The familiar, oil-stained gate of Wang Jianshe's construction site swung open, and the Wuling Sunshine, its missing windshield a badge of dishonor, nosed through. The hour was just past seven, the last of the day's brutal heat lingering in the concrete and dust. Waiting for them, a beatific smile plastered on his face, stood Boss Wang himself. His eyes swept past Michael, the driver, and locked onto the cargo.
The back of the van was a wall of dark, watchful silence. Ten figures sat shoulder-to-shoulder, their forms rendered monolithic by the gloom. They wore identical, tight-fitting beige undershirts that, in the half-light, seemed to blend with their skin, emphasizing the dense, ropy musculature of their arms and shoulders. They were, to Wang's experienced and covetous eye, a vision of pure, unadulterated labor potential. A symphony of efficient biomass.
"A-Niu! My brother! You're here!" Wang boomed, his enthusiasm several decibels louder than necessary. He gestured grandly towards his site office, a prefab cube shimmering in the heat. "Come, come! Bring your… international colleagues! Tea first! Rest!"
Michael, however, was a man on a mission. The psychic weight of eighty-six gold coins, nestled in his satchel on the passenger seat, pulled at him like a planetary core. Every minute spent here was a minute not spent converting that weight into liquid, spendable security. The only reason he'd hauled these ten of his most reliable (and currently, most bewildered) guards from Cinder Town was supervision. Leaving them alone in a world of roaring machines and impossible abundance was an invitation for a catastrophe that would make the 'ghost rider' incident look like a tea party.
"Skip the tea, Boss Wang," Michael said, his voice flat, cutting through Wang's hospitality. He clambered out, the city's humid night air a slap after the dry oven of the Wasteland. "Let's get to it. Where's the mountain?"
The night that followed was a repeat of the previous performance, elevated to an industrial ballet. Under the stark white glare of halogen work-lights, the ten guards from Cinder Town moved. They did not walk; they flowed from truck to stacking area, towers of red clay bricks growing in their arms as if by magic. The thump-thump-thumpof their burden hitting the ground was a steady, metronomic heartbeat of progress. They worked in a wordless, efficient synchronicity, their enhanced Wasteland physiques—now properly fed and hardened by Michael's regime—making a mockery of the concept of fatigue.
Wang Jianshe watched, and his initial professional satisfaction curdled into something deeper, more possessive. This wasn't just good help; this was perfecthelp. Strong, silent, seemingly indefatigable. His own local crews, good men all, looked like pensioners on a stroll in comparison. A fantasy unfolded in his mind: these men, hismen, with a translator (perhaps this 'Niu' fellow, for a generous salary), forming the core of his operations. The permits, the visas… it could be arranged. For productivity like this, any hurdle could be cleared.
The work, which Wang had budgeted the entire night for, concluded just after 1:00 AM. The site was transformed, orderly stacks of materials marking where chaos had been. Wang felt a thrill that was entirely financial. He needed to cement this relationship. Step one: generosity.
"A-Niu!" he called out, striding over as the men finally paused, their dark skin gleaming with sweat under the lights. "Tell your friends, excellent work! First-class! Supper is on me! Beer! And the main course—" he raised his voice, holding up three thick fingers, and dredged his memory for the appropriate intercultural lexicon, "—HELLO! Threefingers! Big! Fat! Meat! Mmm, delicious! You! Eat! Good!"
The ten guards stared at him, their expressions obscured by the disposable masks Michael had insisted they wear, but their collective bewilderment was a palpable force. They looked at the three upheld fingers, then at Michael.
The 'supper' was served in the site canteen, a cavern of stainless steel and lingering grease. The promised 'three-finger fat meat' was slabs of pork belly, each the size of a man's hand, boiled and glistening. The beer was warm and cheap. Michael picked at some greens, his mind already counting gold coins. His guards, however, fell upon the food with a reverence that bordered on the religious. The rich, unctuous fat, the sheer caloric density of the meat, the strange, bitter fizz of the beer—it was a feast beyond anything in Cinder Town, even on a lord's table. They ate until the platters were clean, until the last bottle was drained, contentment radiating from them in warm, beery waves.
Michael, now twenty-seven thousand three hundred yuan richer (slightly shy of his estimate, but rendered insignificant by the gold in his bag), knew it was time to go. The transaction was complete. He gave Wang a non-committal, "We'll talk," loaded his sated, sleepy crew back into the Wuling, and pulled out onto the access road.
He hadn't gone half a kilometer when headlights flared in his rearview mirror, and a pickup truck accelerated to pull alongside, its horn bleating insistently. Every nerve in Michael's body went wire-taut. His right hand slipped under his loose cotton shirt, his fingers finding the checkered grip of the Beretta 92S tucked into his waistband. The weapon, loaded with precious 9mm rounds from the Hock trade, was his final argument. Bringing it across had been a calculated risk, but moments like this justified it.
The passenger window of the pickup rolled down. The face that peered out wasn't a threat, but a familiar, slightly rat-like one: Zhu Zhixin, Wang Jianshe's brother-in-law and fixer. Michael let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, but kept his hand near the pistol.
"Hey! Handsome! Pull over!" Zhu yelled over the wind.
Michael did, a cold knot of suspicion in his gut. Was it about the workers? Had they been made?
Zhu hopped out of his truck and jogged over, leaning into the Wuling's window. "Listen, I've got a proposal. A business opportunity. Very fashionable." He spoke quickly, his eyes bright. "My wife's grandfather, he passed. The funeral is next week. We want to do it right, you know? Memorable. Classy."
Michael waited, utterly lost.
"You've seen the videos, right? Online. The black uncles! The coffin dancing! It's huge!" Zhu's hands began to gesture, mimicking a rocking motion. "Very powerful! Very respectful! International style!"
The pieces crashed together in Michael's brain with the subtlety of a derailed train. He stared, speechless.
"Your guys!" Zhu pressed on, mistaking silence for negotiation. "They're perfect! Strong! Good rhythm! We show them the video a few times, they learn the steps—easy! One hour of work, at the cemetery. Very solemn, very professional. We pay… one thousand per person! Ten thousand total! Plus a full banquet after! White banquet, best dishes! What do you say?"
In the back of the van, ten of the Wasteland's more capable warriors, men who had faced down Rad-Scorpions and drunk toxic rain, dozed peacefully, bellies full of pork fat, utterly oblivious to the proposal that they become a viral funeral sensation.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in Michael's throat. He fought it down. The image was surreally perfect: his guards, in their matching beige tanks, solemnly executing the 'coffin dance' for a deceased Guangdong grandfather, while a crowd of mourners filmed on their phones. The logistical and existential risks of such a spectacle were beyond calculation.
"No," Michael said, the word final and flat. "Not their… cultural tradition. Sorry for your loss."
Zhu's face fell, the vision of a TikTok-ready funeral fading. "Are you sure? The money is good! They can even do the splits while carrying! It's very impressive!"
"I'm sure," Michael said, restarting the engine. As he pulled away, leaving a disappointed Zhu Zhixin in his dust, the absurdity of the proposition echoed in his mind. The resources of the Wasteland were many, but perhaps its most marketable commodity wasn't gold, or guns, or even canned peaches.
It was, apparently, a potential monopoly on authentic, post-apocalyptic pallbearers.
He shook his head, a grin finally breaking through. He had gold to sell, a town to run, and a growing conviction that the line between interdimensional warlord and viral content provider was thinner, and far weirder, than he'd ever imagined.