Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 292 The Spread of a Wildfire
The fire started with a flyer.

No, it started from the moment the firewood crackled in the fireplace.

The firewood was felled from the eastern Baltic coast.

They were transported to Lublin and then crammed into a three-story old house without a house number.

A piece of paper, stained with coal dust, floated out of the window and landed in the old woman's hand.

She was illiterate, but she recognized the faces in the photos.

Hitler.

The head of state of the empire.

Their deaths were gruesome; they could not be pieced together into a complete human form, scattered in various places.

She didn't say anything, folded it up, and stuffed it into her apron.

The old woman went to the market and handed the item to the newly arrived sewer worker.

She patted him on the shoulder: "It's cold today, go home and light a fire."

The sewer worker's name was Yozef, and he lived in the suburbs.

He walked very fast and hardly spoke to anyone.

The fire was started on that familiar road home.

The boy was crying in the alley; he had lost one of his shoes, and his mother was being dragged onto a truck.

Yozef went over, picked up the child, and helped him put on his shoes.

Gunshots were fired.

He didn't drive it, but it happened right next to me.

Yozef was so frightened that he fell to the ground.

A group of people suddenly appeared out of nowhere, threw down gasoline bottles, and set the military vehicle on fire.

Flames licked at tires, glass, and hoods, fierce, intense, and overwhelming.

The military police swiftly retaliated.

Massacre, firing, roadblocks—all the residents hiding behind the walls kept their mouths shut.

Some people refused to give in, like the post office clerk.

He locked the front door and piled all the documents together.

In addition, there were oil drums, desks, and old radios.

The flames shot up with a "whoosh," like a crying baby.

The employee stood there, watching the firelight illuminate the back of his hand.

He went up to the rooftop and shouted into the street, "Now! It's all on fire!"

The fire spread to Paris.

It wasn't on a college lecture hall, but in the attic of a hotel.

There was a young woman wearing a black dress and barefoot.

She opened the window and turned the tape recorder volume up to the maximum.

That was a recording from a British radio station, with a male voice repeatedly broadcasting in fits and starts:
"the fuhrest mortest mortmort"

The pedestrians below couldn't hear her clearly, but they still looked up at her.

The woman sat there, pulled down the white flag with a red circle, and lit it on fire.

Then, it was thrown down.

call--!
Fire shot into the sky.

Some people started to applaud.

Someone shouted in terror, "Get down! You're crazy! Get down!"

The woman seemed not to hear, waving and smiling until the soldiers rushed into the hotel.

Gunfire erupted again.

Blood soaked the hem of her skirt, spreading down the stairs, bright red like fire.

The Middle East is already so hot it's about to catch fire.

The sun melted the ground.

Children lined up to draw water from the well, while military police tied the village chief to a post.

The reason given was that it "provides assistance to rioters".

The rioters were the same group that attacked the supply line in Suez three days ago.

It really wasn't them.

But there is no difference.

The young people stood around the village entrance, too afraid to move.

Until an old man came out on his own initiative.

He led out his camel, wrapped the explosives in a rag, and headed straight for the camp.

No one stopped him, because at that time no one could understand what he was going to do.

By the time they realized what was happening, flames were already shooting into the sky.

Three houses collapsed, and the sentry's torso was hanging from a tree, his eyes still open.

"Resist!" someone roared.

The old man died, and his body was never found.

Two hoes and half a blackened bluestone were found in his house.

That rock was very hot, and no one dared to touch it.

Fire is burning in Africa.

From Congo to Zimbabwe, from Angola to Algeria.

In the cornfields, under rusty hoes, on deserted, muddy banks.

He was a factory worker. His wife was taken away three years ago, supposedly because she was "in good health."

He didn't say anything and continued working.

Ten hours a day, three shifts a day, sleeping in a tin shed next to the mine.

But that day, instead of going to the mine, he picked up a hoe and went into the field.

There were no slogans shouted, nor were there any complaints of grievances.

The man simply knocked down the foreman who was standing too close and stomped on him.

The hoe struck a second time, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth time.

That afternoon, the three bodies were buried in the cornfield.

In the evening, two more bodies appeared.

By nightfall, a total of twenty-one people had not returned to report for duty.

Finally, the fire spread to the east.

Or perhaps, the fire originated in the east.

An old farmer saw several Japanese military vehicles approaching from a distance.

He knew what that meant.

The rice paddies are too dry; it didn't rain in the past.

The canal collapsed, and the water pump at the village entrance rusted to death.

But the list is still there, detailing exactly how many kilograms each family needs to pay each month, and how many bags of rice each family needs, down to the last penny.

So the old farmer hid his grandson in the pigsty and dug out his son's Mauser pistol.

The translator got off the train with the Japanese and vigorously patted his trouser leg.

The old farmer glanced back and saw that there was still more than half a basin of oil in the room.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably, and it took three tries to light it.

In an instant, flames erupted, licking the dry seedlings and growing wildly along the ditch.

boom--!
He fired the first shot.

It's not directed at anyone in particular; I just want to break through this damn sky.

Two more shots, then three more.

In an instant, everything was mixed together, roaring and echoing through the sky.

Someone cried out, "Burn it! Burn it all!"

Someone shouted, "You son of a bitch! I'll fuck your mother!"

The fire burned for three days and three nights.

It burned an area, a village, a dam, and a highway.

After the fire subsided, everything was charred, blackened, and silent.

Only a few wisps of smoke remained, drifting between heaven and earth.

Zhang Shouyi sat in the trench, his hat brim pulled low.

He wasn't asleep; he just kept his eyes closed, the gun resting across his lap with the safety on.

A soldier was squatting a few meters away, stuffing straw into his tattered sock.

"Platoon leader." A voice came from not far away; it was Zhao Cheng.

"The group in front has retreated, but there's been no movement from behind."

Zhang Shouyi nodded.

"How much longer?"

"I estimate it will take at most half an hour."

They had just finished a battle and repelled the first wave of attacks.

The enemy abandoned five corpses and temporarily retreated.

The blood froze into dark brown scabs in the snow, making a crunching sound when stepped on.

"Platoon leader," Zhao Cheng said again, "don't you think the weather's getting warmer?"

Zhang Shouyi remained silent for a while, sensing the faint dampness in the air.

"Warming up? Hmm. The north slope is still covered in ice, but the soil on the south side is a bit loose."

He smiled and said, "In a few more days, the jujube trees should sprout new buds."

"We need to prune the branches now, otherwise they will grow haphazardly and the fruit will be difficult to harvest in the fall."

Upon hearing this, Zhao Cheng asked in a low voice, "So, can we really make it to autumn here?"

After a few seconds, Zhang Shouyi gave a soft "hmm".

"When autumn comes, I need to go home and repair the irrigation canal in Nanwa."

“In the past, rain washed away the land, and if the land wasn’t repaired, it would have been abandoned.”

His voice was soft and his tone was flat, as if he were genuinely planning for future farm work.

Zhao Cheng looked up at him.

"When the wheat is ripe, you can harvest it on the west side, and I'll bundle it on the east side."

"I'll cook some more corn rice later, slice some cured meat, and eat three big bowls of it."

The wind picked up a bit, but it was no longer biting; instead, it carried the fragrance of earth.

The morning light shines down and falls on the branches.

It was a bare jujube tree.

The branches are slender and sway in the wind, as if they are trying to come alive.

　I still have a fever and can't hold on any longer. I'm afraid I can only write one chapter today.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)