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

Chapter 132 The Fall of Canada

"How could this happen!"

Marcelo Rebecca Nancy Alson braced her hands on the table, her knuckles turning white.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze shifted back and forth between piles of documents, maps, and live monitoring screens.

The people around him were moving about, wearing white or blue protective suits, the fabric rustling constantly.

Almost everyone was coughing, some with their coughs inside their masks, others coughing out loud, the sounds coming from every corner of the room.

The entire parliament was in chaos.

Or rather, the entire Canadian market is in complete chaos.

"Has the Minister of Health not come to a conclusion yet?"

Nancy raised her head, her voice hoarse.

He coughed as soon as he finished speaking.

First came two light coughs, followed by a series of deep coughs. His chest vibrated violently, and he leaned forward, forcing him to lift his hands off the table to support his knees.

He coughed for about fifteen seconds, the last cough being noticeably wet.

The assistant standing next to him was completely wrapped in a protective suit, with white mist condensed from his breath on his mask.

The assistant waited until he finished coughing before speaking: "Prime Minister, the Minister of Health died at home yesterday."

Nancy straightened up and stared at her assistant.

The face behind the mask is not very clear.

"When did this happen?"

"It was 11 p.m. last night. The family only contacted us this morning. The body has already been handled according to emergency procedures."

1

Nancy coughed twice more, this time covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

He didn't wipe the saliva off the back of his hand.

"Damn America."

He said in a very low voice.

"Damn milk dragon."

He wasn't wearing protective clothing.

He and three senior advisors were the only ones in the entire room who weren't dressed.

It's not that I don't want to wear it, but the intelligence briefing three days ago already made it very clear:

The transmission route is unknown, the incubation period ranges from twelve hours to five days, and the infection rate is close to 100% in enclosed spaces.

The briefing ended with a line in bold: The effectiveness of personal protective equipment has not been verified.

And the timing was wrong.

The virus spread from the south of the border, first through the Seattle-Vancouver corridor, and then through the Toronto-Detroit corridor.

By the time Ottawa received the detailed report, a cluster of cases had already emerged in Montreal.

Data systems between cities are not interconnected, and provincial health departments are still waiting for federal coordination.

By the time the coordination meeting ended, seventy-two hours had passed.

In other words, wearing these protective devices at this point only provides psychological comfort.

Nancy took out a medicine box from her pocket and poured out the last three antibiotics.

He swallowed it dry, the pill stuck in his throat for half a second before sliding down his esophagus.

"Have you made contact with the military?"

he asks.

"We're trying. But the command system is also experiencing a large number of sick leave reports, which is affecting response speed."

The assistant didn't finish speaking.

Nancy coughed again.

This time the cough was even more violent, and he had to grab the edge of the table.

When he coughed for the sixth time, he felt something rise up in his throat, warm and with a rusty taste.

He swallowed it back.

My vision started to shake.

The map on the monitor screen turned into blocks of color, with red areas spreading from the border city inland, like drops of ink in water.

"Your Excellency the Prime Minister!"

The assistant's voice sounded like it was coming from a very far place.

Nancy wanted to speak, but no sound came out.

His knees buckled, and his body fell forward.

His forehead slammed against the table with a dull thud.

With my ear pressed against the solid wood tabletop, I could hear my own coughs coming from deep within my bones—one, two, three.

Then it stopped.

Other sounds continued in the room:

Coughing sounds, keyboard clicks, radio noise.

But after a few seconds, these sounds began to decrease.

First, the young clerk in the corner slipped and fell to the ground, then the security officer standing by the door, and then the Minister of Transport who was on the phone.

The assistant stood there, looking at the spot where the prime minister had fallen.

The white fog on his mask grew thicker and thicker, and his breathing became rapid.

He took off the hood of his protective suit, wanting to take a breath of fresh air.

The first breath I inhaled felt like my trachea was being scraped by sandpaper.

He coughed, then slowly sat down, holding onto the corner of the table and leaning his back against the table leg.

My gaze swept across the room:

Of the seventeen people, four are still standing.

Even those standing were coughing.

Thirty seconds later, only two remained standing.

One minute later, all was quiet.

"It's okay, child. We have the magic cow urine and dexamethasone. You'll be alright."

In the community center of India, a priest stands on a makeshift platform, holding a copper pot.

There were about two hundred people sitting in the audience, men, women, the elderly, and children, crammed on the floor and benches.

The air smelled of spices, but also other smells: sweat, urine, and the smoke of burning herbs.

Almost everyone was trembling.

The priest stepped down from the platform, scooped out a pale yellow liquid from a large plastic bucket, and poured it into rows of small ceramic cups.

Two young men followed behind him, one handing out small blue pills, and the other handing out brown powder in a plastic bag.

"Do it in order."

The priest spoke in a steady voice.

"First drink cow urine, then take medicine, and finally take the enhancer with holy water."

At the very front of the line was a boy who looked to be about ten years old.

The boy took the ceramic cup, looked at the liquid inside, and hesitated for two seconds.

His mother nudged him from behind. The boy closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and finished the drink.

His face contorted in pain, but he didn't spit it out. Then he took the pill and powder, stuffed them into his mouth, and drank the holy water from the cup handed to him by another person.

"Good boy."

The priest patted his head.

The procession moved slowly.

Everyone repeats the same action:

He took the cup, tilted his head back, swallowed the medicine, and drank the holy water.

Some people vomited immediately after drinking it, and what they vomited was a mixture of cow urine and undigested pills.

The people next to him helped pat his back, and after he finished vomiting, he was given another dose.

Someone in the corner suddenly laughed.

"Anaya,"

He said softly, "I think I saw Shiva, and He was waving at me."

His wife hugged him without saying a word.

On the other side, an old man was lying on the ground with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

"priest,"

He said, "I'm not in pain anymore, I can fly."

The priest walked over, knelt down, and touched the old man's forehead.

The temperature is very high.

The old man smiled at him, then closed his eyes.

The groans in the room gradually subsided.

The coughing has also decreased.

Instead, there was a uniform breathing sound, collective, slow and deep.

Occasionally someone will twitch, but the intensity is getting smaller and smaller.

The priest returned to the altar and put down the bronze pot.

He looked at the crowd below the stage.

Everyone was sitting or lying down; no one moved.

Holy water cups were scattered on the ground, some overturned, and the white liquid slowly seeped into the cracks in the floor.

He sat down and took out his share from his pocket:

A small bottle of cow urine, two dexamethasone tablets, and a packet of brown powder.

He placed them in front of him and looked at them for a while.

The sound of an ambulance siren came from outside the window, growing louder and then fading away.

The priest unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

Then swallow the pill and pour the powder into your mouth.

Since there was no holy water, he used the remaining cow urine to send it down.

It has a very strong flavor.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the warmth to spread to his limbs.

Legend has it that the sacred mixture brings purification, opens up the meridians, and allows people to see God.

He waited for three minutes.

Then he started coughing.

It started as a dry cough, followed by a deep cough with phlegm.

He bent over, coughing so hard he curled up.

By the fifth cough, he felt liquid flowing from his nose.

He rubbed it with the back of his hand, leaving red marks.

He raised his head, wanting to take another look at the crowd below the stage.

But the field of vision had already begun to darken.

Finally, the holy water glasses on the floor came into view, the white liquid reflecting slightly in the dim light.

He fell to one side, his head hitting the edge of the table with a dull thud.

There was no other sound in the room.

Only the occasional distant siren, like background noise, comes and goes.