FYN Chapter 63 Holy Communion: The First Supper
Chapter 63 Holy Communion: The First Supper
As Brigadier General Charles Macado's Hummer turned onto the main street of River Harbor, its tires lurched over chunks of concrete.
He is 42 years old this year, nine years younger than James Jones.
The two men were only one rank apart in their military ranks, but they lived in different worlds.
Colonels and below play Battlefield, dealing with real guns and mud. Brigadier Generals and above play Red Alert, focusing on map reading, resource management, and political maneuvering.
Now he has come in person.
A truckload of weapons, four men, drove for three and a half hours from Lansing.
The car was parked at the entrance of town.
Charles got out of the car.
The air smelled of burnt protein and lime powder.
The road surface was full of potholes, and the craters left by artillery shells were hastily filled with gravel, making it somewhat soft to walk on.
Most of the buildings on both sides were damaged, with half of the brick walls collapsed, exposing the twisted steel bars inside. But there were people moving around in each building, clearing away the broken bricks, moving timber, and occasionally catching a glimpse of rifle barrels leaning against the walls.
A long-lost feeling washed over me.
It was neither the tension of a battlefield nor the routine of a drill.
It's something from even earlier, something I saw twenty years ago in the recruit camp when I first joined the army. It was that kind of pure, almost obtuse focus, with only the task at hand in their eyes, without doubt or hesitation.
It seems they genuinely believe they are building something.
"Brigadier General Charles."
The sound came from the left.
James Jones stood in front of a half-collapsed warehouse, wearing an old combat uniform but without a military cap.
"You've arrived."
Charles nodded:
"Colonel James."
He signaled to his men to stop the car.
The parking lot was a temporary, leveled dirt field, filled with various vehicles: cars, vans, trucks, and several military vehicles like his.
Most of the car tires were flattened, indicating a heavy load.
"There are quite a few people here."
Charles said.
"They're all friends."
James turned around,
"Over here."
The two crossed the square.
The cross I saw in the live stream is still burning.
Now only the skeleton remains, the charred Gundam pieces stuck together, resembling the remains of some giant insect.
The fire had shrunk, leaving only a few dark red embers flickering in the wind.
The smell is strong.
Charles glanced at it.
He did a quick mental calculation: with so many complete Gundams, if handled properly on the black market, they could easily fetch several million US dollars.
Pity.
But he didn't say.
The ceiling of the town hall building's lobby had collapsed halfway, letting sunlight stream in and cutting bright spots into the dusty marble floor.
A few people were already seated around the long table in the conference room.
Charles glanced at it.
He recognized several of the faces from the live stream:
David Miller, young, with a scar on his cheek;
Stephen Taylor, a KKK member, was twirling a military knife in his hand.
Others were unfamiliar, but their clothing and demeanor revealed their social class:
The group included a congressional assistant from Detroit, a local party official from Lansing, representatives from several small churches, and a Catholic priest with a cross around his neck and a tense expression.
There were also military uniforms similar to his.
James led him to the third seat on the left side of the long table.
It is three seats away from the main seat.
Charles sat down.
This position has been calculated.
He used the weapons he brought as leverage, and ignored James's unauthorized use of inventory, to obtain a ticket to the game.
Who says America has no human touch!
Some dogs just don't deserve to be on the table.
The others took their seats one after another.
No one exchanged pleasantries or business cards.
The only sounds in the meeting room were the dragging of chairs and the faint knocking noises from the construction site in the distance.
Stephen Taylor stood up.
"Thank you all for coming to Hegang Town."
He said his voice was dry.
"Time is limited, let's get started."
He sat down.
Carl Jensen, seated at the head of the table, did not rise.
He placed his hands flat on the table, palms up, and the cross-shaped scar was clearly visible in the beam of light streaming in from the hole in the ceiling.
He spoke, his voice not loud, but each word seemed to strike like a hammer blow on concrete:
"The Detroit Foggan family."
pause.
"The Dessie family of Bay City".
Then another pause.
The Lansing-Coldwell family.
He read them aloud one by one.
With each name read aloud, one person at the long table turned pale.
There are seven names in total.
"These families,"
Carl said,
"I have been corrupted by the evils of capital. The eyes the Lord has given me can see. I will surely walk the path of atonement."
He raised his head and glanced at the seven people.
"Please leave."
The meeting room was deathly silent.
The lines of the "Hound Dog" extend through the air, dark red, slender, connecting the people behind each name.
Their crimes weren't just murder and arson, but something more systemic:
Manipulating healthcare pricing, pushing foreclosure clauses, controlling school district funding, and selling Gundam fragments are slowly suffocating thousands of families.
These lines are thicker than Williams Fanta's and deeper than Calvin Kildy's, burrowing like tree roots into the rotten soil of the system.
A man sitting diagonally opposite Charles cleared his throat.
He was the representative of the Ford family, in his fifties, wearing a gray suit, with the kind of smile he had practiced countless times at charity galas.
"Mr. Saint,"
He says,
"We are also the Lord's chosen people. We also want to atone for our sins."
He raised his hand and made a gesture.
The side door of the conference room was pushed open.
Two men with their hands tied behind their backs were brought in.
It's Tom Simpson and Howard Fogan.
Both of them had bruises on their faces and their mouths had been sealed, but their eyes were clear, filled with a clear fear.
"This clash between you and the Lord,"
The Ford representative continued, his voice as gentle as if he were introducing a donation project.
"The culprit has been brought. This is Holy Communion offered to the Lord. You see..."
Tom Simpson's knees began to tremble.
He tried to speak, but only gurgling sounds came from his throat.
Howard closed his eyes, his lips moving silently.
The focus of communion is not necessarily the saint, but definitely the meal.
Carl Jensen looked at the two men.
He thought of his daughter, Erica.
When she was chosen, was she also taken into a room, evaluated like a product on display, and then had her fate decided?
And, Holy Communion?
An indescribable feeling of nausea spread through my body.
He closed his eyes.
One second.
Then he moved his right hand.
The movements were so fast that they were almost invisible.
He pulled the Glock 19X out of the leg sheath, raised it, and pulled the trigger.
boom! boom! boom!
Three gunshots rang out in the conference room, the echoes hitting the walls.
Tom Simpson was shot in the forehead and fell backward.
Howard Fogan's chest was covered in blood.
The Ford representative was still smiling when a bullet pierced his forehead.
The three bodies fell to the ground almost simultaneously.
Blood splattered on the edge of the long table, flowing down the wood grain.
Carl lowered his gun.
A wisp of smoke rose from the muzzle of the gun.
"you,"
He looked at the remaining six family representatives, whose faces were deathly pale.
"He's truly possessed by a demon."
His voice was soft, but every word was like a knife.
"Get out of here. The Lord will not forgive you."
pause.
"I will not stop on my path of atonement."
The six people stood up.
The movements were stiff, and someone knocked over a chair.
No one dared to look at the corpses on the ground, and no one dared to speak.
They walked towards the door one by one, their steps unsteady, as if fleeing a fire scene.
The remaining people in the meeting room did not move.
Brigadier General Charles Macado looked at Carl Jensen.
Watching him calmly put the gun back into his leg sheath, watching the scar on his palm turn slightly red in the light.
"That's insane! I wonder how the general will react if he finds out."
After all, he was just a brigadier general, a representative of the stationed troops in Michigan.