Chapter 2203: Can Rebellion Even Be Stopped?

Chapter 2203 -884: Can Rebellion Even Be Stopped?

Golan Heights, Floating Bridge at Lake Tiberias

Lieutenant Alvarez sat in the wind all night.

At dawn, he noticed that both cups on the table were frosted over. The fog over the lake was thick, a vast whiteout, making the other shore invisible. The lights on the bridge were still on, turning into clusters of yellow in the fog, like fireflies floating in the air.

He stood up and stretched his stiff neck. The coffee in the thermos had turned into a lump of ice; he unscrewed the lid, took a look, and screwed it back on.

Footsteps came from the eastern end of the bridge.

Not cars, but people.

One by one, they emerged from the fog.

The first was an old man, over seventy, holding a cane, wearing an old, faded military uniform. No epaulettes, no medals, just a small badge pinned to his chest — the emblem of the Syrian Free Army, three stars and a sword.

The second was a middle-aged woman, in her fifties, wearing a black robe and holding a photograph. The photo showed a young man in Syrian military uniform, carrying two stars on the epaulettes, a lieutenant.

The third was a child, around ten, thin as a stick, holding a cardboard sign. On the cardboard were several Arabic letters scribbled with crayons, crooked and hard to decipher for Alvarez.

He stood up, walked to the center of the bridge, watching those people emerge from the fog, one after another, steadily increasing in numbers.

The tenth, the twentieth, the fiftieth, the hundredth.

They didn’t speak, didn’t shout, didn’t cry, didn’t smile. They just walked, onto the bridge, across the bridge, to the west bank. When they reached the west bank, Moses Levi stood there with a cup of water in his hand. He poured a cup for each person, saying: “Have a sip of water, it’s sweet.”

When the one hundred and seventh person crossed, Alvarez stopped him.

The man was in his forties, with a face full of stubbles, wearing a ragged leather jacket, holding no photo, no cardboard, nothing. He was empty-handed, head down, walking fast.

“Who are you?” Alvarez asked.

The man raised his head.

His eyes were red, as if he had been crying for a long time, or hadn’t slept for ages. He looked at Alvarez, stared for a long time, then spoke, his voice hoarse as if sandpapered over glass.

“My name is Muhammad Abdullah. I’m from Damascus. I’m here to escape for my life.”

Alvarez looked into his eyes. “Escape from what?”

The man’s voice started to tremble.

“They started shooting. Not warning shots, but bursts of 12.7mm bullets. When they hit people, they split them in two.”

Alvarez placed his hand on the pistol holstered at his waist. “Assad?”

“In the Presidential Palace. He’s unaware of it. He knows nothing. His people betrayed him. His people are killing on his behalf. Once the killing is done, they claim ‘it was Assad’s order.’ Assad denies it, then they say ‘he’s gone mad.’ Once Assad is mad, they have a new person. A new person continues the killing.”

Alvarez turned away, walked to the center of the bridge, raising the white flag. The wind was strong and the flag fluttered fiercely in it.

“Cross the bridge. The coffee’s on the table, help yourselves.”

The people continued walking. The one hundred and seventh, the one hundred and eighth, the two hundredth.

As the sun moved west, the last person emerged from the fog.

It was a young woman, in her early twenties, holding a baby. The baby was crying, with a sound thin like a kitten’s meow. She walked to Alvarez, stopped in front of him.

“Is there any water? The baby is thirsty.”

Alvarez picked up a cup of cool coffee from the table, handed it to her. “Coffee, it’s cold. The baby can’t drink it.”

She looked at the cup of dark liquid, shook her head. “Any plain water?”

Alvarez turned and poured a cup of plain water from the thermos layering.

The water was warm, Tiberias Lake water, sweet. She took the cup and fed it to the child. The baby stopped crying, eyes closed, sucking on the rim of the cup, little mouth puckering softly.

“Thank you.” She said.

“Laila, cross the bridge. On the west bank, someone will meet you. The Israeli hospital is on the west side of Tiberias City, ask around when you get there, someone will take you in.”

She walked on the bridge, holding the baby. She walked slowly, each step light as if afraid to awaken the child in her arms.

When she reached the middle of the bridge, she stopped, looking at the lake surface.

The lake was deep and dark, bottomless. She stood there for a long time. Then she moved again. When she reached the west bank, Moses Levi stood there, holding out a cup of water.

“Have a sip of water, it’s sweet.”

She took the cup, drank a sip.

The water was sweet, Tiberias Lake water. She returned the empty cup to the old man, turned and walked northward. That was the direction of Haifa.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching her silhouette vanish in the twilight.

He turned around, looking at those still walking on the bridge. Some were near the west bank, some were still on the east bank, some stood in the middle of the bridge, gazing at the lake, unsure of where to go.

He walked back to the folding table, sat down. The coffee in the thermos was cold, he didn’t pour it out.

He picked up the two empty cups, one Hassan’s, one Assad’s, placed them beside the table. Side by side, three cups. Hassan’s, Assad’s, and a third — he thought for a moment, picked it up, placed it on the other side. Three cups, three directions.

He picked up the radio. “Get me through to Mexico City.”

The phone rang once, connected. Victor’s voice came through the receiver.

“Lieutenant.”

“Leader, something has happened in Damascus.”

Silence lingered at the other end of the line.

“Lieutenant, tell those crossing the bridge, Mexico’s bridge is always open for them. Home is in the place of peace. Where is peace? Peace is on the other side of the bridge. On the other side, there are Mexicans, there are those willing to accept them.”