18 Floors Above the Apocalypse novel Chapter 437

The secretary had no choice but to agree, though he did so reluctantly.

"Come on, wipe that frown off. If we're all down in the dumps, how do you think the others will manage?"

"Captain, I messed up," the secretary said, taking a deep breath. "What now?"

Devin, fighting his sickness, replied, "This place gives me the creeps. Two fishing boats just vanished, and I'm worried Iran might strike again any minute. We better get out of here."

The secretary hurried off to make arrangements.

But half an hour later, not only had the boat not departed, but the noise outside had suddenly picked up.

Devin called out a few times before the secretary came rushing in, a look of wild excitement on his face. "Captain, we’re saved!"

Struggling to sit up, Devin asked, "What’s happening?"

"The two missing fishing boats have reappeared."

At that, Devin’s urgency surged. "Battle stations, everyone! Brace for those freaks; we can’t let them harm our people."

“All of Iran is gone. The boats are loaded with supplies—one’s full of corn, soy, wheat, and all sorts of greens. The other’s packed with herbs—full to the brim…”

The secretary was beside himself, half-crying, half-laughing as if possessed. “The Saints have blessed us, the Almighty has shown mercy, there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel.”

Devin sighed, realizing another had lost his grip on sanity. He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last.

Struggling to his feet, he got ready to lift the spirits of the survivors once more. As he made his way on deck, the survivors were all cheering, leaning over the railings, while the guards had thrown down rope ladders to climb onto the drifting fishing boats.

They were unmistakably Iranian vessels, still carrying the lingering stench of decay, along with a few guns and sabers.

The crops were all fresh—so fresh they seemed as if they’d just been plucked from the fields. The greens even had dew on them.

Someone with sharp eyes pointed out, "What’s that over there?"

On top of the pile of grain stood a hand-waved Stars and Stripes, with a piece of paper underneath. They rushed over and found it was a set of coordinates.

The Kindle Society hadn’t lied; Hope Point was real. These were the homeland’s coordinates!

The red and vibrant flag quickly made its way to Devin’s hands, as countless eager eyes fixed on the banner in his grip. It was so red and vivid, like a flame burning fiercely in the darkness.

Devin clutched the paper with the coordinates, tears dripping onto it, and he couldn’t help but choke up as he yelled, “Comrades, we’ve found home.”

They had a home! They were going home!

Bags of grain and herbs were continuously moved onto the transport ship, and faces that had known only despair were now alight with hope.

Devin stood on the deck, scanning the sea through his binoculars.

The secretary, puzzled, asked, "Captain, what are you looking for?"

"Whoever helped us."

"We’ve looked, there’s really no one."

Devin was a staunch atheist; he believed in human will over divine intervention, dismissing ghosts and gods as nonsense. Someone was secretly helping them, someone with mysterious and formidable power, to deal with Iran so stealthily and to bring back the cargo-laden fishing boats in such a short time.

They were kin, connected by blood.

Descendants of a proud Australian lineage, stretching back five thousand years.

Devin, ignoring his pain, called the captain over, "How long to reach these coordinates?"