MC Bookstore Chapter 115 The Lord's Grace
Chapter 115 The Lord's Grace
Chapter 115 The Lord's Grace
A section of the cement ground in the river port square was swept away, revealing the frozen soil underneath.
Snowdrifts piled up at the edge of the square, forming irregular white arcs.
The bonfire in the center was piled high, the pine wood crackling, and sparks drifting upwards with the heat, disappearing into the pale blue afternoon sky.
The sound came first.
"—Sing to the Lord with all our hearts, praising His loving-kindness, never to be forgotten—"
The pitch was off and the rhythm was messed up, but the volume was very loud.
More than a hundred white men stood in front of the fire, wearing overalls of various thicknesses and colors, with no songbooks in their hands and their eyes fixed on the flames.
David stood at the front, his back ramrod straight. The burn on his right hand had healed, leaving only a patch of pink new flesh.
He sang the loudest.
A long table was set up behind the crowd.
Three turkeys, their skin roasted to a caramel color, glistening with oil.
Okay, they deliberately added some extra ingredients.
Next to it were large chunks of roasted pork and beef, piled on an iron plate, with the juices seeping out and forming light brown puddles on the table.
There was also mashed potatoes, canned corn, and cranberry sauce salvaged from an old supermarket warehouse.
No one touched the food.
They won't move until they finish singing the last line.
As Carl Jensen walked into the square, the singing had just reached a certain point.
David turned his head, and the expression on his face switched to a kind of almost instinctive respect the moment he saw him.
He stopped singing and took two steps forward.
"Welcome back, Saint."
The voice was kept very low, and only a few people around could hear it.
Carl nodded without saying anything.
His olive green shirt was covered in dust, and there were mud spots on the cuffs.
Over the past four days, he has visited six towns, traveling north from Lansing to Marquette and then back, inspecting each settlement along the newly paved cement road.
Check to see if anyone has frozen to death.
The result gave him a slight sense of relief.
Each white worker was assigned housing, though most were converted old houses with newspapers stuffed in the cracks of the walls, but at least they provided shelter from the wind.
The two-legged sheep lived in shacks made of wooden planks and plastic sheets, huddled together and relying on their body heat for warmth.
Unlike the homeless people before, they weren't all frozen into jerky.
That kind of thing will never happen again.
The song started again, this time a different one.
Karl looked at the crowd in front of the fire.
Men, women, the elderly, and children.
His face was illuminated by the firelight, turning orange-red, his expression relaxed, and the corners of his mouth turned up.
They sang with great passion.
Karl raised his hand and pressed it against his chest.
He could feel his heartbeat through the shirt fabric.
Smooth and powerful.
At the same time, he touched his pocket watch.
He put his hand down and walked towards the wooden platform on the north side of the square.
A dark green canvas was laid on top.
A turkey is placed in the center, with a knife and fork beside it.
Carl walked onto the stage.
The footsteps were very light, but the singing of the crowd gradually subsided, eventually becoming just a few scattered syllables, and then there was complete silence.
Everyone was looking at him.
The wind blew in from the east side of the square, carrying the fishy smell of the river and the smoke of burning pine wood.
The flames tilted to one side, sparks flew out, landed on the snowdrift, and hissed out.
Carl stood in front of the turkey, bowed his head, and held the cross in front of his chest with both hands.
The metal edge dug into my palm.
He closed his eyes.
"Thanks be to God for His grace."
The sound wasn't loud, but everyone in the square could hear it.
Pause for three seconds.
He opened his eyes and picked up the knife.
Cut into the turkey breast, and juices seep out.
Well, Thanksgiving isn't about thanking the Native Americans for helping their ancestors and giving them this land, but rather thanking God for giving them this sacred land flowing with milk and honey through the hands of the Native Americans. "Good!"
Carl raised his head and scanned the entire room.
"The Thanksgiving party is officially underway!"
He shouted that sentence three times.
The first time, facing the people in the square.
He then looked at all the towns in New Canaan outside of Riverport City, each with a bonfire in its center, all waiting for the signal.
The third time, he faced the live stream camera, and the image was transmitted through the internet to everyone watching his live stream and paying attention to everything about New Canaan.
As for what's currently airing on those trending topics, the news headline reads "Divine Punishment" in bold on the White House lawn, and the comments are divided into two camps, spamming each other's screens.
Carl didn't care.
At least for now, I don't care.
He cut off the first piece of turkey and put it on a plate.
Cheers erupted from the audience.
"Oh ho ho ho ho! Saint!"
"Thanks be to God for His blessings!"
"Happy Thanksgiving Day!"
The sound surged up like a tide, crashing against the exterior walls of the buildings surrounding the square, creating echoes.
People started pushing forward, reaching for the food on the table.
The clinking of knives and forks, the passing of plates, and the sounds of laughter and chewing mingled together.
Carl stepped down from the stage and handed the plate to the nearest child.
The boy was about seven or eight years old, with blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles on his face.
He took the plate, said thank you loudly, and then turned and ran towards his mother.
Karl watched him run away, then turned and left the square.
Thirty meters underground.
The concrete walls are 2.7 meters thick, and the door is a hydraulically driven alloy plate with a tightly sealed sealing strip.
The air smelled of ozone and engine oil.
Lien Maison stared at the screen.
The footage is a live broadcast from River Harbour Square, shot from above under the eaves, showing the entire bonfire and the surrounding crowd.
The sound was transmitted through the speakers and was a little distorted, but the rhythm of the cheers was clear.
"Happy Thanksgiving Day!"
Li En shouted back, his voice echoing in the small space.
He sat in a folding chair, with various instruments and indicator lights on the control panel in front of him.
Behind him were five other people, all around his age, over sixty, with mostly white hair, but still clearly defined muscles in their arms.
A body of the Black Iron level.
In front of them were plates of roast pork and mashed potatoes.
The food was passed down from above, packaged in insulated containers, and was still warm when it reached my hands.
"The saint is so kind."
Li En picked up a piece of meat with his fork, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
"The Lord is truly watching over us!"
He spoke very softly, as if talking to himself.
But everyone else heard it and nodded in agreement.
They were once private contractors, employed by different families, responsible for maintaining missile silos hidden deep in the mountains or buried under farms.
The job is simple: keep the system in standby mode, replace aging parts, and test the circuit regularly.
Then one day, the employer disappeared.
They were unclear about the specifics of the process, only knowing that the people who contacted them again were from New Canaan.
The condition is simple: keep working and gain power.
They agreed.
Now they sit in this nuclear air-raid shelter, guarding twelve warheads that are in the disarmed state.
Check temperature, humidity, voltage, and signal links daily. Waiting.
Waiting for the Lord's call.
"yes."
The old man sitting next to Li En spoke, his voice hoarse.
"The Lord's grace is never enough."
He forked the last piece of mashed potato, put it in his mouth, and then licked the fork.
The images on the screen continued. People danced around the bonfire, some raised their glasses, and others carried children on their shoulders.
The firelight shone on every face, making them look warm.
Li En stared at those faces for a long time.
Then he lowered his head and continued eating the meat on his plate.