FYN Chapter 97 Anyone is fine! My son is going to die!
Chapter 97 Anyone is fine! My son is going to die!
Chapter 97 Anyone is fine! My son is going to die!
Alex Aaron was trapped between two collapsed walls.
His right leg was wedged into a gap between bricks below the knee, his body was hanging at a 45-degree angle, his head was down, and his back was against the ruins of another wall.
This posture allows him to see the ground just three meters in front of him.
His eldest son, nine-year-old Mike, was pinned below the chest by a broken concrete beam.
The child was lying face down, with his left arm twisted behind his back at an unnatural angle, and his right hand with fingers spread and fingertips touching the ground, maintaining the posture he was trying to crawl in.
There has been no movement for five minutes.
"Who is it?"
Alex's voice was forced out of his throat, hoarse and laced with blood.
"Holy ones, Lord Mary! Anyone is fine!"
He raised his voice, which triggered a violent coughing fit.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth onto the gravel below.
"My son is dying!!!"
He struggled desperately to twist his trapped right leg.
The skin rubbed against the edge of the bricks, and excruciating pain shot up the spine along the nerves.
But he didn't stop.
He braced his left foot against the wall and struggled forward.
He dug his fingers into the cracks in the ground, dragging himself forward little by little.
The leg bones made a creaking sound as they struggled to bear the weight.
My vision started to go black.
But he looked at Mike.
The blue striped shirt the child was wearing was one he had just bought last week.
It is now covered in dust and dark red stains.
Please—
Alex whispered, tears mingling with the dust on his face.
Then he heard a sound.
It was very soft, like the sound of someone gasping for breath.
"Ah—Dad—Dad—"
Mike's finger twitched.
Immediately afterwards, a faint but clear fluctuation of power emanated from the child.
Alex was stunned.
The next second, the bricks pressing on his legs and the concrete beams pinning Mike down were simultaneously lifted off.
Sunlight pierced through the smoke and dust, shining in.
Carl Jensen stood at the breach, his right hand still in the position of lifting the concrete slab.
His face was covered in sweat and grime, and the sleeve of his olive green shirt was torn at the elbow, revealing the taut muscles on his forearms.
"Ugh!!!"
Alex let out a dissonant cry and used his last bit of strength to pull his leg out of the gap.
The bone may be broken.
But he couldn't care less.
He crawled over on his hands and feet and pounced on Mike's side.
The child's face was deathly pale, and his lips were purple, but his chest was still rising and falling slightly.
"Son—son—"
Alex picked him up, his hands trembling violently.
Carl gestured behind him.
Two blessing men ran over carrying a stretcher.
"Send it out."
Carl said.
Alex clung tightly to Mike as he was being helped onto the stretcher, until someone gently reminded him, "Sir, you need to let go so we can treat the child's injury," at which point he stiffly released his grip.
The stretcher was lifted onto the back of a modified pickup truck.
Seven people were already lying in the carriage; some were groaning, while others were silently staring at the sky.
The car started and bumped along towards the outskirts of the city.
Karl turned and continued toward the next ruin.
Lansing, a private club next to the state capitol building.
Silver candlesticks sat on a long oak table, their candlelight illuminating crystal goblets and porcelain plates.
Anto Powell raised his glass, his face flushed from the alcohol.
"It's safe!"
His voice was loud and clear, echoing in the carpeted private room.
"What saints? Under a nuclear bomb, they're nothing but chickens and dogs!"
Laughter and clinking glasses rang out from the table.
The twelve people sitting around were key members of the Michigan Senate and House of Representatives, as well as representatives from several large families.
Each person had a plate in front of them containing carefully cooked Gundam meat, accompanied by roasted vegetables and creamy mashed potatoes.
The wine was an 1982 Lafite mixed with Saint-Blood; the deep red liquid swirled in the glass.
"Look at them,"
Congressman Gilman took a sip of his drink, a grin spreading across his face. "They're too scared to utter a word now. I think the federal government is just like that, daring to condemn us!"
"condemn?"
Another gray-haired man cut off a piece of steak and put it in his mouth, chewing as he said, "What else can they do besides issue statements?"
"The army is in our hands, the National Guard is in our hands. That clown, Naillong, is probably busy making up stories and shifting blame right now."
The laughter grew louder.
Only the young man sitting at the end of the long table didn't laugh.
He is the representative of the Anna family, 26 years old, and has inherited his father's position for less than half a year.
The food in front of him was barely touched; he simply raised his glass mechanically and echoed the sentiment.
The tactical nuclear bomb was retrieved from a private warehouse managed by the Anna family.
The reason is straightforward:
You're the youngest in your family. You haven't even explained the over-quota violation of chemical raw materials last year. If you don't contribute this time, you won't need to come to the next parliamentary vote.
He remembered that his father was silent for a long time on the phone, and then said, "Here you go."
These people are celebrating their victory here now.
"Those strategists are just sitting around doing nothing."
Powell downed another half-glass of wine, his voice rising even louder, "I said there's no problem, what's wrong with it? Isn't this perfect?"
"Absolutely perfect."
Gilman nodded. "A 50-kiloton tactical nuclear bomb would wipe out the core area. The radioactive fallout would mainly drift towards Canada, having a limited impact on us. As for cleanup? That's a headache for the federal government."
"And the cost is low."
Another legislator interjected, "Compared to sending ground troops into urban warfare, we can save ninety percent in casualties and budget. Efficiency, gentlemen, that's efficiency."
They began to cite historical precedents.
"When was the last time we dropped a nuclear bomb? On that ferocious tiger of East Asia?"
"Haha, two shots went in back then!"
Gilman chimed in, his tone as casual as if recounting a fishing experience, "He knelt down the next day, signed the agreement, like a little kitten."
"This time will be no exception."
Even if they know it's all the same.
Powell concluded by raising a glass, "To efficiency."
"Honor Efficiency!"
The cups clinked together.
The young man from the Anna family also raised his glass, clinked it against his, but didn't drink.
He looked out the window.
Lansing was quiet at night, with only a few streetlights.
One hundred and fifty miles away, Detroit is burning.
He didn't know exactly what happened there.
The report stated that the strike was "precise and highly effective," and included several processed satellite images showing a "significant reduction in heat signature" in the explosion's epicenter.
reduce.
A 50,000-ton yield, a ground explosion, has an effective kill radius of approximately three kilometers.
Temperatures in the core area exceeded one million degrees Celsius, and the shockwave traveled at speeds exceeding one thousand kilometers per hour.
A person exposed to the outdoors will vaporize in one ten-thousandth of a second.
People hiding inside the building may be buried by the collapsing structure or swallowed by the subsequent firestorm.
Even if one survives in the edge area by sheer luck, the radiation dose would be enough to trigger acute radiation sickness within weeks.
He put down his wine glass.
"What's wrong? You don't like this wine?"
Someone nearby noticed his actions.
"No, it's very good."
The young man forced a smile. "I'm just a little tired."
"It's normal to be tired. Everyone's been under a lot of pressure these past few days."
The man patted him on the shoulder, turned around, and joined the discussion again.
The young man lowered his head and looked at the food on his plate.
When the pork chop is cut open, a pinkish cross-section is revealed, with blood seeping into the mashed potatoes.
He suddenly lost his appetite.
The laughter continued inside the private room.
Some people began to propose the next steps:
Should we add another one to make sure it's "completely cleaned up"?
Some objected, saying the cost was too high and that international pressure would be even greater.
"public opinion?"
Powell scoffed, "By the time they finish their argument, we'll have already taken back the entire industrial belt on the east shore of Lake Michigan. Then, with real power in hand, who will care about a few criticisms?"
The sounds of arguing mingled with the clinking of glasses, drifting in the candlelight.
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