Re: Blood and Iron-Chapter 924: The Post-American World

Gunshots echoed across the cityscape. And yet nobody moved a muscle. The sound was such a common occurrence west of Appalachia that many no longer even seemed to notice.

The city of Detroit had seen better days... and that was abundantly apparent by the utter lack of electricity. Or I should say the current scheduled blackout.

The rusted skeletons of old factories still loomed over the district like monuments to another age. Their smokestacks had not carried smoke for years. Wind whistled through shattered windows and empty loading docks where thousands of men had once worked.

Many post-American cities suffered from similar issues. One could only power their plants if they received an appropriate amount of coal.

And unless their successor state just so happened to have coal in its lands and the ability to mine it. They often relied on long and unstable supply chains.

This city had once been the heart of American prosperity and industry. Now it was just another ghetto.

A couple walked through the streets, ignoring the rush of the local militia as they headed towards the sounds of gunfire with rifles in hand.

Instead, they were focused on the abandoned parking lot in front of them. Well, it wasn’t exactly abandoned, there were just no cars to be found anywhere.

Instead, it had been turned into a local bazaar. Anyone who had anything worth a damn to sell within a ten mile radius would find their way here and try to hawk it, or if they were particularly unlucky barter it for something they needed more.

Makeshift stalls had been built from old doors, wooden crates, and scraps of sheet metal. One man sold jars of cloudy water drawn from the river. Another traded shotgun shells by the handful. Nobody asked questions about where anything came from anymore.

The man whose wife clung tightly to him was dressed in ragged and patchy clothing. No doubt having seen serious and frequent use without replacement. It was clean, but that was the best that most could say.

His wallet was beginning to fall apart, with the leather fraying in several locations. And when he pulled the paper currency out of his hands, the merchant examined it. Inspecting the paper closely for counterfeits.

The face on the paper belonged to some President or another of their specific successor state. They had too many presidents in too few years for people to bother remembering all their names.

When the merchant confirmed the currency was real, he was quick to hand it back.

"Not enough... You need at least two hundred more."

The customer’s wife was quick to bark out in protest the moment she heard this.

"Five hundred? For a damn loaf of bread? It was three hundred just yesterday!"

The merchant, however, did not seem the least bit phased by the comment, but his sympathy seemed to have long since dried up. As his tone was more detached than anything.

"I understand that, but I don’t control the inflation sweetheart. I need to take care of my family just like the rest of you. And that paper is worth less today than it was yesterday. It’s not my fault."

The woman quickly became flustered while her husband tried his best to calm her.

"Honey, it’s not his fault. He’s right, he doesn’t control the currency."

The woman stomped her feet and cursed beneath her breath.

"Fuck... What the hell are those idiots in Lansing doing?"

The merchant interrupted her outburst, making a particularly unhelpful remark.

"Hey if you don’t like it you can always overthrow them. Just like the last group of idiots who tried. Oh, wait... they’re the same idiots in Lansing now... How did that work out?"

She couldn’t even be mad at the man. Because she knew that he too was fed up with the current state, and his comment was just a way to vent his own frustration with the current state of affairs.

Instead, she turned to her husband and began to whisper to him.

"What the hell are we going to do? We can’t afford to pay both our rent and buy a loaf of bread! Not with the way things are headed! How the hell can our money be worth so much less today ,than it was yesterday? It doesn’t make any sense!"

The man grabbed his wife and held her tight. Doing his best to calm her worries.

"It’s going to be okay... We’ll find a way, we always have."

The merchant overheard this and finally sat up straight. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a bit of pity left in his otherwise shriveled up old heart.

"Listen... I shouldn’t be saying this. But I have heard a rumor... I can’t confirm how true it is... But it comes from a trusted source. From what I have been told, the Canadians are recruiting American men into their mounted police. If you spend that money you have there and head north with it, you can apply, and your family will be provided for. But... you’ll have to spend a certain amount of years protecting their border from others like you. I assume you have your identification papers still in order, yes?"

This news caused the wife and husband to stand still as they looked at one another. Silently debating with their eyes whether they should actually latch onto this piece of information.

The merchant didn’t seem interested in whether they followed through. Instead, he went back to his newspaper, reading another headline, only glancing up one last time to let his final thoughts loose.

"You don’t have to decide now... Think about it. But if this news is true, then it just might be the solution to your problems. And if not... I did warn you I can’t verify its authenticity didn’t I? So don’t come back to me looking for trouble, you hear?"

The husband dragged his wife away and thanked the man for the information. All the while the merchant continued to pretend to ignore them.

Once they were out of sight, he reached down below to the wireless telegraph located beneath his stand and sent a message. What it contained, and whom received it? Only he would know.