In the distance, Israeli reinforcements were still making their way over. Armored vehicles, tanks, infantry. At least a brigade.
Maher turned around and looked at the soldiers who could still move. Fewer than fifty. They scattered behind the containers, some panting, some loading their guns, some leaning against the metal sheets, eyes closed as if they were sleeping.
"Brothers," he spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "do we have any bullets left?"
A soldier raised the magazine in his hand. "I still have two."
"I have one left."
"I'm out."
Maher nodded. He took off his own magazine and glanced at it. Three rounds left. He put the magazine back in, lifted his gun.
"Brothers, it's almost dusk."
The sun had already begun to dip westward, turning the sea golden.
In the distance, Israeli reinforcements got closer and closer. The ground trembled with the rumble of tank treads crushing the earth.
Maher stood there, holding his gun, staring at the dark muzzle of the cannons.
