funbook-pk Chapter 89 Planned Economy in the Name of the Lord
Chapter 89 Planned Economy in the Name of the Lord
Chapter 89 Planned Economy in the Name of the Lord
Jerry Snow was having breakfast when he heard the knock on the door.
Breakfast consisted of a hard piece of bread and half a can of beans, which had cooled down and were covered with a layer of oil.
He put down his spoon, walked to the door, and looked out through the peephole.
There were two people standing outside.
They were all wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying rifles.
One of them was older, about forty years old, with signs of wind and sand on his face.
Another young man was holding a hardcover notebook and a pen.
Jerry opened the door.
"Jerry Snow?"
The older one asked, his voice flat.
"Yes."
"The saint has something to say to us in the central square. Now."
"Now?"
"Now."
Jerry glanced into the room.
The bread was still on the table, and the bean jar was open.
"Do I need to change my clothes?"
"No need. Just showing up is enough."
After the older man finished speaking, he turned and walked towards the house next door.
The young man scribbled something on the paper and followed.
Jerry closed the door and stood leaning against it for a few seconds.
He was 41 years old and originally worked as a clerk in the planning department under the city hall, responsible for organizing files.
Last November, Noah AI optimized the municipal document system, and his position was eliminated.
After that, I found a temporary job at the port, moving goods. The salary was half of what I used to be, but it was enough to make a living.
He heard about what happened in the northern river port town and learned that a man named Carl Jensen was recruiting soldiers.
But he didn't go.
Firstly, I felt it was unreliable; secondly, although working at the port was tiring, at least it was stable.
Then fighting broke out in Detroit.
The gunfire continued for two days.
He hid in his apartment, drew the curtains, and lived off the canned food and water he had stockpiled.
Occasionally, peeking out of the window, I could see convoys driving by on the street, with guns mounted on the vehicles.
This morning, he prepared to go to work as usual.
When we arrived at the port, we found that the gate was closed.
A handwritten notice was posted at the entrance: Effective immediately, the port will be taken over by the New Canaan Management Committee, and all personnel must re-register and await assignment.
The person knocking on the door has arrived.
Jerry looked down at his clothes:
The jeans were faded from washing, and the gray knit sweater had slightly pilling sleeves.
Go out.
There weren't many people on the street.
Occasionally, vehicles would drive by, mostly pickup trucks or military trucks, with armed men sitting inside.
Most of the shops along the road were closed, and a few had broken windows, making them dark inside.
When we arrived at the central square, a large crowd had already gathered there.
A simple wooden platform was set up in the center of the square, and Carl Jensen stood on it.
He was wearing that olive green shirt, sleeves rolled up, and holding something in his hand.
Behind the wooden platform stood a huge wooden cross, which looked newly made.
There was a pile of things under the cross.
His pupils contracted slightly.
It's a Gundam, a Gundam stacked in a cross shape.
Jerry stood at the edge of the crowd.
Most of the people around him were white, dressed casually, some looking like factory workers and others like small shop owners.
Everyone remained silent; no one spoke or whispered.
He looked towards the front row of the crowd.
There were more than twenty people standing there, all wearing the same dark jackets and standing straight.
They both had something on the back of their hands, which was hard to see from a distance, but Jerry guessed it was a cross scar, as he had also watched the live stream.
Behind them were even more armed men, at least one or two thousand, lined up in square formations, with strict discipline.
Most of these people were young and middle-aged, with serious expressions and a unified, sharp look in their eyes.
Jerry looked away and down at the tips of his shoes.
On the wooden platform, Karl raised his hand.
The crowd quieted down.
"The flesh and blood of capital, which had occupied this place, defied the Lord's will, and hindered the path of redemption, has been purged!"
His voice, amplified by a loudspeaker, echoed across the square.
"From this moment forward, this is the Lord's domain. Everything belongs to the Lord, and all arrangements are ordained by the Lord!"
He turned around and took the torch from someone next to him.
Reaching the cross, they threw the torch onto the pile of Gundams.
Alcohol had clearly been poured on the Gundam, and flames shot up with a roar, burning fiercely.
Black smoke rose, carrying the sweet, cloying smell of burning protein.
Jerry smelled the odor and his stomach churned.
He covered his mouth, holding back from vomiting.
The people around them weren't much better off.
Some turned their faces away, some closed their eyes, and some prayed quietly.
The flames crackled.
Karl stood by the fire, his face illuminated by the flames, half in light and half in shadow.
"Everyone, listen carefully."
He turned around and faced the crowd.
"Starting today, Detroit will be rationed."
"Food, water, medicine, and fuel were all distributed by the committee."
"Everyone must register at the designated location and receive an identification card."
"Those without a license are considered hostile individuals."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.
"Those who are capable of working must work. Work will be assigned by the committee. Those who refuse to work will not be allocated food."
"Those who possess weapons or supplies, or spread rumors or incite confrontation, shall be executed."
"Everything is for the Lord's will, for the path of redemption."
After he finished speaking, he turned around and walked off the wooden platform.
Several people wearing jackets stepped forward and began directing the crowd to line up and head to the registration point.
The armed soldiers dispersed to maintain order.
Jerry moved with the group.
His mind went blank.
That evening, in the temporary command room underground in the city hall.
Carl looked at the map on the wall.
Detroit was worse than he had anticipated.
The industrial base is still there, but most factories have either been emptied or their equipment is outdated.
The stock of raw materials is low, and the fuel supply is only enough for two weeks.
Food is even more troublesome.
The city originally relied on external inputs, but now the logistics have been cut off.
Local farms have limited production, and winter is approaching.
James Jones stood to the side, holding the list he had just compiled.
"In terms of weaponry, we captured approximately two thousand guns, three hundred thousand rounds of ammunition, four heavy machine guns, and ten rocket launchers. However, our ammunition reserves are limited, enough to support at most a medium-sized battle."
"What about the food?"
"Based on the minimum ration, it's enough to feed the city's current population for twenty days. But we are continuing to recruit more people, so the number will increase."
"Medical supplies?"
"There's a shortage. There aren't enough antibiotics; all that damn stuff just got taken away."
Karl remained silent.
He walked to the window.
"Lord,"
He said in a low voice, "In your name, I hope you won't blame me."
Then he turned to James and said, "The car factory is turning to gun manufacturing."
"The foundry is being transformed into a bullet production line."
"Let's see if the chemical plant can produce explosives."
"In agriculture, all vacant land, including parks and golf courses, will be converted into farmland."
"Time is tight."
Carl said, "What we need are survivors and usable supplies."
"Minimum self-sufficiency must be achieved until external supplies are restored."
"clear."
"Also, the port needs to be restored to operation as soon as possible. We need to get supplies from Canada on the other side of the lake, even if we have to steal them."
"There might be troops in Canada."
"Then let's fight."
Carl said, "We have no choice."
James nodded and left the room.
Carl stood alone, looking at the cross on the wall.
The scar on the back of my hand felt slightly warm.
He knew what he was doing.
"Lord, guide me."
Then he opened his eyes, his gaze returning to its icy coldness.
He walked back to his desk and began reviewing the next document.
Outside the window, the night in Detroit is quiet.
Only from the direction of the distant labor camp could one faintly hear the sound of hammers striking.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Regular, consistent, like a heartbeat.
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