American Evil God, starting with the American rebel leader raising poisonous insects.

Chapter 130 I Can't Fall!

"Cough~ Cover your mouth."

Connor Smith sat at his workstation, his fingers hovering above the keyboard, the cold light from the screen reflecting off his bluish lower eyelids.

The itch deep in his throat surged up again, and he pursed his lips tightly, forcing the sound back into his chest.

His Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty.

No.

It cannot show any problems.

He was in pain all over his body.

From the back of the neck to the lumbar spine, it felt like countless fine needles were piercing and stirring inside the bone marrow.

My vision would blur every now and then, and the numbers on the reports on the screen would turn into clumps of wriggling gray shadows.

But he dared not blink, much less raise his hand to rub his eyes, because the surveillance camera was pointing directly at this area, and Noah AI's algorithm would capture every "non-productive action".

Yesterday, my colleague Schwarz was flagged by the system as having an "87% chance of diarrhea" because he went to the restroom for the third time during work hours. Half an hour later, the HR department sent him an email:

If a employee is unable to perform their duties due to health reasons, they will be dismissed immediately.

Now, of the more than forty workstations that were originally full in the office, only a dozen or so remain sitting stiffly.

It was so quiet that only the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional click of the keyboard could be heard.

Everyone was like a specimen nailed to a chair.

Connor tasted a metallic rust in his mouth. He swallowed it without making a sound.

The saliva stung as it slid down my throat.

He straightened his back again and focused his gaze on the screen.

We need to do something.

Type a few words.

Even if it's just copying and pasting the same row of data.

But the screen—is moving.

Even though his fingers weren't touching the keyboard, the cursor was jumping around on its own.

The numbers in the table began to distort and rearrange, turning into symbols he couldn't understand. Those symbols were scrolling, faster and faster.

A sudden, loud ringing sound rang in my ears.

It wasn't a sound coming from the outside, but a roar emanating directly from deep within the skull.

It's like countless bees are building a nest in your brain.

He took a deep breath and tried to raise his hand to cover his ears, but his arm was too heavy to lift.

Why—it seems like there's someone next to me?

He used all his strength to roll his eyes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Maria at the next workstation, her head bowed and her shoulders twitching slightly.

The screen in front of her was also rapidly refreshing amidst a jumble of garbled text.

Then Maria leaned forward, her forehead slamming heavily onto the keyboard.

It made a dull "thump" sound.

Connor wanted to stand up.

I want to shout.

But something blocked his throat.

Warm liquid spilled from the corner of his mouth, ran down his chin, and dripped onto the shirt collar.

Looking down, I saw dark red blood dripping onto the F5 key on the keyboard.

so tired.

The thought was terrifyingly clear.

Like the last piece of the puzzle being put back in place.

He stopped trying to resist the downward weight and let his body fall forward.

He slammed his face on the keyboard.

Before his vision went completely black, he heard the same muffled sounds coming from all around him one after another.

Like sacks of grain being thrown on the ground. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then all fell silent.

This situation is happening right now in every part of America.

The White Knight has arrived.

South Texas, the shooting range at the Grand Estate.

boom! boom! boom!

Flames shot from the muzzle of the Barrett M82, and a can of meat two hundred meters away exploded into a paste, with juices and bits of meat splattering onto the earthen slope behind it.

Spelberg Kubrick put down his gun, took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lit it.

The smoke rose slowly in the hot afternoon air.

He was talking to the air.

There should have been someone here to talk to, that exchange student from Seres, who was clear-headed and spoke incisively.

Unfortunately, I returned to China almost half a year ago.

Now, there is no one else in this manor except for the employees and the hidden households.

He took another puff of his cigar and walked back to the shooting platform.

What do you think?

Spelberg stubbed out his cigar on the barrel of the gun with a hiss.

"Why can't I? Why!"

The sound spread across the open field without even an echo.

Even after firing the gun, the fire inside me was still burning.

He walked to the iron cage at the edge of the firing range and dragged out a new can of meat.

The thing had its mouth gagged, and could only make muffled whimpering sounds from its throat.

He grabbed his hair, lifted him up, and then slammed it hard against himself.

Oh my gosh~

But that's not enough.

This one can only howl, unlike the previous one which could speak and beg for mercy.

"Damn it."

He let go, and the can fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Not interesting.

The one that could talk had already been used as a target and destroyed by him. Now, all that's left are defective products that can only howl and can't answer.

Spelberg walked back to the garage.

The tank tracks were still covered in mud from a few days ago, and the graffiti on the side of the turret was painted by himself, depicting a grinning redneck holding a cross and a rifle.

He patted the armor plate, and the metal echoed dully.

He watched videos of redneck speeches and counter-attacks.

He also watched Nargacuga's speech at the White House and the demonstration of miracles.

And then there's that chosen one named Lucien, who caused a catastrophe-like disaster in Utah.

They all received attention.

He, Spelberg Kubrick, a middle-class landowner in Texas with four thousand acres of land, two oil wells, a warehouse of canneries, and a tank, didn't even come close to a miracle.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

He took it out and saw it was a push notification from the local militia channel.

The headline was brief: "Mass fainting incidents occur in Austin, suspected to be a new virus attack."

Below is a ten-second video:

In the lobby of the office building, men in suits lay sprawled out, one of them with blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes open, and his pupils dilated.

Spelberg stared at the screen for a few seconds, then turned it off.

He walked back to the firing range, picked up the Barrett from the ground, pulled the pin, ejected the spent cartridge, and reloaded a bullet.

The crosshairs of the scope swayed in the distance before finally settling on the trunk of a dead tree.

boom.

The tree trunk exploded, leaving a hole the size of a bowl.

"never mind."

He lowered his gun, exhaled the last puff of smoke, and said, "At worst, we'll head south."

There's always business to be done across the Mexican border.

Canned goods or tanks can be exchanged for more tangible things over there: gold, enhancement agents, or a safe escape route.

He is not a fool.

Milk Dragon and Lucien's actions are getting increasingly outrageous, and now this bizarre incident of a collective fainting has occurred.

Texas is a red state, but above the red state is the federal government, and above the federal government are things he can't see.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Hey, old Rex. Yeah, it's me. Get ready, I'm crossing the border in three days. Two trucks, all loaded. Money? Same as always."

After hanging up the phone, he looked up at the sky.

The sky in Texas is always blue, a dazzling, empty blue.

The shouts of workers could be heard in the distance, probably as they were clearing the wreckage from the firing range.

My family members have run away~