EBE Chapter 318 - 157: The Long Election Night (Part 2)
Chapter 318 - 157: The Long Election Night (Part 2)
In the east, Philadelphia’s war machine revealed its suffocating immensity.
There lay the heart of the Democratic Party’s Establishment Faction, the fortress of Aston Monroe.
Tens of thousands of volunteers in neat uniforms swarmed the streets like worker ants. They knocked on the door of every middle-class home, efficiently delivering voters to the polls like products on an assembly line.
This was the triumph of order, the pinnacle of elite politics on display.
But in the west, in rust-covered Allegheny County, in the bleak winds along the Lake Erie Shoreline, another, more primitive, more savage power was erupting.
Steelworkers, coal miners, truck drivers—people usually hidden amidst smoke and noise—now converged into a black tide.
They wore grease-stained work clothes and drove roaring pickup trucks, flocking to the polling stations set up in firehouses and church basements.
Their gazes were coarse, their movements slow yet resolute. The ballots clutched in their hands were like stones hurled against a high wall.
This was a violent collision between two completely different civilizations on the map of a single state.
On one side, a precision Swiss watch; on the other, a roaring steam locomotive.
Millions of ballots fell like snowflakes, carrying with them desire, anger, fear, and hope, filling the seemingly empty plastic bins.
Throughout this long day, all of Pennsylvania trembled. The tectonic plates of power were grinding together, emitting a grating sound that set one’s teeth on edge.
Not until the sun fell beyond the Ohio River and night shrouded the land was the clamor forcibly cut short.
The doors to the polling stations closed, the seals were affixed, and the world fell into a solemn silence, like the quiet before a verdict.
The great political beast had devoured all sound, leaving only the dull rumbling of digestion in its belly as it waited to spit out the final judgment.
「Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.」
The time was 11:45 PM.
Inside John Murphy’s campaign headquarters, the air was thick with the scent of anxiety.
A massive wall of televisions occupied the entire eastern wall.
On the screen, a news channel’s star anchor stood before a giant electronic map, rapidly reporting on the state of the race.
It was a map of Pennsylvania, fractured into pieces, its colors constantly shifting.
"Now let’s look at the situation in Philadelphia and its surrounding suburbs."
The anchor’s finger tapped heavily on the eastern side of the map, and a blinding patch of deep blue instantly lit up.
"Vice Governor Aston Monroe is showing astounding dominance in his home base. In Montgomery County, Bucks County, and downtown Philadelphia, his share of the vote has exceeded sixty-five percent."
"This is an overwhelming advantage. Philadelphia’s massive population is providing him with a continuous stream of votes."
Then, on the other side of the screen, the anchor’s finger moved to the west.
"Let’s turn to Pittsburgh and the Rust Belt in the west."
The western part of the map also lit up blue, the color even deeper than Philadelphia’s.
"Representative John Murphy has also achieved a huge victory here. In Allegheny County, Erie, and Scranton, the ballot boxes in these industrial cities are almost completely filled with Murphy’s name."
"The power of the Unions was fully mobilized. This is the highest blue-collar voter turnout we’ve seen in a Democratic Party primary in decades."
"However, the numbers don’t lie."
"Philadelphia’s population density is simply too high. Despite Murphy’s excellent performance in the west, a single district in Philadelphia can often equal the total votes from three western counties."
Below the screen, a string of red text on the ticker felt like a death knell.
Statewide Vote Count: 94%
Aston Monroe: 47.6%
John Murphy: 46.4%
Other: 6%
The gap was 1.2%.
With millions of votes already counted, this gap seemed insignificant. But in the final moments of an election, it was like an insurmountable chasm.
Inside the campaign headquarters, there was a deathly silence.
Phones rang sporadically, but no one answered them.
The volunteers had stopped their work, staring blankly at the large screen.
The once-feverish atmosphere instantly froze.
John Murphy was slumped on the sofa.
He had ripped off his tie, and a button on his collar had popped, revealing the sweat-soaked shirt underneath.
He clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey, his hand trembling slightly.
"It’s over."
Murphy’s voice was hoarse.
He threw his head back and took a long swig of whiskey. The harsh liquid burned its way down his throat, making him cough violently, his face flushing red.
"John, the counting isn’t over yet," Leo reminded him.
"You don’t get it, Leo. I’ve been in this game for decades. I know exactly what these numbers mean."
Murphy pointed at the red ticker scrolling at the bottom of the screen, his finger trembling slightly.
"That’s a full one-point-two percent. At the beginning of the night, that’s nothing. But now, the count is already at ninety-four percent."
"In the history of Pennsylvania elections, no one has ever come back from a hole this deep, this late in the count. Never."
"The TV stations haven’t called it for Monroe yet because they want to sell a few more minutes of ads, to keep the ratings up for a little longer. But in the eyes of the data analysts, this race was over a long time ago."
Murphy grabbed his hair in despair.
"This isn’t a question of probability, it’s a matter of math. To turn this around, I’d need to win over sixty percent of the remaining six percent of the vote."