Chapter 41: Arthur's Span

The steel cable hummed beneath Elias’s palm, a low-frequency vibration that felt less like machinery and more like a growl. He didn't look down at the churning grey of the Cypress River four hundred feet below; he kept his eyes locked on the rusted junction box where the primary suspension met the northern pier. 

"If that bolt shears while you're out there, Elias, the bridge doesn't just sag—it unzips." Arthur’s voice came through the comms-bead, distorted by the wind and the magnetic interference bleeding off the riverbed. "And I don't have the spare parts to put a human being back together."

Elias hooked his carabiner into the secondary safety line, the metallic *clack* echoing in the hollow throat of the span. "The sensors are already dead, Artie. If I don't manual-reset the tensioners, the sway is going to hit the resonance threshold by midnight. We lose the bridge, we lose the supply line to the Delta. You know that."

"I know the math," Arthur snapped. Back in the control nest, Elias could picture him—hunched over a flickering amber terminal, his fingers dancing over keys that stuck, a cigarette burning dangerously close to his last good circuit board. "I also know that the structural integrity of Arthur's Span is currently being held together by rust and the sheer stubbornness of the man who built it. Don’t push it."

Elias began his crawl. The wind at this altitude was a physical weight, a cold, invisible hand trying to peel him off the girders. The world of Cypress Bend was a smear of charcoal and bruised purple in the twilight. From here, the town looked like a scattering of embers in a cold hearth, fragile and flickering. 

He reached the first tensioning assembly. It was a massive iron collar, weeping tears of orange oxidation. He pulled his wrench from his belt—a heavy, custom-weighted beast of a tool—and wedged it into the manual override. He leaned his entire weight into the turn.

*Groan.*

The bridge shivered. It wasn't a mechanical noise; it was the sound of a giant's bones grinding together. Elias pressed his forehead against the cold metal, counting his heartbeats until the vibration subsided.

"Artie, talk to me. Did that register?"

Silence. Only the whistling wind.

"Arthur? Do you copy?"

"Copy," the voice finally returned, thin and rattling. "You just dropped the North-East quadrant by three centimeters. The oscillation is stabilizing, but the stress is transferring to the main arch. Elias... the readings are peaking. There’s a hairline fracture in the load-bearing plate. If you don't get out of there in the next ten minutes, it won't matter if the tension is right."

Elias didn't move. He stared at the rusted metal under his hands. "The Delta families don't have ten minutes of hope left, Artie. They're starving. If I don't finish the reset, the heavy trucks won't make the crossing."

"The trucks won't make it if the bridge is at the bottom of the river, either!" Arthur shouted, his voice cracking. "Listen to me, kid. I've spent thirty years keeping this relic standing. I’ve patched it with scrap, I’ve prayed over the rivets, and I’ve lied to the Council about its safety. I am telling you—the Span is tired. She wants to fall."

"Then she’s going to have to wait," Elias muttered. 

He unhooked his safety and Lunged for the next strut. It was a reckless move, a five-foot gap over nothingness. His boot skidded on a patch of slick moss, and for a heartbeat, he was weightless. The air rushed past his ears, a vacuum of sound. Then, his fingers slammed into a rusted flange. The metal bit into his skin, tearing his glove and the flesh beneath. 

He didn't scream. He dragged himself up, his muscles screaming, the copper scent of his own blood filling his nose. 

"Elias? Your vitals just spiked. What happened?"

"Dropped my wrench," Elias lied, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wiped his bloody hand on his thigh. "Recovered it. Moving to the final tensioner."

The final assembly sat at the very apex of the arch, the highest point of the Span. To reach it, he had to climb the exterior lattice, exposed to the full force of the gale. The clouds above were moving with unnatural speed, driven by the atmospheric shifts that plagued the Bend. A storm was rolling in—a real one. The kind that carried grit and salt and the promise of destruction.

As he climbed, he looked back toward the control nest. Through the gloom, he saw the amber glow of Arthur's window. It was the only light in the tower, a lighthouse for a dying world. Arthur wasn't just a mechanic; he was the bridge's soul. If Arthur left, the Span would collapse out of pure loneliness.

"I'm at the top," Elias said, hauling himself onto the narrow catwalk. 

The view from here was terrifyingly beautiful. The river below was etched with white foam, looking like jagged marble. He could see the dark silhouettes of the transport trucks lined up at the southern gate, their headlights off to avoid drawing attention from the scavengers in the flats. They were waiting on him.

"The fracture is spreading, Elias," Arthur’s voice was a whisper now, stripped of its usual bravado. "I can hear it in the sensors. It sounds like... like ice cracking on a lake. Get the hell off my bridge."

"Just one more turn," Elias said. 

He set the wrench. This was the master bolt. It controlled the distribution for the entire northern half of the structure. If he turned it too far, he would snap the primary cable. If he didn't turn it far enough, the bridge would collapse under the weight of the first truck.

He pulled. Nothing.

He braced his feet against the railing and threw his entire body into a dead-lift. The metal groaned, but the bolt remained frozen, welded shut by decades of neglect and salt air.

"Come on, you piece of junk," Elias hissed. "Move!"

He felt a tremor through the catwalk. It wasn't the wind. It was a structural shift. Somewhere below, a rivet had just popped. He heard the distant *ping* of metal hitting water.

"Elias! Get out! Now!"

"Not yet!" 

Elias reached into his pack and pulled out a small canister of thermite Paste—something Arthur had strictly forbidden. It was unstable and prone to melting through things it shouldn't. He smeared it around the rim of the bolt and clicked his igniter.

A blinding flare of white light hissed into the night. The heat was instantaneous, searing the hair off Elias’s forearms. He waited three seconds, the count-down to disaster, then grabbed the wrench again.

The bolt didn't just turn; it surrendered.

*CLUNK-CLUNK-CLUNK.*

The sound echoed through the entire Span. The vibration was so violent it knocked Elias off his feet. He slammed into the grating, his ribs barking in protest. 

Below him, the great cables began to sing—a high, melodic pitch that harmonized with the wind. The bridge adjusted. The sag in the center lifted, the arch tightening like a bow being drawn. 

"I did it," Elias panted, staring up at the darkening sky. "Artie, look at the monitors. Tell me it's holding."

There was a long silence. For ten seconds, the only sound was the wind and the blood rushing in Elias’s ears.

"It’s... it’s stable," Arthur finally said. His voice was thick with an emotion Elias couldn't name. Relief? Exhaustion? "The load-bearing stresses just dropped forty percent. You crazy, stupid kid. You actually did it."

Elias let out a laugh that turned into a cough. "Told you. The Span isn't ready to give up yet."

"Don't get cocky. You still have to get down, and that storm is about five minutes from turning you into a kite. Move your ass, Elias. I’ve got the kettle on."

Elias started his descent, his body feeling like it was made of lead and broken glass. Every movement was a feat of will. He reached the lower girders just as the first drops of rain began to fall—hard, heavy pellets that felt like stones.

When he finally dropped onto the solid concrete of the northern pier, his legs gave out. He sprawled on the wet pavement, the smell of ozone and wet iron filling his lungs. 

He looked toward the southern gate. A signal light blinked twice. Green. 

The first truck entered the Span. He watched as the massive tires rolled onto the metal plating. The bridge shifted, accepting the weight. The cables hummed their new song, a deeper, stronger note. The bridge held.

Elias stood up, shaking, and began the long walk toward the control tower. He could see Arthur’s silhouette in the window, a small, hunched figure against the amber light. 

As he reached the tower door, he heard a sound that stopped him cold. It wasn't the bridge, and it wasn't the storm. It was a low, rhythmic thumping coming from the woods near the bridge’s base.

He turned, squinting into the darkness. 

Out of the shadows of the cypress trees, a single figure emerged. It was a man, dressed in the tattered remains of a Peacekeeper uniform, his face obscured by a gas mask. He wasn't looking at Elias. He was looking at the bridge.

In his hand, he held a long, black cylinder—a thermal charge.

Elias reached for his comms, but his fingers were too numb to work the switch. He opened his mouth to shout, but the wind swallowed his voice. The man looked up, his goggles reflecting the distant green light of the transport trucks.

He didn't move toward the bridge. He looked directly at Elias and tapped the side of his mask.

Then, he stepped back into the shadows and vanished.

Elias scrambled for the tower door, throwing it open and stumbling into the warmth of the control room. Arthur spun around, a smile dying on his face as he saw Elias’s expression.

"Elias? What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Elias gripped the edge of the terminal, his knuckles white. "We're not the only ones who wanted the bridge fixed, Artie."

Arthur’s eyes went wide. He looked at the monitors, which showed the trucks halfway across the Span. He looked at the seismic sensors, which were now picking up a rhythmic, artificial vibration coming from the foundations—not of the bridge, but of the tower itself.

"The trucks," Elias whispered. "They're not carrying food, are they?"

Arthur didn't answer. He turned back to the screen, his fingers trembling as he pulled up the manifest he’d been told not to open. 

"Oh, god," Arthur breathed.

On the screen, the cargo list scrolled by: *Crate 1-40: Ignition Assemblies. Crate 41-80: Volatile Component B.* 

The bridge groaned again, but this time, it sounded like a warning.

Elias looked out the window at the long line of trucks crossing the Span, their lights cutting through the rain. They were moving smoothly, perfectly balanced by the tension he had just restored. He had given them the perfect path.

He looked at the wrench still clutched in his hand, the metal stained with his own blood.

"Artie," Elias said, his voice cold. "Tell me how to break it."