"War continues to ravage Europe, but reinforcents have already set off from the United States! Every able-bodied young man is ready to protect his country!"
A passionate voice echoed from the speakers beside the large movie screen as footage of soldiers enlisting played.
Steve had returned to New York, back to Brooklyn. The frustration in his heart made it hard to breathe. He walked into a movie theater to clear his mind. Playing was the new zombie movie produced by Su Ming's company.
He still rembered how, as a child, he and Bucky had coined the term zombies. Mr. Wilson had brought it to the big screen.
These flesh-eating zombies resembled the people Steve had once seen in the subway station, only dirtier. The film perfectly recreated the fear they had felt back then. Technically, soone like Steve, with his heart condition, shouldn't be watching such a film. But to reminisce about his childhood, he bought a ticket anyway.
The audience consisted mostly of won and older n—few strong young n were around since most had gone to war.
With the country under a warti economy, going to the movies was one of the more affordable forms of entertainnt. As a result, even during the day, the theater was decently filled. However, the law required the insertion of recruitnt ads at the start, middle, and end of the film to promote the draft and stir patriotic fervor.
One mont, the heroine was facing off with a zombie dog in a narrow hallway, and the next, the screen switched to footage of Arican soldiers marching into boot camp.
A collective sigh of disappointnt echoed throughout the theater.
Just as the action was reaching its peak, the mood was killed by a recruitnt ad. The audience silently grumbled, frustrated by the interruption—"I took off my necklace for this?" they thought.
Steve, however, looked longingly at the soldiers on the screen. He envied them—the chance to join the army, to serve their country. His eyes sparkled with admiration as he imagined himself walking among them.
Then, the screen changed again, showing a six- or seven-year-old boy in a scout cap, sorting through a pile of scrap tal. The narrator's voice ca back, praising the boy: "Even little Timmy is doing his part, collecting scrap tal to help the war effort. Well done, Timmy!"
Steve suddenly felt countless eyes on him. The won around him subtly glanced at him with the corners of their eyes, their expressions seemingly saying:
"Why are you sitting here watching a movie?"
"Go to the battlefield, man! Tsk, tsk!"
"Why don't you learn from little Timmy and pick up so trash? Oh, wait, maybe you are the trash!"
"Sha on you. Boo!"
But these looks quickly shifted when the won saw him clearly in the dim light. This man was frailer than they were—pale and skeletal, as if he might not survive long. They couldn't expect a sick person to march off to die.
Their gazes turned to sympathy and regret. The thought was the sa across their minds—"Poor thing."
Steve shrugged lightly. He had grown used to these looks over the years. Well-aning people always seed to take care of him. Even the pickiest grocer would give him extra vegetables and tell him to see a doctor because certain illnesses couldn't be ignored.
It was because of these kind people that Steve couldn't let the war reach their doorstep. He wanted to enlist more than ever—to stop the war before it hurt anyone else.
As those thoughts swirled in his mind, they remained distant dreams. He sighed and refocused on the "Iron Wall" tank on the screen.
This tank was another creation of Su Ming's company. However, its design didn't resemble anything typical of Arican industry. With its two massive, nacing cannons, flat body, and thick armor, it looked more like sothing from the other side of the Pacific.
He recalled Mr. Wilson once ntioning the tank's code na, "Apocalypse," during casual conversations. But for so reason, the na had been changed when it was put into service.
Perhaps it was to fit with the company's other military products, Steve guessed.
In reality, the tank only resembled the "Apocalypse" in appearance. Underneath, it was essentially a modified M3 "Grant" with larger-caliber guns, a twin turret, thicker armor, and more engines cramd in.
It was like a haphazardly assembled toy. Apart from its defensive capabilities, it was subpar in every other aspect. Its reload speed was painfully slow, like a self-propelled artillery piece. It moved at a snail's pace, and the engineers had to pour all their efforts just to make it functional.
Originally, the so-called experts had dismissed Su Ming's suggestions when he showed them the designs for the T-34 and IS tanks. Su Ming had then drawn the design for the "Apocalypse," and the experts had confidently assured him they could build it—and that it would be incredible.
During internal testing, Su Ming had almost wanted to kill the useless engineers. He had given them so much funding, and they had produced a monstrosity that was essentially a cross between self-propelled artillery and the T95?
In the end, he relented. After all, the money was spent, and a turret was at least sothing. So, he decided to make do.
If this piece of junk were called the "Apocalypse Tank," it would tarnish the na. After kicking the "experts" off to research tractors, Su Ming renad the steel beast "Iron Wall Assault Gun," highlighting its only strength: defense.
The na was apt. This thing was essentially a giant, mobile tal block. But it was a well-armored one. No anti-armor weaponry from either side could pierce its front plating.
Su Ming had sent out several lobbyists, and in the end, the military begrudgingly purchased a batch, intending to use it as infantry support. At the very least, unlike traditional anti-tank artillery, this machine could move on its own.
In contrast, Wilson Enterprises' rifles, pistols, and grenades passed inspection with flying colors. Su Ming had provided detailed schematics, and since each part matched future classics perfectly, even basic workers could assemble them.
Before Arica entered the war, its military was small—around eight regular divisions and 14 National Guard divisions, totaling less than 600,000 n. But after entering the war, the force rapidly grew to 2 million and later even 4 million. All these troops needed standardized weapons.
Su Ming's company had stockpiled enough weapons over the years. Since 1929, it had been preparing. Originally, the plan was to support China, but now there were plenty of extras.
While other defense contractors were busy promising the military how many guns they could manufacture each month, Wilson Enterprises overwheld them with over a million weapons in stock.
Initially, the British were reluctant to switch to Arican weapons because their ammunition calibers were different from those used by most countries. Using foreign weapons ant abandoning their own arms industry.
But after the Dunkirk evacuation, they had no choice. For logistical reasons, the 330,000 soldiers who evacuated had left behind almost all their light and heavy weapons.
Dostic production would take about two weeks to catch up, but with a shortage of steel and coal, the industry couldn't keep pace. Resources were prioritized for the navy, aning for over two weeks, Britain was nearly defenseless.
The British organized a Ho Guard. Elderly gentlen brought out their ancestral weapons—swords, sabers, and bows—to defend their hos. This ragtag militia was nicknad the "Dad's Army."
So, the question arose: either the soldiers fight with centuries-old weapons from the Wars of the Roses, or they quickly rearm with Arican-made guns, with Wilson Enterprises offering installnt paynts and even bartering options.
Though the unfamiliarity with these weapons posed challenges, the British had little choice. If they didn't want to end up like the French, establishing a governnt-in-exile, they had to accept Arican "help."
In warti, you use whatever's available. Issues with rearming, training, or any chain reaction—those were problems for the politicians. Soldiers needed weapons to fight. As long as the weapons were effective, that's all that mattered.
This wasn't like modern-day peaceti enlistnt. In Britain, conscription could an soone was handed any random weapon on the street and told, "The Queen needs you." Then they'd be sent off to fight. Killing one fascist wasn't a loss, and killing two was a profit. Britain was desperate.
Soon, the Soviets would be in a similar situation. The purges had devastated the competence of their soldiers and officers, which is why they had been pushed all the way to Moscow by the Nazis.
As for the French Resistance, that was an even more dire situation. Now, Charles de Gaulle was begging for weapons on credit, and only Su Ming had been "kind" enough to lend him so.
Britain was short on weapons, energy, and food—they lacked everything.
Even Churchill, the pri minister, could only afford a single sandwich each day, surviving mostly on cigars and absinthe. He famously claid to work 23.5 hours a day because he was kept awake by hunger every night.
Steve, of course, didn't know these behind-the-scenes details. He continued to admire the massive tanks on the screen. In his inexperienced view of military matters, the bigger the machine, the more powerful it must be. And the Iron Wall self-propelled anti-tank gun was indeed enormous. On the screen, at least 20 or 30 soldiers were perched on top of it, dozing as the vehicle rumbled forward.
A random farr on a donkey cart sped past them on the side of the road, fleeting across the screen.
Steve frowned. That donkey cart was moving way too fast—talk about ignoring traffic safety.
But the soldiers on the tank didn't even blink. Clearly, they were used to it. Steve smiled, interpreting it as a sign of Arican military discipline. The tank was yielding to the donkey cart, after all. No harm was done.
The soldiers were also holding cans of a new carbonated drink, orange-flavored, which was said to be packed with nutrients. It was called Big Power.
Mr. Wilson preferred calling it Da Li in Chinese and often said sothing odd about how "great strength produces miracles." It was another new product from his company, issued as military supplies alongside ration biscuits.
Steve had once tried following the instructions on a military ration package. He ate a biscuit and washed it down with a bottle of Big Power. Monts later, his stomach was so bloated that he threw up, much to Bucky's amusent.
Despite Wilson Enterprises growing into an industrial behemoth, Steve had never considered using Mr. Wilson's connections to get himself onto the battlefield.
If strangers like the doctors prevented him from enlisting, there was no way soone as familiar with his health as Mr. Wilson would allow it. Based on his personality, if Steve told him he wanted to enlist, Mr. Wilson would probably go out of his way to pull strings and place him in so cushy office job in Washington—far from any battlefield, rich in perks, and devoid of any aningful combat.
Steve didn't want that. If he couldn't fight for his country on the front lines, then enlisting would be pointless.
Just as Steve was lost in these thoughts, a disturbance broke out in the theater.
A man in the rows ahead of him began yelling.
"Boring! Just play the movie already!"
The surrounding audience mbers shot him disapproving looks, though most kept their dissatisfaction to themselves. After all, it was extrely rude to shout in a movie theater.
But Steve couldn't tolerate it. To him, serving the country was an honor. They were watching this movie in peace only because soldiers on the front lines were sacrificing their lives.
So, he spoke up.
"Hey, can you show so respect?"
The man didn't respond. The screen had shifted from tanks to infantry. Wounded soldiers were being carried on stretchers to makeshift hospitals.
"Our boys on the front lines are giving the Axis hell. But rember, freedom is never free..."
But the narrator's voice was drowned out by the man in front shouting again. He wasn't here for so propaganda; he wanted to see zombies.
"C'mon! Start the movie already! I want to see Alice fight zombies! Let's go!"
Steve couldn't take it any longer. He leaned forward and raised his voice.
"Hey! I said, can you shut up?!"
The man did shut up—so much so that he stood up.
A massive figure blocked the small, frail Steve. The shadow made Steve press against the back of his seat.
The man stepped over a few rows of seats, grabbed Steve like a ragdoll, and dragged him toward the back door of the theater.
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