Huang Ying
Fox-Trot-9

Rated PG-13
Horror/Suspense/Mystery/Vampire

Chapter 4: Sammo's Story Continued
(Day Dreams)

Chengde, China
September 19, 1977

Sammo Hung—In another five minutes, as the cop parked in the plaza of the Zhongfang Police Station on Rohmer Avenue and Shanquo Street, I regained my stomach.

When we got out of the car, we were greeted with cold stares from a few uniformed cops. Though most of those were aimed at the cop and not me, I still got the chills. Those stares said that the man accompanying me (the one with a scare on his cheek) must have done something pretty bad, though I haven't a clue what. Maybe it had something to do with that scar on his cheek, or maybe it could be something else. Given my curiosity streak—which I inherited from Dr. Godenzi—, I naturally wanted to know more about it; but I was dealing with an undercover cop, and they're usually the ones asking the questions.

I followed him toward the building but stopped halfway to the entrance, about forty feet away, looking up at the imposing structure of concrete, steel and tinted glass, a mean-looking box that went some twenty stories into the sky. From where I was, the shadow of this building stretched over the plaza like the cast of a sundial, prophesying doom for those who passed through its wake. I never liked these buildings, because that's where the wolves of society gathered to chew up criminals and process them into convicts, complete with a name, number, prison garb and handcuffs, ready to be shipped to the nearest jail house for further digesting into the prison system. I wondered if a dandelion like me could survive the process long enough to see tomorrow.

I won't have to, I kept thinking. I'm just here to answer a few questions, and I'm done. I hope.

"Are you coming, or not?" he said.

Without a word, I dragged my weary self into the bowels of Hell.

"If it makes you feel better, this is not a prison; we have a few holding cells to keep a few suspects, but you are not one of them. You are a person of interest, that's all."

"What about a witness?"

He faced me and said, "We haven't established that yet."

"So if I didn't witness anything, why am I here?"

"To answer questions, because as of now, I'm still trying to build the case."

"And what case is that?"

The cop smiled, bending that scar on his cheek. "You're a clever man, I can tell. You should've been a prosecutor instead of an archeologist; at least you would've been more useful to this case."

Maybe he meant it as a joke to calm my nerves, but it didn't work. I'm thinking about smokey back rooms with a ceiling lamp hanging over a guy's head, while I'm strapped to a chair getting my ass grilled to charred perfection for these wolves to salivate over. It only served to make me more uncomfortable.

"Just keep an open mind, Mr. Hung. Don't let the current circumstances scare you too much."

Easy for you to say, I thought.

Through the double-doors of the lobby, I found myself in the middle of a busy workday, with civilians (at least, I assumed they were, since they weren't in handcuffs) waiting in long lines at the counters, a cop behind each counter. There was the low steady hum of people talking, footsteps clapping on the marble flooring and papers shuffling on the counters. A few cops, the ones that do the office work and supervision, walked up and down the stairs to my left, which I assumed would lead up into the interrogation rooms, but I could be wrong. I looked back on the long lines of people, which reminded me of the school cafeteria—only in here, nobody dared to cut in line.

"Follow me," the cop said, turning left toward the stairs, up into the bowels of the second level of Hell. "You'll be interviewed on the second floor."

I hate being right, I thought, and up I went.

That's when everything slowed down, and the nausea returned.

Climbing up the steps to the first landing felt like scaling a mountain pass, as I trudged forward on leaden feet. And from the landing to the second floor, I couldn't help but feel light-headed again, as if I've just lost my sense of balance. Grabbing onto the banister, I shook my head trying to snap myself out of my dizziness with variable success. What's wrong with me? Why does this keep happening to me? I had no clue. My instincts, the primitive part of me concerned solely for my survival, was telling me something, but what? Does it have anything to do with last night? Or anything to do with Dr. Godenzi's killer?

"Mr. Hung, are you feeling all right?" the cop said, and I looked up and saw him from the top of the stairs, looking down on me.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Are you sure? I can tell this day has been hard on you; if you want, I can delay the interview for an hour, or at least until you've composed yourself enough."

"No, I'll be fine," I lied, meeting him on the landing, trying to hide the nausea. "I just wanna get it over with."

"Fair enough. The room is near the end of this hall," and he pointed me the way. "Oh, and one more thing. Another person will meet us shortly."

Another surprise; God, how many more before the day ends? "But I thought you didn't have a partner."

"He's not a partner of mine. He's from the PSB."

"The Public Security Bureau (1)? Are they involved in this, too?"

"Yes. For your protection."

"From who, the killer?" (The cop nodded yes.) "Why would anybody want to kill me?"

"These measures are precautions, Mr. Hung; I wouldn't question them if I were you," and without another word, he walked to the end of the hall, opening the door for me to enter, which I did. "Wait here. It will only be a short while," and he closed the door and walked off.

Now I'm alone again, situated inside a box-like room no more than ten feet by twelve feet, max. There were no windows, and the walls were bare of everything except gray paint; in front of me, three chairs and a table set against the corner completed the interior. Spartan-like, I thought, taking a chair and setting my feet up on the table. I looked at the farthest corner of the ceiling where the glow of the bulb threw weaker shades of light, before closing my eyes to the world around me. And soon enough, my thoughts drifted to more important things, much darker things—the murders at the dig site, the circumstances surrounding those murders, as well the reasons behind them, stuff like that. But for the life of me, I kept thinking of my old mentor back in my college days.

Like most college students, I've suffered from sleepless nights at the hands of my professors, but none more so than at the hands of Professor "Fu Manchu" Godenzi. Everyone in my class called him that. Under his iron grasp, Godenzi polarized the opinions of those who have the honor (or misfortune, in most cases) of having him teach in their archeology classes. Like me. Still, I didn't despise him like most of my classmates did; I viewed him more as a challenge to be overcome, not an obstacle to be avoided. Hell, I remembered that for three days a week—Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—during my senior year, how I had to burn the midnight candles in the library, pouring over textbooks in sleep-deprived study to prepare for any pop quizzes or worse: Godenzi's infamous exams. More than once, I found myself dozing off with my head in my arms, a few empty cartons of Chinese takeout and bags of junk food in the trash. All-nighters can wreck havoc on your sleeping patterns and cravings for food; how I managed to stay skinny, I could only guess.

In many of those all-nighters, when the barrier between sleep and wakefulness becomes exceedingly thin, I had my most vivid dreams. Sure, I'd get the garden variety most college students get—passing and failing on tests, making friends, even getting laid (which I've never done in real life; I was not that lucky). But of them all, I distinctly remembered one all-nighter before the midterm for Godenzi's class on Friday. I remembered being in the third floor of the library, just thirty minutes before midnight, thirty minutes before the library closes and I'd have to go to my dorm. And for the umpteenth time, I remembered catching myself dozing off at the desk after a three-hour study session—no surprise there.

I didn't remember much of what I was studying, either; I only remembered hearing a few of the students getting ready to leave. So I got up, stretched and stacked the library books (two of them) on the return desk before going back for my binder and my textbook, A Guide to Practical Archeology: 2nd Edition. I still have that one. After wishing my classmates luck on Friday's test, I got to the elevators of the library without incident. But when the doors opened, I found the professor himself greeting me.

"Ah, there you are; you are just the person I need to see," said Godenzi.

I noticed a glint in his eye, maybe not a tear but it's enough to get noticed. "Is there something wrong, Professor?"

"Nothing's wrong; I'm just here to offer you a proposition in return for your efforts in Friday's test."

"What is it?" I said, stepping out of the elevator.

"An internship. Now hear me out before you jump to conclusions. For two months now, I've been looking for an assistant to work under me at Heibei Province, but so far nobody at the Archeology Department has anyone qualified enough to lend me. So I'm looking to you."

Silence.

Holy shit; are you for real, man? I thought, and I felt my hands trembling for some reason. "You think I'm qualified for that?" (Godenzi nodded yes.) "But my grades are...average."

"Grades and test scores have little to do with real archeology. Grades are arbitrary measurements devised by an institution concerned solely in academic matters, nothing more. I'm not looking for a genius; there are no geniuses in archeology, as the department would have you believe. Along with the academic aspects, archeology is a field of science that requires real-world planning, schedules, recruitment and wages and living expenses for diggers, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. I need someone willing to fulfill the duties of an assistant working in the field."

Then why are you so hard on your God damn tests? "You want me to work for you?"

"Yes, and don't kid yourself. I wouldn't offer you an opportunity like this, if I didn't see anything promising in you."

You trying to blow sunshine up my ass, old man? I didn't know what to think; it sounded too good to be true. "And what do you see?"

Godenzi smiled that wrinkly smile of his, and for the first time I saw something human in his face, something I didn't associate with sticklers like him. "Ah, you and your questions. I was right about you; the best archeologists are the ones with the most questions to ask. It's passion, Mr. Hung, the drive to fill the voids of human history with the light of knowledge, driven by an insatiable streak of curiosity. I see that passion in you. You must understand that archeology is more than a vocation; it is a lifestyle, and a highly rewarding one, I might add. Trust me, should you take me up on this offer, you would be far ahead of your classmates in terms of work experience. So what do you say? Are you in or out?"

Silence. We exited the library doors and entered the cool cloudless midnight of early March, standing in the middle of the quad in front of the library.

I looked at the old man, trying to see though him to see if he was joking, but he had a Hell of a poker face. But I knew what the old man was trying to do: play it on the sly in the hopes I'll go along with it; it's enticing, to be sure. Hey, come on, dude. Go for it. You'll never find a better opportunity if you pass this up. Come on, take a stab at it. Who knows? Maybe this will be your true calling, man, the best thing that's happened to you since jacking off. Come on, take the shot already... Shut up, already, Geez! But I needed to balance this deal, first. "All right, I'm in, but I have questions and one condition."

"I can understand questions, but conditions? Isn't the prospect of going to another place, or making a fine discovery enough for you?"

"My reasons are practical. When are we going to Heibei and how long are we gonna stay there?"

"I hope to start in June or July at the latest. I've been planning this venture since the beginning of last year, and I've got half of the preparations done already. Maybe we'll stay there towards the end of September, only a month into the Fall semester."

"But if we are going to stay for three to four months, where will our lodgings be?"

"In Chengde, most likely."

"In a hotel?"

"Of course." Then Godenzi gave me a wry smile. "But don't get any ideas, Mr. Hung; prostitutes are prohibited during this venture. Ah—" he added, waving a warning hand at me, "no prostitutes, and that's final."

"Actually, that didn't cross my mind, and that's definitely not the condition I'm asking for."

"Then what is it?"

"If we're going to stay for over two months in a hotel, do we have to share a hotel room? I mean no disrespect to you, but I don't feel comfortable sleeping in the same room with another—"

Godenzi broke out laughing like an old bloke, fresh from the local pub. "Of course, of course. I've already considered that. I have already made reservations in advance on two adjacent rooms in one hotel already, so you need not worry."

Thank God, and I sighed in relief. "Oh, and one more thing."

The old man raised his brows. "Not another condition, is it?"

"No, just a question. Are you running this whole thing?"

"Yes, I am. I'm using my own money, Mr. Hung, not the money from the department. And because I am using my money, I took the pains to plan things out in a year's advance. Trust me; I've done this before with a few of my own colleagues back in the 30's and 50's. I know how these things work, inside and out. Anything else?"

The last question rang in my head, so I thought of how far I could push my luck; I knew it was risky, but I went for it anyway. "Actually, I do. Since I'll be working for you as an assistant, will I get...paid? I'm just asking, since this is a real-world internship."

The old man sighed and was silent for a while. Then he said, "I see your point... All right, I'll pay you, but don't push it. Paid leave is out of the question, understand?"

"Yes, sir." A smile crept into my face. "You won't be disappointed."

"Glad to hear it. But remember, this deal is now a trade-off; once you set your condition, I must set mine to make this mutual. In return for the lodging and pay, I expect you to work hard for me; no slacking off."

"Yes, sir, I'll do that."

"And furthermore," and he raised a hand to stop me from protesting, "Nope, you asked for it, so you'll get it. Furthermore, I'll raise my standards on your academic performance. Instead of the passing grade of a C, I expect from you a B on tomorrow's midterm and the final. Those are my conditions; trust me, you will benefit from fulfilling those requirements. Do we have a deal?" he said, offering a handshake to seal the deal.

Seal the deal, my ass. God, I hate you. I hesitated for a moment, but I shook hands with the Devil himself. "Deal..." You fucking bastard!

"Good. I must say, though, I'm quite impressed. Negotiating is becoming a lost art in your generation. It requires finesse, and that only comes through experience; but I'll give you an A for effort. Oh dear, it's a quarter to one already. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then…" And off he went, but then he stopped a few feet away, turning around. "Or should I say seven hours from now? But get some rest; a good night's sleep can do wonders on a test," and off he went again. Probably with a smile on his face knowing he'd have me by the balls by then.

I just stood there in the quad, looking at the old man disappear into the night like a ghost; and I thought I heard the old bastard laughing his ass off along the way. Yeah, fucking rub it in, you bastard. God, I can't BELIEVE I let him do that. Jesus, Sammo, what the Hell did you just get yourself into? Yeah, but you're the one who agreed to that, remember? And you're also the one that got it into your skull to take advantage of him. Now look at what you've done. You screwed yourself. But that's just temporary; it'll get easier when time goes on. Yeah, we'll see seven hours from now, so try to get some sleep, numb nuts—

******

"SHUT UP!"

That was when I woke up, barely aware that I've been dreaming everything. It took a few minutes for the drowsiness to wear off, and when it did, I found myself back in that box-like room. But I wasn't not alone, either. The MPS cop with the scar on his cheek was seated across from me, accompanied by a smaller younger man from the PSB sitting beside him. Both of them looked at me with quizzical looks.

"Sorry, I was just resting," I said, picking my feet off the table.

Both cops looked at each other, then looked back at me like I was a very interesting 'person of interest', indeed.

"Mr. Hung," the cop with the scar began, "I am Detective Chan Kwok Wing of the Criminal Investigation Department of the MPS, and this is Detective Charlie Yeung of the 6th Division of the PSB in Heibei Province. Neither of us suspect you of any crime, but we need you to cooperate, do you understand?"

I merely nodded, thinking, What the Hell have I gotten myself into?

(To be continued…)

A/N: This is the 4th installment of the novel; thanks to IsadoraFier for pointing out those typos. Again, I repeat. Please comment, and vote if you like it! The power of the comment gods compels you! LOL

(1) Public Security Bureau (PSB): A system of government offices present in each province and municipality that handles law enforcement, public security, and social order, the other duties.