mijobooks Chapter 64 I Can't Do Anything
Chapter 64 I Can't Do Anything
North suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio.
Brian Christie sat at the kitchen table, looking at the computer screen.
The screen displays the login page for the company's internal system.
Username, password, click. A red pop-up window appears: "Account is disabled. Please contact Human Resources if you have any questions."
He lit a cigarette.
The sky outside the window was grayish-yellow.
It has been three months since that train carrying a large amount of unknown chemicals derailed in eastern Palestine, and the government has opted for the cheapest method of incineration to destroy it.
Flames shot into the sky, and black smoke billowed like a mushroom cloud.
There's always a cloying, pungent plastic smell in the air mixed with some nauseating odors. The authorities say it's safe, but my neighbor's dog died last week.
Brian took a sip of the holy blood.
Five cents of holy blood, a product from the basement of a local church.
The phone was lit up next to the computer.
The live stream ended two hours ago.
Carl Jensen's face is frozen in that last shot: kneeling, head tilted back, palms facing the sky.
The comments at the bottom of the screen are still scrolling, dozens per second.
Brian closed the page.
He glanced at the calendar on the wall.
There's still one installment left on my mortgage; the bank sent me a letter last week.
My car loan is due next month.
I still have to pay back the student loans I took out to study chemistry during my golden years.
The kitchen door opened.
Kyle, the son, walked in.
He was twenty-two years old, half a head taller than Brian, wearing a black hoodie and faded jeans with white knees.
He was carrying a military canvas bag, the opening of which was not closed tightly, revealing half of the rifle butt.
"Dad."
Kyle said.
Brian looked up.
My son wasn't even allowed to smoke when he was little.
But to pay for his tuition, he joined the army at eighteen and was sent to Afghanistan for several years.
Things changed when I came back.
He became agitated and strange, and a skull tattoo appeared on his right arm.
And there's always a nauseatingly sweet taste in my mouth, the taste of leaves.
After being discharged from the military, he didn't look for a job and went straight into the "Crusader Brotherhood," a local white gang.
"Why are you back?"
Brian said.
"Did you watch the live stream?"
Kyle placed the canvas bag on the ground, making a soft metallic clanging sound.
"I've seen it."
"I'm going to Michigan."
Kyle said,
Are you going or not? Mom's already dead anyway.
Kyle is still traditional at heart, which is also related to the fact that he left home at the age of eighteen.
Brian didn't answer immediately.
He picked up his phone, opened the banking app, and saw that his balance was very small.
He found the emails; the official termination notice from the HR department lay there, politely worded, citing "business restructuring and automation efficiency optimization."
A sweet, cloying smell wafted in from outside the window.
He recalled that when he first joined the company twenty years ago, the manager patted him on the shoulder and said that if he worked hard, he could work until retirement.
My phone vibrated.
News Push: "Noah Technology announced that its AI administrative assistant has been deployed in 3,000 companies nationwide, and is expected to reduce basic clerical positions by 40%."
Brian extinguished his cigarette.
"Walk."
He said.
He went upstairs and dragged an old suitcase out from under the bed in the bedroom.
Pack in a few clothes, a razor, and an unopened bottle of holy blood.
He took out a metal box from a hidden compartment in the wardrobe. Inside was a .38 revolver with a strong smell of gun oil.
He wiped it off and put it in the inside pocket of his coat.
He then took out a shotgun from the cabinet, loaded it with bullets, and slung it over his shoulder.
Kyle had already started the pickup truck when he went downstairs.
The car is an old Ford, and the exhaust pipe is very loud.
Brian tossed the box into the back seat and got into the passenger seat.
Kyle shifted gears and the car pulled out of the lane.
The streets were not quiet; they weren't the only car out and about.
Two houses away, a Chevrolet SUV drove out of the garage. The driver was a bald middle-aged man, his wife was in the passenger seat, and the back seat was full of luggage.
Across the street, a young man in overalls threw his backpack into a Honda Civic, where three people were already sitting.
At the intersection, four cars merged from different directions.
No one honked their horn, no one waved.
They glanced at each other and then drove toward the entrance to the interstate highway.
Brian rolled down the car window.
The wind blew in, carrying that sweet, cloying smell.
"They're all going to see a doctor."
Kyle said, his eyes fixed ahead.
"sick?"
Brian said.
"Death disease".
Kyle stepped on the gas.
The pickup truck accelerated and drove onto the ramp.
In the rearview mirror, more car lights illuminated the twilight, like a slowly moving ribbon of light heading north, towards Michigan.
In San Diego, California.
Watt Lee pinned his brother to the bathroom floor, pressing his knee against his back, and turned on the faucet with one hand.
Rinse it down with cold water.
The younger brother screamed and struggled, his snot and saliva mixed together and flowed into the drain.
"Spit it out!"
Watt said,
"Spit it all out!"
The younger brother made a gurgling sound in his throat and his body convulsed violently.
Watt turned him over and patted his back. A pool of yellowish-green liquid gushed from his mouth, containing undigested pill fragments.
He turned off the water, panting, and looked at his younger brother lying on the ground, his eyes rolled back, his chest heaving violently.
The phone rang in the living room.
Watt stood up, wiped his hands with a towel, and went to the living room.
The screen displays "Eriks".
"Feed".
"watt."
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded hurried, and there were car horns in the background.
"I'm leaving."
Watt leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor. His younger brother's groans came from the bathroom.
"Walk?"
he asks.
"Go back to China."
Eriks said,
"The consulate has notified me and advised international students to evacuate. I've already bought my ticket and am on my way to the airport now."
Watt remained silent for a few seconds.
He looked towards the bathroom. His younger brother had climbed to the toilet and was trembling while clinging to the toilet seat.
"oh."
Watt said,
"Well... okay. My life isn't as important as my studies."
"yes."
"Eriks said."
There was a faint echo of airport announcements in the background.
"Eriks,"
Watt said,
"I'll treat you to a meal sometime. When I become a doctor..."
A knock came at the door.
It was very heavy; it wasn't a knock, it was a smash.
The door panel vibrated.
Watt stopped and listened to the knocking.
Once, twice, three times.
The rhythm was steady, but with a hint of impatience.
"watt?"
"Erik asked over the phone."
Have a safe journey.
Watt said quickly,
Goodbye, my friend.
He didn't hang up; he put his phone in his pocket, stood up, and walked towards the door.
Through the peephole, he saw three African American men standing outside.
Two were wearing hoodies, and one was wearing a leather jacket.
The man in the leather jacket had a tattoo on his neck, depicting a large foot.
Watt opened the door.
"What is it?"
he asks.
The man in the leather jacket glanced at him, then looked past his shoulder toward the bathroom.
Where is Li?
"I asked the man in the leather jacket."
"He is my younger brother."
Watt said he blocked the door crack with his body.
"What are you trying to do? He's not going anymore, and he won't smoke your stuff anymore."
The man in the black leather jacket smiled.
"Didn't he know he'd joined the Foot Clan?"
He said the voice was very soft.
How dare you say that?
Watt felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.
Eriks isn't dead yet.
"No."
Watt said, his voice beginning to tremble.
"He's my brother. You can't do this."
The man in the leather jacket took a step forward and pushed the door open with his shoulder.
Watt stepped back and bumped into the shoe cabinet.
Even though he was very tall, he never expected such a collision.
Two other men walked in and headed straight for the bathroom.
"Let him go!"
Watt shouted.
The leather jacket pulled something out from the back waist.
Watt saw the reflection in the metal.
"You idiots."
The leather jacket said,
"Breaking the rules comes with consequences..."
The sound was interrupted by a muffled thud.
Watt felt a heavy blow to his chest.
He looked down and saw a small dark spot on his shirt, which quickly expanded and became a wet patch.
He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but only air escaped from his throat.
The second voice.
The third.
Watt slipped and fell to the floor.
His vision began to blur, and he saw the man in the leather jacket walk past him, heading towards the bathroom.
The younger brother's screams came, then turned into pleas for mercy, then into sobs.
The phone in my pocket was still vibrating.
The tremors gradually subsided.
Departure level at San Diego International Airport.
Elix stood in front of the check-in counter, holding his passport and ticket.
The call had been interrupted for five minutes, but he still hadn't put his phone away.
The last sounds I heard are still playing in my ears:
"He's my younger brother..."
"You didn't know he had already joined..."
"...This can't be done!"
Then came a muffled thud.
It felt like a heavy object hitting a thick carpet.
Another sound.
Another sound.
Interspersed with muffled insults, the sound of furniture overturning, and screams, then everything fell silent.
The call was disconnected.
"gentlemen?"
The ground staff behind the counter were watching him.
Eriks looked up and blinked.
He felt a wet patch on his cheek, raised his hand to wipe it, and his fingers were wet.
"Your boarding pass."
The ground staff handed me a card.
Eriks took it and turned away blankly.
An airport announcement blared overhead:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please note. Boarding for flight CX897 to Shanghai is now commenced..."
He walked toward the security checkpoint.
The line was long, with people dragging suitcases, their faces showing either travel fatigue or excitement.
A suffocating feeling enveloped him; he knew what was happening, but there was nothing he could do.