Chapter 5: The Valley’s Deepest Recess “GODDAMN IT!”
2123 Words
Zhang Chi’s boot slammed against the rust-pocked minibus wheel—a dull metallic thud.
The wheel didn’t budge.
The driver, a gaunt, sun-leathered old man, sucked on a cigarette butt burned to the filter. Without looking up, his voice rasped like gravel: “Kick all you want! Useless! We wait. Rain stops, we go. Heaven decides.”
Rain lashed down as if poured from a ruptured sky, hammering the corroded roof with a furious, clattering roar.
Outside: mountains. Only mountains. Range upon range, shrouded in rain-thick mist, hulking like maddened giants trapped in fog. The road? A joke. A serpentine ribbon of yellow mud clinging to the mountainside, swallowed whole by sludge—vanishing into the downpour.
Zhang Chi hunched in the vehicle’s sole dry corner.
Last night’s lodging: a mildewed county hostel, sheets coarse as sandpaper, stinking of decay. At dawn, he’d reported to the county hospital personnel office, clutching a crumpled transfer letter. Then came the verdict: to Beiling, only this rattletrap bus. Three days between runs. Miss it, wait three more.
Boarding was near-fatal compression. A miasma of stale sweat, cheap smoke, poultry dung, and sour vomit hit him—a physical blow. The bus heaved: villagers with shoulder poles, bamboo baskets, squawking chickens, voices a cacophony of dialects. The floor slick—rainwater or worse.
The journey was torture.
His stomach churned violently.
Acid surged to his throat repeatedly!
Only by digging nails into his palm, summoning a medic’s last shred of will, did he keep from retching.
Worse: the hen-coop woman beside him, waves of chicken feces. Across, a man’s bare feet—stench of three-month rotten fish—nearly finished him.
Endure. Clench teeth. Endure.
He dozed for minutes. THUD! The bus lurched violently. Zhang Chi’s skull cracked against the icy metal window frame. A lump swelled instantly on his temple. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Damn!
Outside, yellow sludge oozed down slopes like vomit. Ahead, a mudslide had severed the road—a solid wall of muck, rocks, and broken branches.
“Finished! Blocked solid! My melon vines’ll die without water!” an old man lamented.
“Goddamn it all! Road crew drop dead?!” another bellowed.
Grumbles swelled.
Zhang Chi checked his phone: 3:00 PM.
Signal? One bar. Flickering. Unstable.
He inhaled deeply. Suppressed the urge to explode the tin can. Calm. Stay calm.
No delays! Monday! Report to the clinic! Late? In this godforsaken hole? Suicide! Proof he deserved Zhou Yating’s heel on his neck!
He scrolled contacts. Found a name: Wang Guodong, Deputy Director, Linshan County Hospital. The old fox owed him favors—Zhang Chi had smoothed messy patient relations for him during city training.
Dialed.
Brrr… Brrr… Brrr…
Endless tones.
Rain intensified.
Answer! ANSWER, damn it!
Zhang Chi’s knuckles whitened on the phone.
Finally—
“Hm? Who’s this?” Wang’s languid, bureaucratic drawl crackled through static.
“Director Wang! Zhang Chi!” Zhang Chi yelled, voice shredded by rain.
“Zhang Chi? Ah! Xiao Zhang!” Wang feigned warmth. “Where are you? Beiling’s rough, but young people must…”
“Director! I’m on the Beiling road!” Zhang Chi cut through the platitudes, urgent. “Mudslide blocked the main route! Bus stuck! I won’t reach town before dark! Miss reporting!”
“Mudslide? Oh dear!” Wang’s faux shock grated. “Natural disaster… Comrade Zhang, I’m helpless, truly…”
“Alternate routes?! Trails! Shortcuts!” Zhang Chi roared, spittle hitting the screen. “Walking! How long?!”
“Walking?!” Wang’s pitch rose, laced with schadenfreude. “Miles! Over two peaks! Old-growth forest, treacherous! Rain-slicked! Night falling… No! Stay put! Safety first!”
Safety first? Damn! Trapped in this stinking tin coffin past midnight?! Wait three days?!
Zhang Chi’s eyes blazed with violence. “I. Arrive. Today.”
“Ai-ya! Comrade Zhang, your impatience…” Wang’s patronizing drawl dissolved into static.
“Hello?! Director! Listen! Any guides… Hello?!” Zhang Chi shouted into the void.
Screech—
Dead air.
The screen greyed out. Zero bars.
“FUCKING HELL!!!” Zhang Chi erupted. His fist smashed the threadbare seatback. Cheap foam sighed.
The hen-coop rattled. Hens squawked in terror.
“What’re you doing?! Scare my hens, you pay!” the woman shrieked.
Zhang Chi whipped around. Bloodshot eyes locked onto her—a feral amalgam of unspent rage from the divorce, Zhou’s humiliation, and the journey’s torment. A beast pushed to madness.
The woman flinched, shrinking back, muttering curses, avoiding his gaze.
The bus hushed. Eyes darted his way.
Zhang Chi dismissed the useless deputy director.
He scanned the passengers—locals, mostly elderly.
“Listen up!” Zhang Chi stood, voice cutting through rain and the engine’s idle whine. “Who knows a shortcut to Beiling Town?! Mountain trails! Bypass the blockage!”
He used his ER command voice—unquestionable.
Silence.
A gaunt man at the back, fiddling with a worn basket, lifted his head. A bamboo hat shadowed his face. Voice rasped: “Know an old hunter’s path. Treacherous. Seldom used.”
“How long?!” Zhang Chi’s gaze snapped to him—hawk-like.
“Fast legs… reach the cliff pass before full dark.” The man’s voice scraped. “See the pass, town’s not far. But this rain… risky.”
Cliff pass before dark! Zhang Chi’s resolve hardened. Better than rotting here!
“Go! Lead! I pay! Two hundred!” Zhang Chi stated the price. Cash ruled here.
Gasps from the elders. Two hundred! A fortune for a county trip!
The hatted man pondered silently. Rain dripped through a roof tear onto his trousers.
“Lead, yes. Pay… at destination.” He stood, shouldering the basket, movements deliberate, mountain-steady. “Path’s bad. Don’t expect carrying.”
“Unnecessary!” Zhang Chi grabbed his suitcase and pack. “Open the door!”
The driver flung his cigarette butt. “Seeking death?! Rain’s torrential! Night coming!”
“OPEN IT!” Zhang Chi roared. His glare paralyzed.
The old man flinched, grudgingly twisting the creaking door handle.
WHOOSH—
Icy, mud-scented storm wind blasted in, scouring the foul air. Passengers shuddered.
Zhang Chi charged out first, luggage shouldered.
“Kid! Courting death?!” someone yelled.
Freezing rain drenched him instantly. Bone-deep chill!
Zhang Chi wiped water from his eyes, squinting. Thick yellow mud sucked at his boots, treacherous.
The hatted man followed, rain sluicing off his hat and straw rain cape. Silent, he pointed uphill to a near-invisible trail choked by ferns and brush, then began climbing.
Zhang Chi gritted his teeth. He hoisted the suitcase onto his shoulder, lashed his pack atop it, clutched the plastic-sealed divorce frame, and plunged into the rain-drenched ancient forest.
The trail was worse than imagined.
Steep!
Slick!
Rocks sheathed in slimy moss—greased underfoot!
Exposed roots like gnarled claws—tripping hazards everywhere!
Rain lashed his face like whips! Eyes stung, barely open!
Zhang Chi clung to his fury—the cuckold’s rage, the kicked-out desperation! Jaw locked, he hauled himself hand-over-fist upward!
The suitcase was a millstone. Shoulder screamed. Mud caked his legs and boots. Numbing cold!
The guide moved with familiar ease, clearing vines or thorns with a bamboo pole. No backward glance. No offer of aid.
Repeatedly, Zhang Chi’s feet slipped. His body lurched downward—heart in throat! Only frantic grabs at thorny vines or jutting roots saved him. Sharp barbs tore his palms and arms. Fiery pain! He didn’t utter a sound. Rose. Kept climbing.
Mountain winds moaned.
Forest thickened.
Light dimmed.
Half an hour felt like eternity.
“Hey! Holding up?” The guide’s shout was muffled by rain. “Rest? Don’t tumble to your death! Keep the money!”
“Shut up! Lead!” Zhang Chi spat rainwater and mud. Lungs burned like torn bellows. But he pushed on!
Stop? Yield to Zhou Yating? To that fat bastard Wang?
See me fail? Never!
Time blurred.
His legs were leaden, numb. Lungs near rupture!
Vision darkened at the edges!
But hate—the world’s betrayal—propelled him!
Near collapse, vision tunneling—
“Here!” The guide halted abruptly.
Zhang Chi gasped, lifting his head with effort.
Ahead—open sky!
Rain eased.
A vast, sloping rock face formed a natural cliff pass.
Below the pass—
Deep in the valley—
A cluster of low, dilapidated structures—matchboxes scattered in mud! Drab! Decayed! Lifeless!
A single wider mud track passed for a street.
A few sickly yellow lights glimmered weakly through the downpour.
The largest building? A shabby courtyard gate out front? A lopsided cross hung askew—paint chipped off one arm like a broken limb!
A pungent stench—poultry dung, livestock waste, rotting earth—surged up the slope on the wind, assaulting Zhang Chi’s nostrils.
This was…
Beiling Town?!
This was the mountain valley’s “Shangri-La”?!
Compared to his imagined backwater clinic… this was a slum magnified! A dump!
The fall?
Hell to its deepest pit!
Bottomless!
SLOSH!
The heavy suitcase finally slipped from Zhang Chi’s shoulder. It crashed into the muddy pass, splattering filth. The frame atop it tumbled, coated in grime.
Zhang Chi ignored it.
He stumbled forward—lunged to the cliff edge! Hands clawed the wet, slippery rock!
Leaned far out!
Stared down!
Eyes bloodshot—a cornered wolf! Fixed on the feeble yellow glow at the valley’s depths!
There!
Beiling Town Clinic?!
The cesspool where he’d plunged from heaven (itself hell)?!
The sole starting point to claw out?!
Rain hammered his face. Icy needles!
The guide stood silently nearby, rain streaming off his hat. Watching.
Zhang Chi heaved for breath! Chest convulsed! Temple veins bulged from exhaustion and suppressed fury!
Seconds ticked.
The crimson rage in his eyes, the feral violence, slowly drowned under the icy deluge. Leaving only a deeper, more terrifying… stillness.
He straightened slowly.
Pulled a half-empty water bottle from his pack’s side. Mud-caked.
He didn’t drink.
Unscrewed the cap.
Poured the cold, murky water over his head!
Washed the glaring mud from his face! Washed away possible weakness! Washed away the last damn illusion!
Water streamed over bloodshot eyes, over tight, cold lips!
“Money.” Zhang Chi discarded the bottle, voice hoarse from the trek, yet devoid of inflection. He pulled two damp hundred-yuan notes from an inner pocket, slapped them onto the wet rock, mud-smeared. He didn’t look at the guide.
Then.
He bent!
Scooped the mud-smeared frame from the sludge!
Wiped it fiercely on his soaked trousers! Cleared the surface filth! Inside—proof of the past’s end!
Carefully, he tucked the frame deep into his pack’s innermost layer!
Next!
He yanked up the mud-plastered suitcase!
The motion still vicious!
Like seizing a mortal enemy!
“Lead! Downhill!” Zhang Chi snarled at the guide, a wounded beast’s final roar in the rain! “To town! The clinic!”
The guide glanced at the muddied bills on the rock. Wordless, he turned toward a steeper, slicker path snaking down into the valley’s heart!
Zhang Chi shouldered the case! Dragging his exhausted, will-propelled body! Step by jarring step! Resolute! Into that stench-filled, dark, decaying valley!
Each step!
Sank into icy mire!
Each step!
A ringing slap across five wasted years!
Each step!
Toward that forgotten, exile-worthy dumping ground—the remotest valley clinic!
Night consumed the land.
Rain-misted valley depths, a few will-o’-the-wisp lanterns flickered, welcoming this “refuse” who’d leapt from urban hell into mountain sludge.
The muddy path ended at two peeling, warped iron gates, hanging askew. A sign swayed in wind and rain:
Linshan County Beiling Town Health Center
The guardhouse was dark. Empty.
Zhang Chi stood in the gate’s muddy puddle, suitcase beside him. Water dripped from hair, chin, onto his mud-caked boots, merging with the murky pool.
He looked up.
Through the downpour, at the battered sign.
His eyes were dark wells.
He raised a hand.
Not to adjust his soaked collar.
He wiped his face—cleared the rain and mud streaks—as if wiping away all excess feeling.
Then.
He drew a deep breath.
Air thick with cold rain and valley rot.
He stepped forward.
No stagger. No drag.
With absolute steadiness, deliberate force—
He drove his boot
Deep into the foul slurry before the gates!
*SQUELCH!*
Mud and nameless debris crushed underfoot!
Filth erupted, splattering his trousers!
The murky reflection showed a face—young, ice-cold, exhausted, etched with indelible ferocity.
Shattered instantly by his stride.
Zhang Chi dragged his lone, battered suitcase! Caked in grime! Without a backward glance! Shouldered through the groaning iron gates!
And strode inside.
- Writer
