Chapter 64: Chapter 63: Preamble, ’If the People Do Not Fear Death, Why Threaten Them With Death?
Date: August 1, 2003
Weather: Overcast
Summer
Prologue: ["Hell on Earth"]
The air here is thick with the smell of disinfectant. Everyone wears a mask and clothes that haven’t been washed in who knows how many days, standing nervously in the hallway.
There is no loud chatter, no boisterous arguments.
Although there are dozens of people in the corridor, it is surprisingly quiet. Only the soft sound of footsteps breaks the silence, offering a small respite from the bone-chilling cold in one’s heart.
It is Heaven, and it is also Hell.
My name is Song Si, and I’m sitting on a public bench in the hospital.
Next to me are a few anxious middle-aged men.
I know they’re just like me.
How are we alike?
We’re all waiting to die.
I’ve been a miner, and I’ve been an electrician, but no matter where I was, I was always like a weed.
I’m like a weed on the roadside. No one cares, no one pays any mind. If I’m an eyesore, if I get in the way of the crops, then I’ll just be uprooted.
But I can’t get in the way of the crops anymore.
Because the weed has withered. Its leaves have turned yellow and dry.
If someone had noticed earlier, had given it a little treatment, this weed might have survived. But it’s too late now. The sickness runs too deep, its roots firmly in the soil.
Who would care about a withered weed on the roadside?
The farmer’s wife carefully tends to the crops that bear grain and bring a harvest, not the weeds whose only purpose is to become fertilizer for the soil.
These people next to me are weeds, too. Withered, yellowing weeds, just like me.
"This can’t be right... How is the money gone already? I just made a payment this morning. How could it be gone so fast..."
a man muttered, clutching a payment notice.
He’s sick. Leukemia. But he’s stopped his own treatment. He knows he’s going to die, so he’s chosen to save his money to treat his daughter’s illness instead.
I know him. He’s the president of the Mutual Aid Association.
And the Mutual Aid Association is just a place where a group of sick people help each other.
But...
It’s nothing more than a way to find some solace, to give ourselves a bit of psychological comfort.
With an illness this severe, no one in this world can guarantee a cure.
Even if there was a place that could cure it...
...it’s not something a weed could ever afford.
Only wheat, sorghum, and rice can.
I understand that. But what I don’t understand is... why can’t we even get what we’re owed?
"What did the court say?"
one sickly-looking man asked another.
"The hearing hasn’t started. We have to wait two more months... What about you?"
"I’m still fighting the lawsuit. Their lawyers are really good. The pro bono lawyer said there’s nothing more he can do..."
the other ailing man said, his face a mask of despair.
I know him. His name is Sun Lai. He doesn’t want anything else. He’s just like me, just like everyone else—he just wants to get back what he’s owed. A sum of money.
He has late-stage lung cancer. It progressed from mid-stage while he was constantly trying to get money from the factory, but he never received a response.
He said he’s at death’s door because of the toxic fumes at the factory. It’s a workplace injury.
The factory said it was due to his own smoking and unhealthy lifestyle. The factory was willing to offer humanitarian aid.
Five hundred yuan in humanitarian aid.
That was when I learned just how cheap humanitarianism could be.
There’s another guy over there with leukemia, also a factory worker. He said his illness was caused by a gas leak at the factory and applied for workplace injury compensation...
He didn’t say what happened.
’But I know. That’s just how the world is.’
’You never get what you deserve, and what you don’t deserve always comes to pass.’
"Why?"
Suddenly, someone uttered a single word.
I looked around, trying to see who had asked, but I couldn’t find anyone. Only then did I realize...
...it was me.
No one answered.
’My thoughts are clear, yet my eyes have turned red. I feel perfectly rational, but my eyes are red. I feel a sense of calm I’ve never known before, yet I can feel an obsession sprouting in my heart.’
I asked again.
"Why?!"
Still, no one answered. Their eyes were red, too, though they didn’t know why.
’But this time, I had an answer.’
’Protests, official channels, begging and scraping... those are paths for ordinary people.’
’I’m not an ordinary person.’
’How can a weed walk the path of an ordinary person?’
’Then again, what power do the rules that bind people have over a weed?’
’So...’
’I have to find another way.’
...
...
This is a chemical plant. A very profitable one, raking in a fortune every day.
The workers put in ten times the effort, and the factory makes ten times the profit, only needing to give them less than a tenth in return.
The boss here is named Zhou Dapeng.
"Brother Peng, what should we do about those people?"
"What people? That bunch of sicklings?"
"Yes. According to regulations, the factory is supposed to provide several hundred thousand yuan in injury compensation..."
"Several hundred thousand? Will that cure them?"
Zhou Dapeng shot back, his face full of displeasure.
The man beside him froze, considered for a moment, then shook his head.
"It won’t."
"Well, there you have it!"
"If it won’t cure them, why give them money? For charity?"
A smile appeared on Zhou Dapeng’s face, a flicker of contempt in his eyes.
"If they can’t be cured, why give them any money? They’re just a bunch of peasants. Giving hundreds of thousands, even millions, to a group of dead men is just throwing it away. Isn’t that a waste?!"
"We’re conserving resources, freeing up medicine for the hospitals, and making a contribution to society!"
"They should be thanking us!"
Zhou Dapeng said matter-of-factly, taking a sip of his tea.
This was what he considered the way to make a fortune.
It was called cutting costs and opening new revenue streams—saving on unnecessary expenses.
He felt that giving hundreds of thousands or millions to a bunch of dead men was a waste. In contrast, he could use it to buy more materials and make a larger profit.
That was a good deal.
As for human lives... could they even be considered human?
"What about the courts?"
the man asked again, hesitating.
"What if they sue us?"
"Sue? Let them sue."
Zhou Dapeng’s face was full of scorn. "A bunch of damn sicklings. Even my dogs eat better than they do. What kind of trouble can they possibly stir up?"
"Let them file a lawsuit. We’ll wait two months. They’ll be too sick to get out of bed. Who’s going to show up in court then?"
"Drag it out for three or five years until they’ve all died from their illnesses. Will there be anyone left to sue me then?!"
The man paused, unable to think of a retort.
After a long moment, he said:
"What about the pollution discharge? Aren’t you afraid the court will rule against you, Brother Peng?"
Zhou Dapeng waved his hand dismissively.
"How much is the fine? Twenty thousand? I’ll make that back in two days!"
"You have to understand... human life is worthless!"
Zhou Dapeng declared.
’A bunch of people as insignificant as weeds, what waves could they possibly make?’
’At most, I’ll just have to give them their money back. I’ll even get to earn a lot of interest in the meantime.’
’And for what? For getting what they were owed in the first place, they’d actually be happy. They’d think they’d won, completely oblivious to the fact... that it was theirs to begin with.’
Zhou Dapeng thought smugly.
...
...
「October 4, 2003. Afternoon.」
Six people broke into Zhou Dapeng’s home. He opened his eyes in terror and saw six demons.
The demons were hideous and terrifying, their bodies barely human, like bloodthirsty beasts.
Scarlet eyes stared at him.
"I was wrong, I was wrong! Don’t kill me! I’ll give you anything you want! Money! I know you need money! I have money, I’ll give you money..."
"I don’t want money anymore."
The six demons, their faces twisted with rage, raised the butcher knives in their hands.
"I want your life!!!"
...
(’Hell on Earth Case’)
(Case closed!)