Zihao’s car glided along the pristine roads of Hong Kong, a beacon of opulence and modernity. As he sank into the plush embrace of his reclined seat, his gaze wandered over the sleek console that surrounded him. He sometimes forgot how lucky they were to have such a small population. Some of the places he saw on the news, like the North Indian Cultura Sphere of United Bharat, had unfathomably dense populaces.
Imagine being late home because there are too many people in your city. No job is ever worth commuting longer than 20 minutes.
It was a grim prospect and a far cry from the streamlined efficiency that defined Hong Kong. With a sigh of relief, Zihao closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the car’s smooth motion.
‘… In 200 metres, Kowloon Bridge.’
The digitised voice of the car’s internal navigation system brought him back to the land of the living.
Zihao gave a contented sigh as the majestic white arches materialised at the lower edge of his car’s windshield. An architectural marvel, the bridge was always the highlight of his journey home.
A mere hundred metres below the bridge flowed the iconic Kowloon River, a mighty man-made watercourse that branched into a labyrinthine network of creeks and streams, meandering through the nation to meet up with the ocean at the border. The citizens of Hong Kong rarely glimpsed the ocean because of the immense, impenetrable flood walls that lined the shoreline borders. These infamous walls were legendary among the few remaining coastal cities around the world.
Beyond the walls was the mysterious ocean, its expanses now owned and exploited for resource farming by private corporations. This vast swathe of the planet remained shrouded in mystery to the billions of laypeople worldwide. It was so secluded that even during inter-country flights, the pervasive low-lying smog emanating from the ocean mining rigs blurred the distances between nations and prevented any glimpse of the ocean through the plane’s windows.
As Zihao’s car approached the mouth of the bridge, he looked to his right and saw the gentle stream of Kowloon River flow out under the bridge. He lowered his window and inhaled the earthy aroma of the river. In a city often devoid of natural smells, this part of Kowloon offered a rare, almost mystical encounter with the planet’s raw fragrance.
Hong Kong’s eccentric architecture was a sprawling canvas of abstract artistry: upside-down fountains, walkways that defied gravity, skyscrapers resembling hanging gardens rather than buildings where people worked, and entire gated suburbs of such complex verticality that often left many foreigners speechless. However, with such advanced urban design came the smells of sterility and safety.
Zihao watched families enjoying an afternoon by the river, a rare glimpse of community in the city. This comforting scene was a tonic compared to his current life of office work and mindless browsing through furniture catalogues at home. It was almost like fantasy from books and movies.
Wanting to see the other side of the river, Zihao righted his seat and peered through the left window. He anticipated the familiar sparkling azure currents and children laughing as they frolicked in the shallows with their trousers rolled up to their knees.
However, the images he saw as he passed between arches of the bridge was so inconsistent with his expectations that it seized his breath and held it captive.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Zihao tapped the brake in the footwell to disengage the car’s autonomous driving mode and slowed down, craning his neck to the right for a better look.
In a heartbeat, his car slammed into the one ahead, snapping his head toward the dashboard. Green airbags exploded, cushioning the impact before deflating, which allowed him to see out the windshield. Despite the bite of the seatbelt across his chest, Zihao couldn’t tear his gaze from the water – or what seemed to be in it.
No… what in the world is—
Smash! Another car rammed into him from behind, whipping his head forward with a violent jolt. Now without inflated airbags, pain exploded in his neck and skull, raw panic surging through him. He groped for the door’s release and tried to roll out, but he’d forgotten he was still bound by his seatbelt. He hung half inside and outside the car door like a tangled, stringed puppet.
Shit, what’s going on?
Zihao wriggled and clawed at the seatbelt’s release. Finally, it gave way and deposited him onto the asphalt in a disoriented heap. The biting wind atop the heights of the bridge lashed against his skin, and he felt warm blood snake down his forehead.
Staggering to his feet, his hand cradling his head, Zihao cast his gaze upwards. The sky, once a calm blue, now swarmed with drones and helicopters, a sudden onslaught of mechanical vultures descending upon the chaos below.
Huh? They weren’t there before…
Zihao wasn’t alone in his confusion. Vehicles lay abandoned in a chaotic sprawl, their occupants spilling out. Faces painted with a mix of anger, confusion and pain converged around him, drawn to the bridge’s right edge. Hundreds were already huddling along that stretch of the bridge, peering over the railing, their screams and sobs becoming Zihao’s new reality.
What did I see earlier in the river?
Despite his disorientation, Zihao also edged forward to the railing and inserted himself into a small gap between two whimpering onlookers.
Thousands of corpses floated where the river water should have been – a grotesque valley of decay and rot. Not a metre of the water was visible between the countless bodies in varying stages of decomposition: some were browned and leathery, still with the mark of flesh and even distinguishable faces, while others were nothing but hollow skeletons.
Overwhelmed by nausea, Zihao vomited over the railing. Then the disgusting sight of his stomach’s contents splattering on the drifting corpses below triggered further waves of sickness. Buffeted by winds on the bridge, he continued to retch until there was nothing left but stomach acid.
As the initial shock waned, Zihao became aware of his own physicality – the light-headedness that threatened to topple him over and the tightening constriction in his throat. The air around him transformed, no longer bearing the stench of death but carrying an indescribable aroma that made his eyes and nose stream.
How long had passed since he crashed? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?
He used his sleeve to clear his vision. Down below, another macabre audience had congregated along the riverbanks, their faces twisted in horror, while figures swathed in yellow hazmat suits mingled with stern-faced soldiers donning protective masks.
Suddenly, a black-gloved hand yanked Zihao from his trance. Turning him around was a figure in one of those yellow suits, his voice muffled yet tinged with an authoritative edge. ‘Sir, you are at risk. Please walk towards the end of the bridge and board the bus!’
Before Zihao could muster a response, the man in the hazmat shoved him forward, leaving no room for hesitation.
Are those real corpses? Where are they from? Shit, it’s getting hard to breathe. Just breathe, Zihao, fucking breathe!
People were being pushed into single and double files by the hazmat brigade, who had swarmed the area with an alarming speed. Zihao touched his forehead, finding the blood had stopped flowing, yet a fiery heat radiated from his skin.
A terrifying thought tightened his already constricted throat. The pervasive smell that stung his nostrils and eyes, the fever that was taking hold, the sudden appearance of the hazmats and the soldiers in full-face masks – they were all pieces of a terrifying puzzle falling into place.
The air itself had turned traitor. He could almost taste the disease in every breath he took.
The landscape of the lone bridge now had the appearance of a militarised zone. Red and yellow tape cordoned off both ends. A fleet of sleek, white, double-decker buses at the far end awaited him. Grim-faced soldiers herded him and other dazed citizens towards the vehicles.
