and grasps Wang’s hand, taken aback, Wang recoils. “Are you sure…”, William manages to gasp. “Yes sir, he’s working for the Japanese,” Wang states. “But…”, William trails off before noting the eerily silence that has fallen, the glint of metal catches his eye, he looks and notices a pearl black cylinder, a barrel of a gun. Cherry red droplets leap like mackerel through the very air, red droplets litter the table. A body drops on to the floor, a bullet hole through his head. The corpse heads lurches sideways revealing the assailant, it was the waitress. Gunshots ring through the bar as William swiftly fires his own firearm. Lead pumped from both directions, peppering walls, removing objects from our very existence. The chandelier above shatters, pottery and glass windows are removed with ease. Screams pierce the air, and one by one, people start filing out. “Thud,” a body hits the ground, blood gushing out of her pale mouth, she mutters a few inaudible words. Her once elegant figure is now destroyed by