Chapter Forty-Four: The Tangerine Hall

On the wasteland, about a hundred kilometers from the Dryland Dock at the Transfer Station, a massive red iron factory, occupying several dozen acres, stood proudly. The factory was a perfectly rectangular structure; from a distance, it resembled a gigantic coffin box. Two broad gates faced the front, with vehicles coming and going at intervals.

A rust-red barbed wire fence enclosed the entire factory from top to bottom, and only one road led to the entrance. On both sides of this road, rows of orange-red prefab steel buildings stood in neat formation. In front and behind these structures, enormous piles of metal scraps, both new and old, rose like mountains, forming an impenetrable second barrier around the great orange-red hall.

Inside the factory, the rumble of heavy machinery echoed. On the spacious sides, wind turbines clustered closely together, their outer perimeter shielded by the steel sheds, providing a constant stream of electricity for the entire hall.

...

A battered, dust-covered car turned off the dirt road and into the orange-red hall, driving along the only lane into the vast factory. The driver, evidently familiar with the place, steered the vehicle straight to the fuel trading hall located at the northwest corner.

Here, a long queue snaked outside the fuel trading hall, second only to the weapons trading hall at the other end.

The driver handed the keys to a woman in an orange-red uniform, opened the trunk, and hoisted out a man whose hands and feet were bound and whose mouth was sealed.

The man was burly and overweight; his white suit was smeared with dust and blood, wrinkled and stained. A gash split his eyebrow, the bleeding stopped and a dark red scab had formed.

Grinning, the man in the floral shirt hefted the captive, who was twice his size, onto his shoulder and staggered down a corridor in the fuel area. He found the door marked “Human Oil Compounder,” pushed it open, and entered.

The captive glimpsed the sign on the door, and his eyes bulged with terror as he struggled violently.

The room was large and noisy, filled with machines that resembled garbage compactors. The grinding and whirring of gears mingled with screams to create a nauseating symphony.

Near the entrance stood a low workbench where a short-haired woman, wearing goggles and a mask and wrapped in a leather apron, glanced up as the man in the floral shirt entered, her expression questioning.

“Refuel,” he said with a sycophantic smile, jerking his thumb at the man on his shoulder. “I just want half. The rest is for trade.”

The woman stood, picked up a drill from the table, pointed to a blood-soaked iron bed, and signaled for him to put the man down.

Obediently, he placed the captive on the bed. The woman squeezed the man’s flesh, nodded, and said, “Upper half is yours.”

He grinned and raised his hands in agreement.

The woman opened a machine against the wall, lifting a lid that revealed shining rotary blades inside. She fetched a fifty-liter plastic drum and fixed the machine’s hose into its opening, then gestured for the man to proceed.

Clearly at home with the process, the man donned a bloodstained raincoat, raised the iron bed’s side panels, fastening them securely, and pulled out a chainsaw from beneath the bed. Carefully oiling the chain, he started the saw. Under the captive’s wide, terrified eyes, he brought the blade to the man’s waist.

The chainsaw was old, its blade constantly jamming. He had to stop, re-oil, and resume the grisly work, following the incision across the waist. The chain spun, flinging blood and flesh; viscera spilled from the chest cavity. The man in the white suit convulsed, blood seeping from his taped mouth, his terror fading into despair.

When the cutting was done, the woman sealed the lower half of the body in a bag for storage, then helped him lift the upper half and the viscera-laden tray, dumping it all into the iron box.

She waved him aside, closed the lid, hit the switch, and the rotary blades inside began their gruesome work.

She fetched a bucket of thick black liquid from storage, poured it into a funnel atop the machine, and let everything churn for over ten minutes. Then she shut off the machine, opened a valve, and the synthesized liquid flowed steadily through a hose into the plastic drum.

...

A few minutes later, carrying the drum, he returned to the trading hall, found his car, and siphoned fuel into the tank, dividing the rest into smaller containers for the trunk.

It was nearly evening. As he sped off, hunger gnawed at his belly. Calculating the remaining distance to the transfer station, he found he had time to spare and strolled leisurely toward the dining hall, rubbing his stomach and sizing up the diners, hoping to spot an easy mark.

Those gathered here were mostly either race contestants or the peculiar, ruthless outlaws who lived in the lower city—men and women, young and old, all equally hard to judge. The Orange-Red Hall, a landmark communal fortress of the northwest lower city, was renowned for its overwhelming firepower and strictly fair, safe trading. Even West Tyrant Gale, the so-called emperor of the city’s western slums, minded his manners and obeyed the rules here.

Apart from his formidable car, the man in the floral shirt was penniless. The unlucky man in the white suit had been a racer he’d ambushed just before reaching the hall. Without that, he’d have had nothing—not even a drink of water, let alone so much composite human oil.

The Orange-Red Hall offered simple meals to passing vagrants, but everything still operated on barter—even the humblest offal soup required something of equivalent value in exchange.

As for what “equivalent” meant, that was up to the trader.

Starving and unwilling to eat another compressed ration from his car, the man in the floral shirt shamelessly approached the food counter. “What can I get for a five-liter drum of composite oil?”

The obese chef behind the window shook his head.

“Come on, cut me a break. Or I can swap some compressed rations—just want a hot meal,” he pleaded, bowing and scraping, but the chef ignored him.

“Next!” the chef barked, waving his ladle to shoo him aside.

He stepped away, and a short-haired woman behind him took out a nearly new radio transceiver from her backpack.

The chef examined it, brow furrowed. “Got a base station? Or a signal tower?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head, and handed over a night-vision device.

Both the chef and the man in the floral shirt arched their brows, glancing at her with renewed interest.

“What do you want to eat?” the chef asked, smiling at last.

“Clean water. Meat,” the short-haired woman replied, licking her lips.

...

She took her tray to a quiet corner, poured the small bucket of water into her canteen, then tore open the steaming roast chicken and devoured it greedily.

The man in the floral shirt sidled over, sat across from her, and eyed the chicken hungrily, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

She shot him a fierce glare and kept gnawing on a wing.

“Er… are you a race contestant, or do you live in the lower city?” he ventured, sniffing as the aroma of chicken made his stomach cramp.

She ignored him, as if he were invisible.

He forced a laugh, gesturing to the chicken. “You gonna finish all that? Food spoils fast in this heat.”

“Get lost,” she retorted, swallowing a mouthful of meat and washing it down with water. “Stay away from me.”

He grimaced, glanced around, and, not daring to try anything openly in the Orange-Red Hall, moved to another table to watch her from a distance.

She seemed ravenous; half the chicken vanished in moments.

“Burp—” She belched, licked the grease from her fingers, then her expression shifted. Frowning, she began muttering to herself.

He watched with interest, suspecting she was insane, and sidled closer, eavesdropping as she spoke to no one in particular.

“…My God… you’ve finally shown up… I thought you were dead… I came to find you… got locked up… I’m in the Orange-Red Hall…”

Her words were disjointed, like someone on a call, her expression flitting between tension and relief—truly odd.

As she frowned and muttered, her attention elsewhere, the man in the floral shirt stealthily reached for the half-eaten chicken.

Thunk!

“Aaagh!”

With a dull thud and a scream, his hand was pinned to the table by a gleaming tactical knife.

Jin Ling yanked out the blade, slid it back into her belt, wrapped the chicken in oil paper, stuffed it in her backpack, and strode away.