Chapter 18: The Crossing

The sound of the first bolt shearing was a high, lonely note that cut straight through the roar of the Bayou Teche. It wasn't a snap or a crack, but a mechanical scream, the kind of noise metal makes when it forgets how to be solid. I froze, my boots slipping on the rain-slicked rusted steel of the service catwalk, my fingers digging into the chain-link till the wire bit into my calluses. Below us, the water was a churning mass of black coffee and broken timber, swallowing the cypress knees and reaching for the underbelly of the bridge.

"Keep your weight centered, Miller," Elias shouted over the gale, his voice barely shearing through the wind. He was ten feet ahead of me, a dark silhouette against the prehistoric grey of the storm. He didn't look back. He couldn't. If he shifted his center of gravity by an inch, the swaying section of the span would dump him into the Maw. "Don’t watch the water. Watch my heels. If I stop, you stop. If I jump, you don't think—you just leave the ground."

I swallowed the metallic taste of adrenaline and forced my eyes up. I didn't look at the churning death below. I looked at the frayed cuffs of Elias’s work pants and the way his heels braced against the vibrating metal. The bridge beneath us, a relic of 1950s ambition and decades of swamp-rot neglect, was no longer a static object. It was a living, agonized thing. The wind caught the high steel trusses and turned the entire structure into a tuning fork. Every gust sent a shudder through my shins that made my teeth ache.

"The winch is slipping!" Sarah's voice crackled through the comms, distorted by static and the sheer volume of the rain. She was back at the north anchor point, trying to lead the tension lines that kept our section from swinging into the main pylon. "Elias, the stress loads are spiking. You’ve got maybe three minutes before the secondary cables give. Get off that section now!"

"Negative, Sarah," Elias grunted. I saw his shoulders tighten under his soaked canvas jacket. "We lose this cross-member, the whole Eastern approach goes. Cypress Bend gets cut off from the mainland for months. We do this now."

He reached the gap—a four-foot maw where the expansion joint had simply vanished, claimed by the vibration. The two halves of the bridge were no longer speaking the same language. The section we stood on groaned and dropped three inches, then jerked back up with a bone-jarring thud. 

"Miller, anchor the lead," Elias commanded. 

I moved with the mechanical precision of someone too terrified to feel my own limbs. I unslung the heavy steel coil from my shoulder, the weight nearly pulling me over the side as a fresh gust hammered us. I dropped to one knee, the cold water on the catwalk soaking into my jeans instantly. I fumbled for the locking carabiner, my fingers numb and clumsy. 

"I can't get a purchase!" I yelled, my voice cracking. The steel was too smooth, the rust flaking off in wet chunks as I tried to find a structural rib that wasn't compromised. "It’s all soft, Elias! It’s like trying to anchor to a wet biscuit!"

Elias turned then, just enough for me to see the madness in his eyes. He wasn't afraid. That was the most terrifying part. He looked like he was finally in his element, a man who had spent his whole life waiting for the world to break so he could be the one to hold it together with his bare hands. 

"Then make a hole," he said. He tossed me the pneumatic driver. "Burn through the rust. We aren't leaving this line loose. If that cable whips, it’ll take your head off and then Sarah’s."

I took the driver, the weight of it familiar and heavy. I pressed the tip against the base of the guardrail stanchion and squeezed the trigger. The screech of the drill against the metal was a physical assault on my ears, but I didn't pull back. Sparks flew, dying instantly in the torrential rain, turning into tiny pinpricks of orange light that vanished in the grey. I leaned my entire body weight into it, my chest pressed against the vibrating steel, feeling the bridge heave beneath me like a dying whale.

*Don’t look down. Don’t look down.*

"Hurry!" Sarah screamed. "Elias, the pylon is tilting! I’m seeing vertical separation on the main deck!"

The drill broke through with a sudden, violent lurch. I didn't celebrate. I shoved the anchor bolt through the hole and hammered the locking pin home with the heel of my palm, ignoring the way the jagged metal sliced into my skin. 

"Done!" I yelled.

"Hand me the tensioner!" Elias was already reaching back, his body leaning over the precipice of the four-foot gap. 

I slid the heavy tool toward him along the catwalk. He caught it with one hand, his boots sliding dangerously close to the edge. He didn't flinch. He hooked the tensioner to the main cable and began to crank. With every turn, the thick steel braid groaned, pulling the two swaying sections of the bridge back toward one another. The bridge screamed in protest. It was a sound of immense, grinding pressure—stone against stone, steel against steel.

"You're pulling too hard!" I shouted, crawling toward him to provide a brace. "The anchor won't hold the lateral load!"

"It has to!" he roared back, his face turning a deep, bruised purple from the effort. "Give me your hand! Brace the housing!"

I lunged forward, grabbing the cold, vibrating housing of the tensioner. My hands were right next to his, and I could feel the heat radiating off his skin despite the freezing rain. Together, we threw our weight against the tool. The gap began to close. One foot. Two feet. The bridge was fighting us, the wind acting like a giant hand trying to push the sections apart, but we were winning.

Then, the world tilted.

It wasn't a snap this time. It was a slow, sickening groan. The main pylon—the one Sarah had warned us about—didn't fall. It settled. It sank six inches into the softened mud of the bayou floor, and the alignment of the bridge shifted instantly.

The tensioner kicked back like a shotgun. 

The handle caught Elias square in the chest, hurling him backward. I saw it in slow motion: his feet leaving the catwalk, his hands grasping at the empty, rain-filled air, and the look of pure, clinical surprise on his face. 

"Elias!" 

I lunged, my belly hitting the wet steel, my arm shooting out into the void. I caught his wrist. The jerk nearly tore my shoulder out of its socket. I screamed, my face pressed against the rough grating of the catwalk, my legs kicking for leverage that wasn't there. 

He was dangling. Below him, the black water of the Teche hissed, a lethal slurry of debris and current. He spun slowly, his other hand clawing at the slick underside of the bridge, finding nothing but moss and slime.

"Let go, Miller," he gasped, his voice thin. He was looking up at me, and for the first time, I saw the age in his face—the lines etched by years of holding things up that wanted to fall. "The anchor is pulling. If you hold on, it’ll take you with me."

"Shut up," I hissed through gritted teeth. "Shut up and give me your other hand."

"Miller, look at the bolt!"

I risked a glance back. The anchor bolt I’d just drilled was groaning. The steel around it was buckling, the hole I’d made widening as the tension from the cable pulled at it. Every time the bridge swayed, the bolt moved another fraction of an inch. It was going to unzip the metal like a zipper.

"Sarah! I need slack!" I screamed into my mic. "Release the north winch! Now!"

"If I release, the whole span collapses!" Sarah’s voice was sobbing now. "I can't, Miller! There are people still on the north side, the evacuation buses—"

"Release it!" I roared. "He’s going to drop!"

I felt Elias’s grip slipping. His skin was too wet, too cold. I tried to wrap my fingers around his forearm, digging my nails into his skin, trying to find a purchase on his bone if I had to. 

"Miller," Elias said. His voice was oddly calm now, almost gentle. "Look at me."

I didn't want to. I wanted to look at the bolt. I wanted to look at the help that wasn't coming. But I looked at him. 

"You did good," he said. "The bridge is braced. It’ll hold long enough for the buses. But it won't hold us both."

"Don't you dare," I whispered. "Don't you dare do the hero thing."

"It's not heroics," he said, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "It's physics. Load-bearing capacity, kid. You learned that on day one."

He began to unwrap his fingers from my wrist. 

"No!" I surged forward, my chest hanging off the edge of the catwalk now. I grabbed his jacket collar with my other hand, the fabric bunching and tearing. "Sarah, give me the slack or I’m going over with him!"

A sudden, violent *thud* vibrated through the structure. For a second, I thought the bridge had finally given way. But the tension on my arm vanished. The cable didn't snap—it went limp. Sarah had released the winch.

The section of the bridge we were on dropped like an elevator, falling five feet until the safety chains caught. The violence of the drop slammed me against the railing, knocking the wind out of me, but I didn't let go. Elias swung inward, his body slamming into the vertical support beam. 

"Climb!" I wheezed, my lungs burning. "Climb, damn you!"

He scrambled, his boots finding purchase on a structural flange. I hauled back with everything I had left, my muscles screaming, my vision swimming with black spots. I felt his weight shift from my arms to the bridge. He rolled onto the catwalk beside me, both of us gasping, the rain pelting our faces like gravel.

We lay there for a long moment, two drowned rats on a sinking ship. The bridge was still swaying, still screaming, but the immediate threat had passed. The span was lower, canted at a dangerous angle, but it was settled. 

I looked at the anchor bolt. It had held by a fraction of an inch of mangled steel.

Elias rolled onto his back, staring up into the dark clouds. He stayed silent for a full minute, his chest heaving. Then, he turned his head to look at me.

"You're fired," he croaked.

I blinked, wiping the mud and salt from my eyes. "What?"

"You disobeyed a direct order from your lead engineer," he said, though there was no heat in it. "You risked the entire structural integrity of the north approach for one man."

"I saved your life," I said, my voice shaking.

"Exactly," he said. He reached out, patting my shoulder with a hand that was trembling uncontrollably. "Stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Absolute waste of resources." He paused, a ragged breath escaping him. "Thank you."

My radio turned into a cacophony of Sarah’s frantic sobbing and the distant, muffled cheers of the crew back at the anchor point. I couldn't respond. I didn't have the breath. 

I sat up slowly, my joints feeling like they’d been filled with broken glass. I looked across the gap. The bridge was a mess—twisted, broken, and held together by nothing but luck and a few lines of Sarah’s cable. 

"We need to get back," Elias said, struggling to his feet. He looked fragile now, the adrenaline leaching out of him, leaving behind a man who was far too old for this. "The water is still rising. This pylon isn't done settling."

I stood up, bracing myself against the railing. I looked down at the water one last time. The debris was thicker now—pieces of houses, uprooted trees, the wreckage of lives being washed toward the Gulf. 

"Did we save it?" I asked, looking at the twisted span.

Elias looked at the bridge, then at the road leading into Cypress Bend, where the dim headlights of the first evacuation bus were just appearing through the trees. 

"We bought them time," he said. "In this country, Miller, that’s all you ever really get."

We began the long, slow crawl back toward the north bank. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. The wind tried to pluck us off the steel, and the rain tried to blind us, but we moved with a grim, synchronized rhythm. 

When we finally reached the concrete abutment, Sarah was there, running toward us. She threw her arms around Elias first, then me, her heavy yellow slicker smelling of oil and salt. 

"I thought you were gone," she sobbed into my chest. "When I saw the pylon drop, I thought..."

"We're fine, Sarah," Elias said, though he staggered slightly as he stepped onto solid ground. He didn't look back at the bridge. He looked at the bus, which was now rumbling onto the approach, its tires splashing through the deep puddles. He signaled to the driver with a sharp, downward motion of his hand. *Go. Faster.*

The bus crossed. The driver leaned on the horn, a long, mournful blast that echoed off the trees. We watched it disappear into the grey curtain of the storm, followed by another, and then a line of civilian cars, packed to the roofs with suitcases and pets.

"Is that all of them?" I asked.

"The last of the town center," Sarah said, wiping her eyes. "The sheriff says the backwater has already taken the lower road. This was the only way out."

We stood there on the bank, watching the lifeblood of Cypress Bend drain away across a bridge that shouldn't have been standing. 

"Come on," Elias said, turning toward his truck. "We're not done. The levee at the south bend has a hairline crack, and I’ll be damned if I let the mud take my office before I get my whiskey out of the desk."

He got into the driver's seat without waiting for an answer. Sarah followed, but I stayed for a second, looking back at the Teche. 

The bridge groaned again, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to come from the very earth. I saw a shadow move near the base of the pylon we’d just left. For a heartbeat, I thought it was a person—someone left behind, someone trapped in the wreckage.

I squinted against the rain. The shadow didn't move like a person. It was too fluid, too dark. It shifted against the current, moving *up* the pylon, defying the force of the water.

"Miller! Get in the truck!" Elias yelled.

I blinked, and the shadow was gone. Just a trick of the light, I told myself. Just the exhaustion playing games with my retinas. 

But as I climbed into the cab and pulled the door shut, I couldn't shake the feeling of cold grease on my skin. I looked at my hands—the ones that had held Elias, the ones that had drilled into the bridge. 

The cuts weren't bleeding. 

They were turning a bruised, mottled grey, the edges of the skin curling back like old parchment. And under the sound of the engine and the rain, I thought I heard a voice—not over the radio, skip-shifting through my mind like a dying transmission.

*The crossing is made,* the voice whispered. *But the toll is still due.*

I looked at Elias. He was staring straight ahead at the road, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He didn't see it. He didn't hear it. 

"You okay, kid?" he asked, not looking at me. "You're white as a sheet."

"Just tired," I lied, tucking my hands into my armpits to hide the grey. "Just the adrenaline coming down."

He nodded, shifting the truck into gear. "Get some sleep. We've got a long night."

As we pulled away, I looked in the side mirror. The bridge was a skeleton in the mist, a jagged line of broken teeth against the sky. And for a split second, before the curve of the road took it away, I saw the water rise up—not in a wave, but in a hand, wrapping its black, liquid fingers around the very pylon we had just saved.

The bridge didn't fall. It began to dissolve. 

I turned away, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. We were moving inland, away from the water, but the smell of the bayou was inside the truck now. It was thick, cloying, and smelled of things that had been dead for a very, very long time.

"Elias," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Did you see the water?"

"I've seen enough water to last me a lifetime," he snapped, his voice tight. "Don't look back, Miller. Nothing back there but ghosts and regret."

He was right. But the ghosts weren't staying at the bridge. They were in the backseat, and they were breathing. 

The truck hit a deep pothole, and the jarring motion sent a jolt through my arm. The grey skin flaked off, falling onto the floor mat like ash, revealing not raw flesh beneath, but something smooth, hard, and black as the bottom of the Teche. 

I looked up at the rearview mirror and caught my own reflection. My eyes weren't brown anymore. They were the color of the storm—a flat, lightless grey that saw right through the metal of the truck, right through the trees, to the dark thing waiting in the heart of the swamp.

The bridge had let us cross. But it hadn't let us go.