funbook-pk Chapter 4 I have nothing left.
Chapter 4 I have nothing left.
Carl Jensen stood in the center of the living room.
He looked around the house he had lived in for thirteen years: faded wallpaper, a sunken sofa, and a thin layer of dust on the television screen.
Everything still retains traces of life, but life itself is gone.
He went into the bedroom and dragged a heavy military storage box out from under the bed.
The sound of the metal buckle popping open was particularly crisp in the empty room.
Upon opening the box, the weapons were found wrapped in layers of waterproof cloth.
A Remington 870 shotgun with minor scratches on the barrel.
An AR-15 rifle, well maintained.
Two Glock 19 pistols, the serial numbers of which have been worn off.
Each gun comes with two boxes of ammunition.
He laid the weapon flat on the ground and squatted down to inspect the bolt.
The spring's rebound sound was short and clear in the silence.
Then he went into the garage and took out another box.
Inside is a complete set of car repair tools: wrenches, sockets, jacks, air pumps, and jumper pliers.
They're all shiny and glossy.
The new tires in the garage haven't been replaced yet.
He carried the tire to the door, then turned back and took a tin box from the top of the refrigerator.
Open it, and inside is cash.
He counted it: three hundred and fifty-six dollars.
The daughter's Gundam was exchanged for 5,000 yuan, which was used to pay for the son's funeral expenses and the overdue water, electricity and gas bills.
The remaining amount is only enough to fill up the tank a few times and eat a few cheap fast food meals.
As for property tax, it's unnecessary.
He stuffed the money into the inside pocket of his windbreaker and zipped it up.
There aren't many clothes in my wardrobe.
Two thick winter coats, three flannel shirts, and four pairs of work pants.
Summer T-shirts and shorts are layered at the bottom.
He rolled up all his clothes and stuffed them into a military duffel bag.
The pickup truck was parked in front of the house.
This 2008 Ford F-150 has had its engine replaced and ECU tuned, resulting in 30% more horsepower than the original.
The anti-rust paint on the cargo container has started to peel off.
He loaded the tool bag, weapon case, tires, and luggage bag onto the truck one by one, arranging them neatly in the cargo bed.
Cover with a waterproof tarpaulin and secure with elastic cords.
Go back inside to do a final check.
There's a small family photo in the living room cabinet.
The photo was taken twelve years ago. His wife was still alive, his son had just started high school, and his daughter, wearing a floral dress, was laughing with her arms around his neck.
He pulled out the photo, which was the perfect size to fit into the photo slot of the pocket watch.
Open the watch cover, carefully insert the photo, close it, and put it in your breast pocket.
The watch case, pressed against my chest through the fabric, felt a little heavy.
In the deepest part of the bedside table drawer in the master bedroom, he found an envelope.
It was his wife's last letter:
"Karl, don't blame yourself. Take good care of the children."
He folded the letter and placed it together with the negative of the family photo.
The pig-shaped storage jar is still on the bookshelf in my daughter's room.
He shook it, and there was a soft clinking sound of two coins colliding.
Pry open the soft stopper at the bottom of the can and pour out one cent and one five cents.
He held the coin in his palm for a long time before finally putting it in his pocket.
The son's room was the emptier.
There are only a few old clothes left in the closet that I don't want anymore.
There were several deep scratches on the outside of the cabinet door, made by fingernails.
Jason ran his fingertip along the marks, and splinters dug into his skin.
It must have been very painful for them.
He stood at the door of the three rooms and looked through them one by one.
Living room, kitchen, bathroom.
Every corner has been checked.
Nothing was missed.
Or,
Everything worth taking has already been taken.
Then he realized: it was really empty.
Wife, son, daughter.
They all left.
He knelt down, his forehead pressed against the wooden floor.
The cross in his hand was digging into his palm, and the butt of the shotgun was pressed against his lower abdomen.
"Lord, Lord~~~"
With tears in her eyes, she murmured, her whole body trembling.
This 47-year-old veteran, a man who had endured shelling and broken ribs in the desert without shedding a tear, was now crying like a child.
After the crying stopped, he wiped his face and stood up.
I found the real estate agent's phone number in my phone's contacts.
The other party arrived half an hour later, bringing the contract and valuation.
The house was valued at $410,000. After deducting the outstanding loan balance and brokerage fees, the net proceeds were $357,000.
Jason didn't haggle and scribbled his name on the signature page of each page.
The whole process took less than twenty minutes.
As the agent left, he politely said, "Please accept my condolences."
Jensen did not respond.
"Bye now."
Finally, the door was locked, and the key was left in the mailbox.
The pickup truck's engine roared to life.
He sat in the driver's seat, his right hand resting on the black sports bag on the passenger seat.
The bag contained $357,000 in cash.
It is both heavy and light.
As the car drove out of the Dearborn neighborhood, the houses in the rearview mirror grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared around the corner.
He held the steering wheel with one hand and dialed a phone with the other.
"James Jones".
"Sir, this is Carl Jensen."
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.
"Karl. It's been a long time since we last contacted each other."
"I need to buy some goods."
"goods?"
"Military grade. Rifles, ammunition, bulletproof gear. Explosives may also be needed."
A longer silence.
The noise of tires rolling over the road filled the void.
Where are you now?
Jones lowered his voice.
"On the way."
"You know there are risks involved in this kind of thing."
"I know."
Jones sighed. "Eight o'clock tonight, same place. Cash."
"clear."
The phone hangs up.
Jason threw his phone on the seat and stepped on the gas.
The pickup truck sped toward the interstate highway entrance.
At the same time, in the Mexican-American community on the south side of the Riverport district.
Williams Fanta stood on a concrete platform on the second floor of the abandoned warehouse, looking down at the more than twenty gang members gathered below.
Most of them have a "Finney Brotherhood" tattoo on their arms.
A skull is holding a dagger in its mouth, with barbed wire wrapped around its head; it looks like it would be easy to assemble.
"See that?"
Williams pointed to the photo on his phone screen.
The photo was taken in the morning, and the blood-red cross mark on Gundam's face is clearly visible.
"This is a revenge killing. White guys come to our territory and kill people the way we do. They think we're easy to bully."
Scattered curses rose from the audience. Someone spat.
"What did Juan do?"
"He sold medicine to dockworkers so that those poor people could survive a few more days."
"He has a daughter to raise!"
"Do those white guys even care?"
"All they care about is cleaning up the neighborhood so they can expand their marina by another 500 feet!"
The angry mutterings grew louder.
Williams was very satisfied with the result.
The death of one of your underlings is not important; what matters is turning emotions into cohesion.
He continued shouting for another ten minutes, portraying the shooting as a prelude to a racial cleansing.
The people in the audience began to clench their fists.
The speech ended and the crowd dispersed.
Williams stepped down from the platform, while Juan's daughter Maria was still standing at the top of the stairs.
She was fourteen years old, wearing an oversized hoodie, and her eyes were red and swollen.
"Go work as a prostitute."
Williams patted her on the shoulder.
"We'll protect you. It's better than starving to death."
The girl left with her head down.
Williams walked into a compartment deep inside the warehouse.
This used to be an office, but now it's filled with boxes of enhancement agents and weapons.
He had just slumped into the worn-out leather chair when his phone screen lit up.
New email.
From: Tira.
He cursed and swiped his finger across the screen a few times before clicking.
The email body should be no more than one hundred words in English.
But he only recognized a few words: "Friday," "6 p.m.," and "the usual place."
"Damn cops."
Williams convulsed.
He took a plastic medicine bottle out of the side pocket of his backpack, poured out two blue pills, threw them into his mouth, and swallowed them dry.
After waiting for the medicine to take effect for several tens of seconds, he shouted towards the door.
"Genestiger Doug!"
"Get over here!"
Footsteps approached.
A tall, thin young man walked in. He had shoulder-length, straight black hair and a typical Mexican-American face, but his eyes were very light-colored.
"Boss."
"Come quickly and see what this means!"
"Yes."