The Windup Girl

Chan shakes his head, grimacing. Another explosion rumbles. From the sound of it, it's no more than a few blocks away.

Hock Seng looks up. "The tank again?"

"Let's not wait to find out."

They set off down the street, keeping to doorways. A few others are out in the open, looking toward the rumbling explosions. Trying to see where the noises are coming from, to see what is happening. Hock Seng remembers standing on a similar street only a few years before, the scent of the sea and the promise of the monsoon bright in the air the day the Green Headbands started their cleansing. And on that day, too, people had looked up like pigeons, heads swiveling toward the sound of slaughter, suddenly aware that they were in danger.

Ahead, unmistakable, the chatter of spring guns. Hock Seng motions to Laughing Chan and they turn into a new alley. He's too old for this foolishness. He should be reclining on a couch, smoking a bowl of opium while a pretty fifth wife massages his ankles. Behind them, the rest of the people on the street are still standing out in the open, still staring toward the sounds of battle. The Thais don't know what to do. Not yet. They have no experience with true slaughter. Their reflexes are wrong. Hock Seng turns into an abandoned building.

"Where are you going?" Laughing Chan asks.

"I want to see. I need to know what's happening."

He climbs. One stairwell, two stairwells, three, four. He's panting. Five. Six. Then out into a hall. Broken doors, stifling close heat, the smell of excrement. Another explosion rumbles distant.

Through an open window, tracers of fire arc across the darkening sky and boom in the distance. Small arms snap and chatter in the streets like Spring Festival fireworks. Smoke pillars rise from a dozen points in the city. Nagas coiling, black against the setting sun. The anchor pads, the sea locks, the manufacturing district… the Environment Ministry…

Laughing Chan grabs Hock Seng's shoulder and points.

Hock Seng sucks in his breath. The Yaowarat slum blazes, WeatherAll shanties exploding in a spreading curtain of flame. "Wode tian." Laughing Chan murmurs. "We won't be going back there."

Hock Seng stares at the burning slum that had been his home, watching with horror as all his cash and gems turn to ash. Fate is fickle. He laughs wearily. "And you thought I wasn't lucky. We'd be roasted like pigs by now, if we had stayed."

Laughing Chan makes a mock wai at him. "I will follow the lord of the Three Prosperities into the nine hells." He pauses. "But what do we do now?"

Hock Seng points. "We follow Thanon Rama XII, and then-"

He doesn't see the missile strike. It's too fast for any human being's eyes. Perhaps a military windup would have time to prepare, but he and Laughing Chan are thrown off their feet by the shockwave. A building collapses across the street.

"Never mind!" Laughing Chan grabs Hock Seng and drags him back toward the safety of the stairwells. "We'll work it out. I don't want to lose my head for the sake of your view."

Newly cautious, they slip through the darkening streets, working their way toward the manufacturing district. The streets are becoming more deserted as the Thais finally learn there is no safety in the open.

"What's that?" Laughing Chan whispers.

Hock Seng squints into the gloom. A trio of men crouch around a hand-cranked radio. One of them has an antenna in his hands that he holds over his head, trying to get reception. Hock Seng slows to walk, then urges Laughing Chan across the street to them.

"What news?" Hock Seng puffs.

"Did you see that missile hit?" one of them asks. He looks up. "Yellow cards," he murmurs. His companions exchange glances as they catch sight of Laughing Chan's machete, then smile nervously and start to shy away.

Hock Seng sketches a clumsy wai. "We just want the news."

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.