NABC Will they win in Chapter 47?
Will they win in Chapter 47?
Prussian George sat in the back seat of the car, chewing gum.
Five people were crammed into the carriage. The window was open, and hot air was blowing in, mixed with the smell of diesel exhaust.
He bought the bulletproof vest himself from a secondhand market, and the previous owner's initials were crossed out on the left chest with a black marker.
The socket slot contained two ceramic sockets made by Seres, which cost $2,300 last month.
I paid with my credit card, and it's a 24-month installment plan.
The car bumped along the interstate highway.
Prussia glanced at his phone; there were two unread messages on the screen.
A message from a property management company warns that the property tax forecast for the next quarter is expected to increase by 4.7%.
One notification was from the student loan service provider that automatic deductions had failed due to insufficient account balance.
He turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket.
The chewing gum had lost its flavor and was stuck to my teeth like rubber.
He rolled down the car window and spat out the chewing gum.
The tiny white dot traced an arc in the air and landed in the roadside grass.
The convoy consisted of twelve vehicles, and the people inside were wearing various types of bulletproof vests, but all of them had National Guard armbands strapped to their arms.
Money is calculated per day.
$800 a day, before tax.
If a firefight occurs, an additional subsidy of 300 will be provided.
If there are injuries or fatalities, the compensation will be calculated separately.
Although they usually don't give them.
Prussia calculated that if the mission dragged on for two weeks, he could earn a little over ten thousand.
After deducting taxes, it's about eight thousand.
That's enough to pay next month's mortgage and student loan.
"I hope I haven't miscalculated?"
The two-headed cannibal, who came from a public school of inhuman cruelty, tilted his head.
He then shook off the pointless object and looked out the window.
Another convoy was driving alongside in the adjacent lane.
Five dark green Hummers, each with an M2 heavy machine gun mounted on its roof and dark blast-proof film on the windows.
The vehicles also bore the National Guard logo, but the logos were new and the paint hadn't faded.
The people in the vehicle were dressed in uniform combat gear, complete with helmets, masks, and goggles. They sat upright, with their guns resting horizontally on their laps and their fingers touching the handguards.
Prussia squinted.
He had served in the National Guard in this area for six years and had never seen a force like this before.
When we call up training sessions, it's usually people like him who come.
Supermarket cashier, gas station worker, pizza deliveryman, community college dropout.
Everyone wore their own equipment; some couldn't even afford bulletproof plates, so they stuffed magazines into their vests to make up the difference during training.
The people in those Hummers were different.
They were so well-organized that they didn't look like a militia that had been hastily assembled.
Their movements were synchronized, their eyes were fixed straight ahead, they didn't speak, smoke, or stare blankly out the window.
Prussia recalled the videos he had watched on YouTube.
Some people online say that the upper echelons have long been replaced, and that the current politicians and military leaders are all hypocrites.
He used to laugh it off, but now, staring at those Hummers, his throat feels a little dry.
The convoy turned off the interstate highway and onto county roads.
The road narrowed, with abandoned factories and rusty railway bridges on both sides.
As the car slowed down, dust rose up and stuck to the windows.
In the rearview mirror, an even larger convoy appeared.
Military trucks, wheeled armored vehicles, and M1A2 main battle tanks carried on flatbed trailers.
The tank gun barrel was covered with canvas, but its outline was clearly visible.
At least six vehicles.
The Prussians counted their forces, and including their pickup trucks and Humvees, the total strength exceeded eight hundred men.
The heavy firepower configuration is enough to fight a small war.
According to the briefing, what they were going to deal with was an illegal armed group of religious fanatics who had taken over the town.
The briefing did not specify how many people were on the other side, only noting that they "may possess light weapons and improvised explosive devices."
But Prussia wasn't stupid.
If it were just an ordinary cult, the state government wouldn't have deployed tanks.
He touched the insert plate on his chest.
Manufactured by Seres, the instruction manual states that it can withstand 7.62×39mm steel-core bullets.
I wonder if it can stop a .50 caliber armor-piercing round.
The car jolted again.
The person in the passenger seat woke up; it was Jose, a man in his forties who worked at a car repair shop.
He rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window.
"Are we almost there?"
"Twenty miles to go."
The driver said.
The Latino yawned, pulled an energy bar from his backpack, tore open the packaging, and took a bite.
Have you heard?
He spoke as he chewed.
"The leader on the other side, what's his name, Jason, claims to be a saint."
"I've heard about it."
"Does anyone actually believe that?"
Prussia did not answer.
He opened his phone and tapped on the Musical Notes platform.
Searching for "Karl Jensen" will bring up the first result as the live stream replay.
He clicked on it and switched to the speech segment.
In the video, the man is standing on a high platform, holding a cross in his right hand.
The dark mass of people below the stage shouted in unison, their voices amplified by the microphones, carrying an almost terrifyingly unified sound.
Three thousand people.
Prussia turned off the video and closed his eyes.
"Shit."
In downtown Lansing, three blocks from the State Capitol, in a private room on the second floor of the "Oak Room" restaurant.
The windows face south, and the afternoon sunlight shines in at an angle, cutting out a boundary between light and shadow on the teak floor.
The air conditioner was set very low, and the air smelled of a mixture of lemon detergent and toast.
Howard Fugan sat by the window, holding a crystal glass in his hand.
The cup contained a dark red liquid, as thick as syrup.
He took a small sip, let the liquid linger on the tip of his tongue for two seconds, and then slowly swallowed.
Sweet, with a slightly rusty taste. This year's communion blood source is from Eastern Europe, fourteen years old, a virgin, and her medical report is as clean as a blank sheet of paper.
The phone screen was lit up, frozen on the last frame of that video.
Carl Jensen's face filled the screen, his eyes calm and expressionless.
"That damned scoundrel."
Howard said the voice was soft, like he was talking to himself.
Tom Simpson sat across from him, cutting a steak on his plate with a knife and fork.
The meat is pinkish-white with a fine texture, and the edges are slightly charred.
He cut off a small piece, put it in his mouth, chewed it twenty times, and then swallowed it.
"Without him pulling this stunt,"
Tom wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"We two can't sit here."
He tapped the floor with his fork.
The private rooms on the second floor of the Oak Hall have historically been a place where state legislators and lobbyists discuss matters.
This position used to belong to the Gildi family.
Now that the Gildier family members are either dead or have fled, their seats are vacant and are being quickly divided up by other families, just like the names of the state legislatures.
Both Howard and Tom's families secured a seat in the House of Representatives.
In exchange, they were sent to Michigan ostensibly to "assist in handling the local crisis," but in reality, they were there to take over the political legacy and some of the properties left by the Kirdie family.
"Too,"
Howard put down his glass.
"Otherwise, how could those Gildi people have gotten rid of us? We wouldn't be here."
He looked out the window.
Across the street, in the plaza in front of the state capitol building, a group of college students were marching.
About thirty people, holding rainbow flags and signs, half of them were naked, their skin glistening in the sunlight.
The chants drifted in, but the specific content was unclear; only fragmented words like "rights" and "freedom" could be gleaned.
Huh? Isn't it winter break? Why is there a Pride Month?
Howard's gaze lingered on a tall, blond man for a few seconds.
She has a great figure, well-defined abs, and a waist-to-hip ratio close to the golden ratio.
"That one who's in charge looks good."
He said.
Tom followed his gaze, smiled, and continued cutting the patties without saying anything.
The two ate in silence for a while.
Tom put down his knife and fork, picked up his phone, and opened a file containing a complete background analysis of Carl Jensen: military service record, medical history, credit score, social media footprint, family network...
The end is marked as Noah AI generated.
"Speaking of this so-called saint..."
Tom swipes the screen.
"It can't be true, can it?"
"How is that possible?"
"His resume is as clean as a movie script."
"But that's all."
"Special effects can be added in post-production, and speeches can be written. Those rednecks are easy to incite anyway."
Howard chuckled.
"How can these white men who don't even own farms be worthy of being God's chosen people? How could the Lord possibly choose them as saints? If it were a matter of choosing, it wouldn't be your or my turn."
He was telling the truth.
He doesn't even have a vote in his family's charitable foundation.
Tom closed the report.
So, will they win?
He was asking about military operations.
The state National Guard has assembled and is advancing toward Riverport.
The governor was nominally the commander-in-chief, but the actual command was in the hands of the two of them.
The family's machinations allowed them to accumulate political capital during this suppression of the rebellion.
Howard looked out the window.
As the parade dissipated, the blond boy rolled up the flag and carried it on his shoulder, his back muscles taut and relaxed as he turned around.
"We will win."