The Death Knell

The day Su Ming raided the laboratory, Brooklyn, New York.

There is an old building about five stories high here, and every window and every red brick tells its history.

It's like an old man who has witnessed everything in New York.

At this time, in a window on the fourth floor, there was an old man looking out the window. He tried his best to lift himself up from the hospital bed, trying to see clearly the location of the Brooklyn antique store.

But the small building wasn't the Empire State Building, and its four stories weren't high enough for him to see a few blocks away.

This is a nursing home. The corridors are filled with the smell of urine and decay. Many elderly people without support are placed here.

Receive slightly more professional treatment and care, or wait quietly for death to come.

"When I get old... let them send me back." The old man leaned on the bed and spoke to the doctor next to him. His hair and teeth were all gone, and his loose skin was covered with cloth. He was covered with age spots, but his eyes were still bright: "Not in Texas, not in Boston, cough cough cough..."

The doctor and nurse came over and supported his body. The doctor with a mustache patted his back and comforted him: "Relax, Mr. Hawke, it's okay."

However, in fact, the old man's situation is not optimistic at all. He suffers from cancer and has been in a coma for several days.

This morning he suddenly woke up and regained consciousness. If he hadn't been unable to move, he would have planned to go a few streets away to take a look.

Dr. Holloway also lived in Brooklyn when he was a child and was very familiar with the surrounding streets. He knew the Brooklyn antique store the old man mentioned, and he also knew that the owner was an old lady with extraordinary temperament and charm.

But old gentleman, as a doctor, you see this situation a lot now. You should take the opportunity to say what you need to say, eat what you want, and stop thinking about picking up girls.

Mr. Hawke calmed his breathing and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth: "It's okay. Anyway, everything started in New York. I hope I can witness it all with my own eyes."

"Witness what?" Dr. Holloway sat on his bedside. This was the first time he spoke to this patient after he took over.

"Witness...the beginning of the future."

So all afternoon, Dr. Holloway sat quietly by the bed, listening to the old man telling him about the future.

In the old man's description, he told of gods and monsters, of masked heroes, and of course the man with the shield.

The doctor writes these down in his notebook, because listening to the patient's last voice can be considered a form of end-of-life care.

This is supposed to be what priests do, but now priests are on the battlefield, just like the German priests, shouting the name of God, shooting each other or throwing grenades.

But God often prefers well-trained murderers to devout believers at such moments.

Dr. Holloway recorded these stories. At first, he thought they were unrealistic babbles, but the old man's eyes were clear and his logic was clear. He told everything about the future.

A network that can connect everyone, a ship that can allow people to leave the earth, a stone that can destroy the world in an instant.

Holloway could only admit that this was all true, and the old man was not confused at all. These were his extremely serious last words.

The doctor likes these stories of heroes doing chivalry. If he were not in this bad era, he would definitely do chivalry like Zorro.

But now, he is the last doctor in the sanatorium and he cannot leave here.

.....................

That evening the young nurse came into the doctor's office and told him that Mr. Matthew Hawke had died.

He came to the old man's ward again. Under the yellowish light, the old man's face was pale and he was lying on the bed calmly.

"Can you sign the death certificate, doctor?" the nurse asked him.

"Well, okay, that's a shame...he was a nice guy." Holloway nodded. That was the most important job of a nursing home doctor, signing the death certificate.

The nurse also nodded with deep sympathy: "He passed away in his dream, a kind old man... By the way, doctor, before he went to sleep, he asked me to give this to you."

The black-haired female nurse said, turning around and picking up a large wooden box from the medicine cart on the side. It had beautiful lines on it and looked very heavy.

"Before bed?"

"Yes, he seems to know... that he will never wake up again..."

In the early morning, Holloway returned to his home in the Upper East Side. He had a warm study, luxurious carpets, and could enjoy Skywalker's best drinks at any time.

Before taking over the sanatorium, he was the best surgeon in New York, and would have been on the battlefield had not many high officials and dignitaries, in need of his services, forced him to stay.

But his medical skills can't cure cancer yet.

Eight cases of cancer were recorded in Egyptian papyri from 3000 BC, but until now, humans are still helpless.

Under the desk lamp, he opened the wooden box the old man left for him.

Inside were a pair of revolvers, a Zorro-style eyepatch, and a small letter.

"Gift, Dr. Thomas Holloway."

Without reading the letter, the doctor already knew what it was. He beat his head and complained about his carelessness.

Matthew Hawke, a lawyer from Texas and Boston, is just the old man's pseudonym. And Matt Hawke is his real name, he is the Two-Gunman.

He comes from the west and is a masked knight who was active in the old west decades ago.

He had a black horse, a black blindfold, and a pair of Peacemaker revolvers.

His marksmanship is extremely accurate and he is brave and fearless. He can fight against a gang of hundreds of people by himself. He has protected the safety of those gold mining towns for nearly ten years.

It wasn't until his enemies were wiped out that he disappeared on horseback in the sand and strong winds. Only afterward did people know his name, but no one knew his whereabouts until today.

If what he said is true, he went to the future.

Holloway grew up reading his stories. The name of the Two-Gunman exists in almost all Western novels. Many Americans are also aware of his deeds. The old man was once a symbol of heroism.

The doctor kept complaining to himself that he should have told the deceased hero what his story meant to him. It was the two-gun man who inspired him and almost everyone with a chivalrous heart.

When he opened the small note in the box, there was a sentence clearly written on it: "To the next hero."

He knew that the old man had noticed his thoughts that had not yet been put into practice. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe the way he spoke or walked that exposed him.

The doctor wanted to be a hero, like a heroic man in a western story, but various realistic factors prevented him from taking that step and making up his mind.

But today, an aging hero passed his weapon into his hands.

Holloway suddenly felt a little stuffy in the study, and his heart was beating fast. He finished the drink in his glass and walked towards the window behind him.

Even on an early spring night, he needed to open the window to get some air and think about the future.

Looking at the city outside the window, the neon lights reflected tall black figures. He felt that the world the old man described to him, a world full of heroes, seemed not so far away.