Chapter 2214: Sacrificing for the Nation? (Part 3)

Chapter 2214 -887: Sacrificing for the Nation? (Part 3)

He walked back to the folding table and sat down. The coffee in the thermos had already cooled, but he didn’t pour it out. He picked up the three empty cups and placed them beside the table. Hassan’s, Assad’s, those of the ones who died in Aleppo. Three cups, three directions.

He picked up the two-way radio. “Get me Mexico City.”

The phone rang once and was picked up. On the other end was Victor’s voice.

“Lieutenant.”

“Leader, the people from Aleppo have arrived. They say the Turks seized their homes, killed their men, raped their women. They say the Turks didn’t come to liberate them, but to occupy them. They escaped. They fled to the bridge, drank water, crossed it, and headed north. Some went to Haifa, some went to Tel Aviv, some went to Jerusalem. The Israelis are taking them in. Hospitals are taking them in, schools are taking them in, churches are taking them in. They are taking in Syrians.”

The other end of the phone was silent for a long time.

“Lieutenant, you tell those people, the bridge in Mexico is always open for them. The coffee in Mexico is always brewing for them. The white flag in Mexico is always raised for them. Crossing the bridge is going home. Not crossing the bridge is waiting for home. Where is home? Home is where peace is. Where is peace? Peace is on the other side of the bridge. On the other side of the bridge, there are Mexicans, and there are those willing to take them in.”

The phone hung up.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The wind from the lake had stopped, the water was flat like a mirror, reflecting the stars in the sky. The lights on the bridge were lit, a string of small bulbs lined along the bridge railings like two golden ribbons in the night.

He picked up his cup of cold coffee and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

“General Hassan, President Assad, those who died in Aleppo. The people from Aleppo have arrived. They crossed the bridge, drank water, and headed north. They are living. Living is good.”

He put down the cup, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes.

The wind blew over the lake, warm and humid, carrying the smell of blood. It drifted over from the direction of Aleppo.

Aleppo, northern suburbs. Night.

Assad didn’t know how far he had rushed. All he heard were gunshots, explosions, screams, and his own heartbeat. His AK-47 was out of bullets, he tossed the gun and picked up a pistol that had fallen to the ground.

Makarov, nine millimeter, just like his own. The magazine was full, eight bullets.

He lay in a shell hole, panting heavily. Corpses surrounded him—Syrians, Turks, indistinguishable. In the distance, the Turkish tanks continued to advance. At least forty of them. The sound of tracks crushing the ground came nearer, vibrating his ears with a constant buzz.

“Mr. President!” Khalid crawled to his side, his face covered in blood, his left arm gone. Below the shoulder, emptiness, blood gushing out like a turned-on faucet. He covered the wound with his right hand, his face pale as paper.

“Khalid—” Assad wanted to press his wound, but blood spurted through his fingers, unstoppable.

“Mr. President, I can’t make it. You go. Head south, go to Damascus, go to Lake Tiberias, go to that bridge. There are Mexicans on the bridge, coffee, a white flag. They won’t stop you. Crossing the bridge is going home. Going home is living. Living is good.”

Assad’s tears fell. “I won’t go. I’ve walked all my life, I can’t walk anymore.”

Khalid laughed, lightly and bitterly. “Then I won’t go either. If you don’t go, I won’t go. If you die, I will die too. Dying together isn’t lonely.”

Assad held him, held the increasingly cold body. Khalid’s eyes were still open, looking at the sky. The sky was very dark, starless.

He closed Khalid’s eyes and stood up.

There were less than a hundred people left around him.

They were scattered in the ruins, some were digging shelters, some were cleaning guns, others were resting with eyes closed. No one spoke. In the distance, the Turkish tanks stopped. The turrets turned towards them.

“Brothers,” he started, his voice carrying far in the night wind, “It’s almost dawn. Before dawn, I have one last word.”

He looked at the eyes flickering in the darkness.

“Long live Syria.”

He charged out. Behind him, those less than a hundred soldiers followed him, rushing into the barrage of fire!!!