SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

The bridge was old, and she ducked below the water in a few places, but she held long enough for Luke to make it across. He fell twice, and almost went over into the river, but he managed to limp onto dry land. The bridge calmed. After a few minutes it started to bob again. In the middle distance something cracked. Someone did a poor imitation of an owl, asking the same nonsense question again and again. Luke snatched the shovel off his belt, and brought the edge down on the bridge. Boards splintered, and the pontoons beneath sighed as they dipped down the rest of the way. Luke crashed the shovel into the chain hard enough to send shivers up his arm, but it held. The bridge bobbed more vigorously, and a chorus of barks and howls joined the questioner. Something stirred the mist, and a bullet clanged off the shovel head. Luke let it go, drew his pistol, and fired. The chain snapped, along with the supports holding it in place. The bridge shuddered, shimmied, and hung on for three more heart beats. Then the second chain gave way with a metallic sigh.

Luke stood with the smoking gun held tightly in numb fingers, and watched the bridge float away into the mist. He heard splashes, but no one came toward him. No one shot at him. The expended .45 shell bobbed in the water like a small boat. Luke watched until it vanished, wondering for a moment just where the fuck it was going. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to snatch Susan’s rifle.

A rope creaked, and Luke turned. A black ash stood tall in the center of the little island, its dead roots anchored in dead soil. A dozen busted pieces of wood were nailed to the trunk, and strips of ragged canvas hung from the branches like a mummy’s wrappings. A fraying, hemp rope hung from a top branch, and a rocking chair dangled from the end. Luke sighed. Seated in the chair and dressed in dusty black scraps, was a headless body. Hanging from the foot rest was a bent, dented number plate with rust around the edges. Written on it were three, simple words; Welcome to Hell.

Luke shook his head slowly. He coughed, wincing as he moved his left hand. He flexed his remaining fingers, gritted his teeth, and snapped the string holding the tip of his pinky on. Luke wrapped the warm, wet nub in a cloth, and put it in his pocket.

“Don’t mind me,” he said to the dead man. “I’m just passing through.”

Charlie nodded, bobbing his hollow neck in a wind Luke didn’t feel.

* * *

The tree was a directory of the damned. One set of splintered boards pointed toward a plank bridge anchored to the ground with steel stakes. In that direction were Gehenna, Tartaros, and Limbo. Another pointed to a stone trestle that stretched onto a shadowy patch. It said Viti, Butcher Field, and the Stalking Grounds were that way. An arrow pointed at nothing, but when Luke looked closer he saw the water was broken by rounded stones the color of infected teeth. The splintered sign claimed Sheol was down that path. Scratched into the bottom of every sign in jagged, palsied letters was the word Midian.

Luke seared the worst of his wounds, then wrapped them in the cleanest strips of cloth he had. He drank all but a mouthful of his water, and found his shovel lying in the dead, dry weeds. There was a pockmark in the blade, but it was still serviceable. He stood next to the tree, and listened. He didn’t hear anything except the dead man’s creaking rope and the shushing water all around him. He tried to orient his direction. He looked up at the moon, but it sat high in the sky with no stars anywhere to be seen. In the end he chose the rope bridge, carefully notching the post before setting off across the planks.

Luke shifted his weight slowly at first, keeping his good hand on the rough-spun rope. It prickled his skin, and after about ten feet he tied another strip of cloth around his palm. That was better, but gripping the rope still felt like he was bare-hand fishing in a nettle jar. Down in the water fairy lights bobbed like the souls of drowned children. Luke reached a pair of heavy, wooden pylons. The left said Look, and the right said Don’t Touch.

The second span dipped lower, a few of the slats nearly kissing the water below. Luke focused on the boards, and on putting one foot in front of the other. His shoulders hunched, and the cords in his neck stuck out. He was gritting his teeth, but couldn’t make himself stop. Step, creak, wait, breathe became the stuttered rhythm of his life. The rhythm broke without warning as a board snapped, and Luke’s left foot plunged into the water.