OBS Chapter 83 Someone always has to do this kind of thing.
Chapter 83 Someone always has to do this kind of thing.
Chapter 83 Someone always has to do this kind of thing.
Broken glass and documents were scattered on the marble steps of Detroit City Hall.
The wind blew up several pages of budget reports and pasted them onto the rusty railing.
The top management was evacuated last week.
All the cash, encrypted hard drives, and artwork that could be taken were packed into the bulletproof car and the rear luggage rack.
All that remains are expired canned goods, a broken water dispenser, and those group photos framed in gold on the wall.
The situation at the police station is similar.
Seventy percent of police officers submitted their resignations, and the rest were mostly Black, Latino, and other minorities.
They had nowhere to go.
These people are now reinforcing the perimeter of the police station with sandbags and abandoned vehicles, and sparks from welding torches flicker in the twilight.
The northern part of the city, a district controlled by the Red Panther Party.
Alka Punk stood on his rooftop, looking west through binoculars.
The setting sun painted the horizon a rusty color, and several blocks away, plumes of smoke rose, making it unclear whether it was from burning garbage or a firefight.
He was thirty-four years old and had three parallel scars on his left cheek, from when he was seventeen and was cut by glass.
My father died in a gang fight six years ago; the killer was a triad gang from the next block.
The leader, Jeffrey King, shot his father through the heart with an old Colt revolver.
Alka put down his binoculars and went downstairs.
Five core members were sitting in the living room, all inspecting the weapons.
On the table were three AR-15s, several boxes of ammunition, and homemade Molotov cocktails.
"I'm going to the black cab club area."
Alka said.
The room was silent for a second.
"Boss, are you crazy?"
The speaker was a young man named Marcus, who was holding a gun cleaning cloth. "Jeffrey would shoot you the moment he sees you."
"Maybe, but I have to go."
Alka took a revolver from the drawer, checked the cylinder, then unloaded it until only one bullet remained, and tucked the gun into his back waistband.
"I'll go alone. You stay here. If I don't return in two hours, or if you hear gunfire, evacuate to the riverbank warehouse according to the backup plan."
"The backup plan is to wait for death."
Another member whispered.
"Then either wait to die, or find a way to escape."
Alka pushed open the door and stepped into the street.
It was getting dark, and most of the streetlights were not working.
Several young men on lookout squatted at the entrance of the abandoned shop and nodded to him.
He walked across two blocks, the trash and broken glass crunching under his feet.
There was a barbed wire fence at the boundary of the black cab gang's territory, and three people were standing behind it.
Stop.
One of them raised a shotgun.
Alka spread his arms to indicate that he had no weapons.
"I am Alka Punk. I want to see Jeffrey King."
The three looked at each other.
One of them spoke a few words on the walkie-talkie and waited for a reply.
There was static on the walkie-talkie, then a voice said, "Bring him here. Search him."
They searched very carefully and took the revolver that was loaded with one bullet.
"Come with me."
Alka was caught in the middle and walked into the block.
It's more dilapidated here than his place.
Several buildings were burned down to their bare frames, and tires and old refrigerators were piled up on the street.
The black car gang's hideout was an old garage with the roller shutter door half open, and the sound of a diesel generator could be heard coming from inside.
The guards pushed him.
Alka bent down and went inside.
The garage was large, with a pile of iron barrels burning in the middle, and about twenty people standing around it.
Jeffrey King sat on an old sofa behind the fire, holding a bottle of beer.
He was older than Alka remembered, with graying temples, but his eyes remained unchanged, like two obsidian stones.
"Alka Punk"
Jeffrey spoke, his voice flat.
"It's been six years. I didn't expect you to still be alive."
"Yes."
"You've come for revenge?"
"no."
Alka stood there, the firelight dancing on his face.
The people around him all had their hands on their guns.
"Then what are you here for?"
"I want to live."
Jeffrey slowly put down the beer bottle and leaned forward.
What do you mean?
"You didn't leave Detroit with your brothers."
Alka said, "You didn't run away with the money. You stayed here, fortified the stronghold, and stockpiled supplies. This shows that you also want to survive, and you want to lead them to survive."
Jeffrey stared at him for five seconds.
Then he laughed, a short, emotionless laugh.
"What nonsense are you talking about?"
He pulled the Colt revolver from under the sofa cushion, stood up, walked up to Alka, and pressed the muzzle of the gun against Alka's forehead.
The metal is very cool.
Alka didn't move.
"You saw that white man's speech too."
He said, "In the river port town square, those people who were hung up, those people who were burned. I saw it. I don't want my mother to be hung there, I don't want my brothers to be hung there."
There was a faint hissing sound coming from the garage.
The young people turned their faces away.
Black mothers, unlike fathers who have always existed in the form of intangible cultural heritage, possess the greatest maternal love among all ethnic groups.
Perhaps this was artificially selected by humans in order to survive.
Jeffrey didn't move the gun away, but his finger loosened slightly.
"so what."
"We unite."
Al-Ka said, "The Red Panthers, the Black Cars, and other gangs that haven't left. Mexicans, Arabs, everyone."
"We'll all die fighting that white man's army alone. Together, we might survive."
"Maybe?"
"At least there's a chance."
Jeffrey sheathed his gun, but didn't put it down.
"Aren't you afraid of dying? Coming here alone."
"Afraid."
Alka said, "I was terrified. But I was even more afraid that my mother would die."
silence.
The only sounds were the low hum of the generator and the crackling of firewood in the fire.
Jeffrey turned and walked back to the sofa, sat down, and placed the revolver on his lap.
"sit down."
Alka sat down on an overturned oil drum beside the fire.
"joint."
Jeffrey repeated the word, as if savoring its flavor, "How to unite? Who will command? How will supplies be distributed? How will territory be divided?"
"Command can be rotated, or a committee can be formed. Supplies will be allocated proportionally to the number of personnel. Territory—"
Alka shook his head and grinned. "It's pointless. If we lose, all of Detroit is theirs. If we win, we'll talk."
"Do you trust the other gangs?"
"I can't trust them. But I have no choice."
Jeffrey stared at the fire for about a minute.
"The Red Hands gang didn't leave either."
He said, "But their boss is crazy; he almost blew up the meeting room during the last negotiation."
"I'll go talk to them."
"Mexicans are more troublesome. They only care about family and money."
"I'll go too."
Jeffrey looked up at him.
"You will die at their hands."
"possible."
Alka stood up. "But if we don't go, we'll all die. Let's at least try."
He pulled a piece of iron from his pocket, about the size of a palm, with smooth edges and a simple leopard head engraved on it.
Hand it to Jeffrey.
"If I don't come back, this is for you. The Red Panthers recognize this. Take them with you, if possible."
Jeffrey took the piece of metal and held it in his hand, the metal edge digging into his palm.
"Are you going now?"
"Yes. Before it gets completely dark."
Jeffrey nodded to the person next to him.
The man went to the back, brought out a loaded revolver, and handed it to Alka.
"Take it. At least we'll hear a sound."
Alka took it, examined it, and then put it away after removing only one bullet.
"No need for so much. If it fails, I'll take this shot myself."
He turned and walked toward the roller shutter door.
"Alka".
Jeffrey called out to him.
Alka turned around.
Jeffrey stood up, hesitated for a moment, then strode over and gave him a brief, tight hug.
He whispered in Alka's ear, "If you die, I will send all your brothers to their deaths."
"Then I'll try my best not to die."
Alka stepped out of the garage; the sky had already darkened to a deep blue.
The last vestiges of orange-red remained in the western sky.
He pulled his jacket tighter and walked toward the Red Hands gang.
The streets were deserted, the wind whipped up dust, and the setting sun made him appear very red, even though he was dark.