sovbooks Chapter 98 Your Excellency, You Should Rest Too
Chapter 98 Your Excellency, You Should Rest Too
Chapter 98 Your Excellency, You Should Rest Too
An abandoned logistics center between Detroit and Riverport has been converted into a temporary hospital.
The warehouse has sufficient ceiling height and a spacious layout.
The area that was originally used to park trucks is now filled with cots and makeshift stretchers. When they are packed together, the gaps between the cots are only enough for one person to pass sideways.
The air was filled with the mixed smells of disinfectant, blood, and sweat.
Carl stood on the metal walkway on the second floor of the warehouse, holding onto the railing.
Below are nearly two thousand wounded.
Most of them are lying down, and a few can sit up.
Groans, coughs, and whispers rose and fell like waves beneath the empty rooftop.
David Miller walked up the stairs.
His right arm was still wrapped in thick bandages, from his shoulder to his fingertips, but it could now hang naturally at his side.
There are still lingering red burn marks on the left side of his face, and he walks with a slight limp in his right leg.
"The statistics have been compiled."
He stood next to Carl and handed him a notebook with stained edges.
"Of those who faced the nuclear explosion directly, 1,472 have completely disappeared."
"In the core area, approximately 31,800 people died instantly due to the high temperature and shock wave."
"More than 54,000 people suffered varying degrees of injury due to collateral damage from building collapses, fires, and debris."
He paused and turned the page.
"Currently, 1,933 seriously injured people are being treated here, while those with moderate and minor injuries are scattered across four other resettlement sites, totaling approximately 30,000."
Carl took the notebook and glanced at the numbers on it.
The handwriting is a bit crooked; it was written by David with his left hand.
"Fortunately, you are alright."
David continued, "Of the twenty-three who were blessed, none of them were seriously injured except me. Three had broken bones, four had moderate burns, and the rest had abrasions or minor radiation burns."
He spoke in a flat tone, but his lips were pursed tightly.
Carl looked at him.
David avoided looking down at his right arm, which was wrapped in bandages.
"I was at a warehouse in the city center, checking the ammunition inventory."
He said in a low voice, "When I heard the explosion—I was stunned for a moment. By the time I reacted, it was too late to evacuate at full speed."
Others are different.
They were all people who had seen life and death.
Battlefields, gang wars, street brawls—that instinct for danger is etched into his bones.
David is not.
He joined the KKK party because "everyone around him was doing it," and followed Carl because "it sounded cool."
He had learned how to fire a gun and knew some tactical terms, but he had only recently witnessed real killing and death.
Carl closed the notebook and handed it back to David.
"David, you should go and rest too."
He patted David on the left shoulder.
Don't put too much strain on your body. Take good care of yourself and recover properly.
David didn't move.
He looked up at Carl.
"My Lord, you should rest now."
He said, his voice a little higher than before, "From the time of the explosion until now, you haven't shut down your powers, right?"
Carl did not answer.
David reached out his left hand and grabbed Carl's wrist.
"I can feel it."
He said in a low voice, "Otherwise, with my Iron-level physique, I couldn't have recovered so quickly. Everyone in the entire hospital can feel it now."
He pointed downwards.
Those wounded soldiers who were still groaning were still breathing.
Those who were completely silent had already been carried out in the first half of the night.
"They are in your field."
David said, "You are supporting them with your own strength."
Karl withdrew his hand.
"They need the light of the Lord."
He turned and walked down the corridor toward the stairs.
"Go and rest, David. That is an order."
David stood there, watching Carl's figure disappear around the corner of the stairs.
Then he looked down at his right arm, which was wrapped in bandages.
His fingers moved slightly beneath the bandage.
It can still move.
He turned around and slowly walked down the stairs.
three days later.
The groans in the makeshift hospital had decreased significantly.
Most of the injured are now able to sit up on their own, and a few have begun to try to get out of bed and walk.
The condition of the seriously injured has stabilized, and there have been no further mass deaths.
The continuous coverage of the Blood Flag Domain forcibly elevated everyone's physical functions to a level close to Bronze.
The fracture healed faster, the burn wounds began to scab over, and even the nausea and fatigue caused by radiation were greatly reduced.
The price was that Carl Jensen finally closed his eyes on the evening of the third day.
He collapsed onto the cot in the command room without even taking off his boots.
His breathing became deep and slow.
I slept until the evening of the next day.
When I woke up, the sky outside the window had already turned a deep blue.
Carl sat up and rubbed his temples.
The mental strain from maintaining this field for three consecutive days has largely dissipated.
He stood up and stretched his shoulders.
My muscles are a little stiff, but it's nothing serious.
He walked out of the room and along the temporary passage outside the warehouse toward the unified canteen.
Everyone he encountered on the road, whether wounded or civilians responsible for logistics, stopped what they were doing when they saw him.
Their gazes turned towards them.
It wasn't the same look in her eyes that was a mixture of fear, curiosity, or observation as before.
It is a unified and direct perspective.
"Saint, sir."
A young man with his arm still in a sling spoke first, his voice soft but clear.
Then came the second, and the third.
"Greetings, Your Excellency Saint."
"grown ups."
The sounds rose and fell.
Carl nodded in response, without stopping.
But he could sense what was in those gazes.
gratitude.
Kindness.
And a suppressed, burning anger.
The canteen was converted from the original staff restaurant. It has a large space with hundreds of long tables.
It was dinner time, and the place was almost full.
The moment Carl stepped through the door, all sound stopped for a second.
Then it quickly quieted down, like the receding tide.
Everyone turned to look at him.
More than two thousand gazes.
Carl walked to the food counter, took two loaves of bread and a plate of stew, and found an empty seat against the wall.
He started eating.
The cafeteria remained quiet.
There were only the slight clinking of cutlery and the occasional low cough.
But everyone was glancing at him out of the corner of their eye.
The oppressive mood accumulated in the air, like the low pressure before a storm.
Carl finished the last bite of bread and pushed the plate away.
He looked up and glanced across the cafeteria.
Then he stood up and walked towards the door.
Halfway there, he stopped and turned to James Jones, who was sitting at the table by the door.
"Jones".
James immediately put down his spoon and stood up.
"exist."
"Let's set up a stage."
Carl said, "Right now. In the open space in front of the warehouse."
James nodded, turned and walked away quickly.
In the cafeteria, someone stood up.
Then came the second, and the third.
Everyone put down their cutlery, stood up, and silently followed Karl out of the canteen and towards the cleared-out area outside the warehouse.
Night is falling.
In the distance, towards Detroit, scattered lights flickered in the darkness.