One of them spits betel nut, still watching suspiciously, but he says, “It’s Akkarat, on the air.” He gestures for them to listen. His friend lifts the antenna again, pulling in static.
“-stay indoors. Do not go outside. General Pracha and his white shirts have attempted to topple Her Royal Majesty the Queen herself. It is our duty to defend the realm—” The voice crackles out of reception and the man begins fiddling with the knobs on the wireless again.
One of them shakes his head. “It’s all lies.”
The one doing the tuning murmurs a disagreement, “But the Somdet Chaopraya—”
“Akkarat would kill Rama himself if he saw a benefit.”
Their friend lowers the antenna. The radio hisses static and the transmission is lost entirely as he speaks. “I had a white shirt in my shop the other day, and he wanted to take my daughter home with him. A ‘gift of good will,’ he called it. They’re all monitor lizards. A little corruption is one thing but these heeya will—”
Another explosion shakes the ground. Everyone turns, Thais and yellow cards together, trying to fix on the location.
We’re like little monkeys, trying to understand a huge jungle.
The thought frightens Hock Seng. They’re piecing together clues, but they have nothing to provide context. No matter how much they learn, it can never be enough. They can only react to events as they unfold, and hope for luck.
Hock Seng tugs Laughing Chan’s arm. “Let’s go.” The Thais are already hurriedly gathering the radio and ducking back into their shop. When Hock Seng looks back again, the street corner is entirely empty, as if the moment of political discussion hadn’t existed at all.
The fighting worsens as they near the manufacturing district. The Environment Ministry and the Army seem to be everywhere, warring. And for every professional unit on the street, there are others, the volunteers and student associations and civilians and loyalists, mobilized by political factions. Hock Seng pauses in a doorway, panting, as explosions and rifle fire echo.
“I can’t tell any of them apart,” Laughing Chan mutters as a group of university students carrying short machetes and wearing yellow armbands runs past, headed for a tank that’s busy shelling an old Expansion tower. “They’re all wearing yellow.”
“Everyone wants to claim loyalty to the Queen.”
“Does she even exist?”
Hock Seng shrugs. A student’s spring gun blades bounce off the tank’s armor. The thing is huge. Hock Seng can’t help being impressed that the Army has successfully loaded so many tanks into the capital. He supposes the Navy and its admirals provided assistance. Which means General Pracha and his white shirts have no allies left. “They’re all crazy,” Hock Seng mutters. “It doesn’t make any difference who is who.” He studies the street. His knee is hurting, his old injury making him slow. “I wish we could find some bicycles. My leg…” He grimaces.
“If you were on a bike, shooting you would be as easy as shooting a grandmother on a stoop.”
Hock Seng rubs his knee. “Still, I’m too old for this.”
Rubble showers them from another explosion. Laughing Chan brushes debris out of his hair. “I hope this is worth the trip.”
“You could be back in the slums, roasting alive.”
“That’s true.” Laughing Chan nods. “But let’s hurry. I don’t want to keep testing our luck.”
More dark intersections. More violence. Rumors flying on the streets. Executions in Parliament. The Trade Ministry in flames. Thammasat University students rallying on behalf of the Queen. And then another radio broadcast. A new frequency, everyone says, as they all huddle around the tinny speaker. The announcer sounds shaken. Hock Seng wonders if there is a spring gun at her head. Khun Supawadi. She was always so popular. Always introduced such interesting radio plays. And now her voice trembles as she begs her countrymen to stay calm while tanks rush through the streets, securing everything from the anchor pads to the docks. The radio’s speaker crackles with the sound of shelling and explosions. A few seconds later, explosions rumble in the distance like muffled thunder, a perfect echo of the ones on the radio.
“She’s closer to the fighting than we are,” Laughing Chan says.
“Is that a good sign, or a bad one?” Hock Seng wonders.
Laughing Chan starts to answer but a megodont’s screams of rage interrupt, followed by the whine of spring guns unleashing. Everyone looks down the street. “That sounds bad.”
“Hide,” Hock Seng says.
“Too late.”
A wave of people pours around the corner, running and screaming. A trio of carbon-armored megodonts thunders behind them. The massive heads sweep low, slashing from side to side, their tusks slash through the fleeing people with attached scythe blades. Bodies split like oranges and fly like leaves.
From atop the megodonts, machine gun cages open fire. Flickering silver streams of bladed disks pour into the packed crowd. Hock Seng and Laughing Chan crouch in a doorway as people flee past. The white shirts in their midst fire their own spring guns and single-shot rifles as they run, but the disks are entirely ineffective against the armored megodonts. The Environment Ministry isn’t equipped for this sort of warfare. Ricocheting ammunition flurries around them as the machine guns chatter. People collapse in bloody writhing piles, howling agony as the megodonts trample over them. Dust and smoke and musk choke the street. A man is flung aside by a megodont and slams into Hock Seng. Blood gouts from his mouth, but he is already dead.
Hock Seng crawls out from under the corpse. More people are forming up and firing at the megodonts. Students, Hock Seng thinks, perhaps from Thammasat, but it’s impossible to tell who they are loyal to, and Hock Seng wonders if even they know who they are fighting.
The megodonts wheel and charge. People pile up against Hock Seng, trying to get out of the way. Their mass crushes him. He can’t breath. He tries to cry out, to clear space for himself, but the crush is too great. He screams. The weight of desperate fleeing people presses down upon him, squeezing out the last of his air. A megodont sweeps into them. It backs and charges again, tearing into the clot of people, swinging its bladed tusks. Students throw bottles of oil up at the megodonts and hurl torches up after, spinning lights and fire-
More razor disks rain down. Hock Seng cowers as the guns sweep toward him, spitting silver. A boy stares into his eyes, yellow headband slipped down over his bleeding face. Hock Seng’s leg blossoms with pain. He can’t tell if he’s shot or if his knee is broken. He screams in frustration and fear. The weight of bodies pushes him to the ground. He’s going to die. Crushed under the dead. Despite everything, he failed to understand the capriciousness of warfare. In his arrogance he thought he could prepare. Such a fool…
Silence comes suddenly. His ears are ringing, but there’s no more weapons fire and no more trumpeting megodonts. Hock Seng takes a shuddering breath beneath the weight of bodies. All around him, he hears only moans and sobbing.
“Ah Chan?” he calls.
No answer.
Hock Seng claws his way out. Others are dragging themselves free of the massacre as well. Helping their wounded. Hock Seng can barely stand. His leg is awash with pain. He’s covered with blood. He searches through the bodies, trying to find Laughing Chan, but if the man is in the pile, he is covered in too much blood and there are too many bodies and it is too dark to pick him out.
Hock Seng calls for him again, peering into the mass. Down the street, a methane lamp burns bright, shattered, its neck spurting gas into the sky. Hock Seng supposes it could explode at any moment, ripping through the methane pipes of the city, but he can’t muster the energy to care.
He stares around at the bodies. Most of them are students, it seems. Just foolish children. Trying to do battle with megodonts. Fools. He forces down memories of his own children, dead and piled. The massacres of Malaya, writ on Thai pavement. He pries a spring gun from a dead white shirt’s hands, checks its load. Only a few disks left, but still. He pumps the spring, adding energy. Shoves it into his pocket. Children playing at war. Children who don’t deserve to die, but are too foolish to live.