Outnumbered? I'll conquer America with an unlimited number of suicide soldiers.

Chapter 77 Re-election

Chinatown.

Despite the news of the plague outbreak in North Beach spreading throughout the city, life here continued as usual.

The streets were still bustling with people, the vegetable stalls were open as usual, and the teahouses were still full of customers drinking tea and chatting.

At most, there are more people at Xinghantang on the street, and hygiene is being strictly enforced.

In addition, each Chinese resident in Chinatown was given a gauze mask, which they were required to wear when going out.

At first, some people found it troublesome and felt suffocated, so they secretly took off their masks to get some fresh air. But Xinghan Hall fined anyone who wasn't wearing a mask fifty cents, so everyone obediently cooperated.

"How's the situation in Beitan?" Zeng Tai asked casually, picking up a piece of cured meat and putting it in his mouth.

The cured pork was the one he smoked himself; it was marbled with fat and lean meat, steamed until translucent, and juicy when you chewed it.

Jianyuan, who had rushed back that morning, also picked up a piece of cured meat with his chopsticks and said, "After the riots were suppressed last night, things have calmed down a lot. The quarantine should be completed by this afternoon."

"But my lord, do we really not need to strengthen the blockade on the coast? Last night, dozens of residents of North Beach went into the water in the dark and swam out."

By the time the patrolmen discovered them, they had vanished without a trace.

Zeng Tai's expression remained unchanged. He put down his chopsticks, thought for a moment, and then said, "There's no need."

"Jianyuan, why are we sealing off Beitan?"

Jianyuan was taken aback: "To prevent the plague from spreading to more people?"

Zeng Tai shook his head: "This is only one aspect. More importantly, we should take this opportunity to clean up this stinking cesspool of San Francisco."

Although the commotion in North Beach last night was significant, for residents of other parts of San Francisco, it was merely another topic of conversation.

After all, the newspapers said that most of the dead were Irish and Italians—those poor bastards and drunkards.

The migrant workers who couldn't even speak English fluently.

Moreover, the newspapers stated that the lockdown was to limit the spread of the plague, which made them even more supportive.

"My God, that's quite a commotion."

Inside the port area, a reporter stood by the dock, looking at the North Beach on the other side, and couldn't help but sigh.

The noise in Beitan never stopped for an entire afternoon.

Every now and then a loud boom would be heard, followed by plumes of smoke and dust shooting straight into the sky.

He also went over to ask the police who were blocking the way what they were doing inside, but only received one answer.

"Demolish the house."

The reporter's companion scratched his head and said, "Honestly, I have no idea what the treatment of the plague has to do with demolishing houses."

The reporter said, "I don't know either, but what I really want to know is why the people from the Daily Evening Post can go in and conduct interviews, while we're kept out!"

The police officers guarding the two men remained expressionless, but inwardly scoffed.

That's because the people at the Daily Evening Post are their own people. They know what their own newspaper can and cannot say.

As for you tabloid newspapers that believe everything you hear, who knows what kind of stuff you'll write once you're inside?

Meanwhile, inside North Beach.

Wallace, a reporter for the Daily Evening Post, is holding a film camera, aiming it at the house being demolished.

This is already the 10th photo he took today, and each one is a rare find.

Boom!

Another dilapidated two-story wooden house was pulled down by ropes, sending plumes of dust billowing into the sky. Immediately afterwards, hundreds and thousands of rats poured out of the ruins, squeaking and spreading in all directions.

Gray, black, big, small, they surged out of the ruins like a tide, densely packed, making one's scalp tingle.

The numerous Xinghan Hall members, who had been waiting in the wings, wielded two revolvers and fired repeatedly at the rat swarm.

boom!boom!boom!boom!

The gunfire was as dense as firecrackers during a festival.

Those Xinghantang members were incredibly accurate marksmen; they could take down a moving rat with a single shot, never missing.

After taking the photos, Wallace looked at the Xinghan Hall members beside him and laughed, "Not good, brother, more than twenty of them still got away."

The man curled his lip and said, "There are so many rats, and we only have so few guns and bullets. It's already good enough if we can kill one rat with every bullet."

Not far away, the local residents of Beitan, who had been waiting for a long time, began to clean up the rat carcasses. These people were dressed in tattered clothes, and their faces showed fatigue and fear, but they moved relatively quickly.

They were hired by Hosea, and in return, he would provide them with food and clean drinking water free of charge.

Two days later.

The cleanup work in Beitan is basically complete.

The most dilapidated and rat-infested old buildings were razed to the ground, and the ruins were cleared away, revealing the dark earth beneath.

The alleys that were originally filled with garbage and smelled foul were cleaned up, sewage pits and latrines were filled in, garbage was transported away and burned, and many holes were blocked with cement, completely sealing off the passage for rats.

Hosea stood in the middle of North Beach, looking at the completely transformed neighborhood, and nodded in satisfaction.

"This should ensure that there will be no outbreak of plague in this area for several years."

Humphrey, who had come specifically for this purpose, asked, "Can you only guarantee it for a few years?"

"Otherwise what?" Hosea shrugged. "You can't kill all the rats. It's already good if they can last for a few years."

Humphrey said, "Let's go, it's time to head to the mission area. This morning they reported several cases there, with symptoms exactly the same as those in North Beach."

Hosea looked completely unsurprised: "What about the port area?"

"Yes, there are. Several cases were confirmed this morning, all from people who had fled from North Beach."

"Isn't that perfect?"

Hosea smiled slightly and said, "Call some men and go to the mission area and the port area."

Missionary district.

This was the heart of the city during the Mexican era, and therefore much more respectable than North Beach. The streets, though narrow, were relatively clean; at least there was no sewage or litter everywhere.

The houses were mostly brick and wood structures, some even whitewashed, with flowers and plants growing in front of them. The inhabitants were mostly respectable white laborers, small business owners, and church clergy.

But today, the plague has also appeared here.

A man in his thirties was carried out of the house by two policemen wearing gauze masks.

The man coughed violently, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His wife followed behind, crying and trying to rush over, but was stopped by another policeman.

"Sir, you've made a mistake. He just has a fever, not the plague."

The police officer restrained her expressionlessly and said, "Whether it's the plague or not, the doctor will decide."

"In addition, you also need to go into quarantine to prevent spreading the plague to more people."

Not far away, several neighbors stood at the door, whispering among themselves.

Some people wore expressions of fear, some of sympathy, and a few others had complex emotions, their thoughts unclear.

Police have begun setting up roadblocks at the entrance to the mission area.

A well-dressed middle-aged man rushed over, blocked a policeman, and shouted angrily, "What right do you have to block off this place?"

The policeman glanced at him and said in a flat tone, "Sir, the plague won't be as easy to talk to as I am."

The middle-aged man's face turned bright red. He wanted to say something, but was pulled back by the person next to him.

"Stop talking, Joseph."

Joseph gritted his teeth and ultimately said nothing more.

The cordon was quickly established, and then the police arrived with a doctor and began checking houses one by one.

Port area.

The situation here is even worse.

As San Francisco's busiest port, countless ships dock here every day, and countless goods are loaded and unloaded. Sailors bring all sorts of things from all over the world, including all sorts of diseases.

Now, the plague has arrived.

A case was discovered among the port dockworkers, followed by vendors on the docks and sailors who had just disembarked from the ship to have some fun.

Police cordoned off most of the port area, leaving only a few entrances and exits for cargo transport. Ship owners complained bitterly, and merchants were frantic.

A well-dressed businessman stood on the dock, yelling at the police behind the barricade: "My goods! My goods must be loaded onto the ship today! Do you know how much this shipment is worth?"

The policeman glanced at him, his tone calm.

"Sir, you can ship the goods to another port."

"Other ports? The nearest one is Monterey, seventy-five miles away. A few more days' journey and my goods will rot by the time they get there!"

The police ignored him.

The merchant was trembling with anger, but there was nothing he could do.

He turned and walked towards the city hall.

In the following days, the plague spread rapidly.

Following the missionary and port areas, cases have also appeared in the financial district.

The whole of San Francisco felt like it was being choked by an invisible hand, unable to breathe.

Blockades were established one after another.

Police and members of Xinghan Church were moving in and out of the mission area and port area, demolishing houses, exterminating rats, disinfecting, and isolating areas.

The deafening roar could be heard every day, the smoke and dust obscured the sky, and the corpses of rats piled up into small mountains.

The residents of San Francisco went from indifference to panic, and then from panic to anger.

"Why are you demolishing our houses?"

"What right do those Chinese people have to wander around our neighborhood?"

"What exactly is the government doing?"

"That bastard Humphrey, does he want to tear the whole of San Francisco apart?"

The taverns, the streets, the churches—everywhere was filled with chatter.

The locked-down neighborhoods were filled with complaints, while those yet to be affected lived in constant fear.

Mount Norbu.

This is where the wealthiest people in San Francisco live. The hill isn't very high, but it has a good location, overlooking the entire city and the bay.

The mansions are built against the mountain, with gardens, fountains, and marble columns, a completely different world from the dirty and messy neighborhoods below.

Today, in a mansion on the mountain, a dozen people sat around a long table.

They are among the wealthiest people in San Francisco.

Bankers, shipping tycoons, mining giants, newspaper owners. Each of them was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and each of them had a terribly gloomy expression.

Seated at the head of the table was William Howard, the owner of California Commercial Bank, the largest bank in San Francisco. He was in his sixties, with gray hair, a hooked nose, and sharp eyes.

"Gentlemen," he began slowly, his voice low, "I have invited you all here today to discuss something."

He glanced around at everyone present.

"San Francisco has been in complete chaos for the past week. North Beach is closed, the mission area is closed, and the port area is paralyzed. You all know how much our business has suffered."

A fat, burly businessman, upon hearing this, flew into a rage: "That bastard Humphrey, what is he trying to do? What right do those Chinese have to run rampant on our turf?"

"And those policemen," another thin middle-aged man gritted his teeth and said, "that opportunist Hosea, after becoming the acting police chief, is now more ruthless than anyone else."

My people were locked down in the port area for three days, and all the goods rotted in the warehouse. He didn't even offer an apology. I went to see him, and he said it was "necessary for epidemic prevention" and told me to cooperate. Cooperate? Cooperate my ass!

Howard raised his hand, signaling them to be quiet.

"Gentlemen, the problem does not lie with Humphrey, nor with Hosea."

He paused, took a deep breath, and said, "The root of the problem is that the city hall has been taken over by a group of people we can't control."

Humphrey is the acting mayor, but he doesn't listen to us at all. The American members of the legislature are terrified, while the Democratic members are completely subservient to Humphrey.

"What should we do then?" someone asked.

Howard uttered a single word: "Re-election."

"election?"

"Yes, the election."

Howard said, "Gentlemen, don't forget that after the unfortunate death of Mr. Weber, the former mayor of San Francisco, San Francisco should have held a special emergency election to re-elect the mayor, judges, prosecutor, and council members—"

Fill all the gaps.

"It was that son of a bitch Bigler who signed the executive order to establish the San Francisco Provisional Administration, which made Humphrey the acting mayor."

"But now that Bigler, that son of a bitch, is dead, the new governor is too busy to deal with us, and Humphrey's actions have caused resentment throughout San Francisco—this is our chance!"

Looking at the people present, he urged, "We need to push our own people out, drive Humphrey out, and take back City Hall. Those Chinese should go back to their Chinatown too."

There was a few seconds of silence in the room, followed by a chorus of approval.

"Yes, hold new elections!"

"Get Humphrey off the stage!"

"Get those Chinese out of here!"

Howard raised his hand, signaling them to be quiet.

"Gentlemen, this is not an easy task."

A new election requires money, people to give speeches in the streets, campaign in pubs, and persuade priests in churches to speak on our behalf. We need newspapers to help us build momentum and smear Humphrey, he said, looking at the people present. "But as long as we are united, these things will be easy for us."

He picked up the wine glass on the table.

"For San Francisco."

Everyone raised their glasses.

"For San Francisco!"

As the drinks flowed, the atmosphere became more lively.

The fat, greasy businessman asked, "Mr. Howard, since there's going to be a new election, do you have a suitable candidate for mayor?"

Howard smiled slightly and said, "Gentlemen, what do you think of me?"