By Rebecca Morgan

Mark taps me on the shoulder. “Dynamite warm?”

Plants rustle as I reach down amid the overgrowth and into my sock, fingering the explosive stick and the wooden blasting cap filled with gunpowder. It’s warm against my skin, safely cocooned from the frosty night air. I nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yes. Yours?”

“Wood is digging into my ankle. Freaking hurts.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s go, Reid,” he whispers, ducking low and heading toward the bridge that once spanned a vast lake. Even the insects are silent as we begin our approach, as if they know the future of our land rests on us. I can feel its weight pressing the air from my lungs, making each breath, thought, and step painful.

Beneath our feet, the rocks shift in protest. The noise might as well be screams in the still night. I stumble and fall, fear filling me as my pack jostles, as I hurtle toward the earth. Impact coming for me, death in a fireball.

The sharp edge of a rock slices my skin. The blood warms my hand before turning cold in the frigid night air.

“Stars above, Reid,” Mark curses, coming back to help me to my feet. “Be careful. I can’t lose you tonight.” He squeezes my arm.

Gingerly, I shake my hand to dispel the sting. “Can’t lose you either, brother.” I steady myself. “I guess the dynamite is fine, or we both would have blown.”

My attempt at lightheartedness falls flat. None of this is fun.

“Let’s go,” Mark repeats his words from earlier. “And be more careful. We can’t die before we even try.”

We reach the bridge supports, ready to separate to its opposite ends. That’s the plan, blow the bridge up from left to right. Ensure its demise.

I move to go right when Mark’s hand grips my arm like a vice.

“What—”

He covers my mouth with his hand and I stop, listening. The sounds of an approaching army vibrate in the still night air. Horses nickering. Harsh orders. Wagons creaking. The heavy tread of hundreds—thousands of men.

“Forget the plan,” Mark whispers. “We’ll just place everything here.”

As his brother, I can sense what’s beneath his words. Fear. And Mark is never afraid. He all but drags me to the support closest to us, carelessly slinging his pack to the ground.

I copy his movements as he pulls out the dynamite and blasting cap from his sock. He shoves the cap into the dynamite, but lays the coiled fuse carefully on the ground.

We can’t mess this up.

Failure is not an option here.

My hands are sticky with blood as I try to swiftly pile the dynamite at the middle arch that supports the bridge. The sounds of the army intensify. Not enough time. I pack the bundle of explosives like a swaddled babe against the base of the arch.

Mark steps back first. Before I follow, I set my hand against the dynamite, placing all my hopes on it.

He nods. “Fine.”  The voices are clear now. They are here. I can see the flickers of torches. A breeze carries the sweat and toil of man and beast. Not enough time.

What happens if we fail?

Fail one last chance to do what others could not accomplish. Fail to protect our capitol. One last attempt for safety for us and our land.

Failure is not an option.

Mark grabs the coiled fuse, and we retreat into the forest cover at the dry lake’s edge. My heart races, pounding in my ears, leaving my chest tight and breathless. Mark strikes a match. Puts fire to fuse. We watch the trail as it eats the flammable material, getting ever closer to the pile of dynamite. Mark whispers a prayer beside me.

I can only think, please.

Mark twitches. Shifts from foot to foot. The first soldier steps onto the bridge. I can see his blue uniform. The glint of moonlight off his spiked helmet.

The timing must be perfect. We’ve practiced it again and again, accounting for distance. When the bridge is groaning beneath the weight of our oppressor, the fire hungrily reaches the pile—

And nothing happens.

We wait. Watching as the army is crossing, crossing, crossing, the pounding of their march in rhythm with my heart.

Did the nitro pool at the bottom of the sticks? Did they freeze in the chilly air?

Did I not warm my own detonator enough?

Was it my blood?

What? What? What? What?

“I’m going to fire the explosive myself.” Mark draws the matches from his pocket.

No. No, no, no.

I reach out, take his arm as if I could possibly stop him. “Mark, you can’t. You…”

Just can’t.

We don’t have enough time. To blow up the bridge. For so many things still unsaid. For this goodbye. The whole of our eighteen years haven’t been enough time.

Mark grips my arm, and then he is gone before I have a chance to call him back. To say the words we didn’t say.

I see the small burst of flame. A loud crack ricochets across the dead lake. And the bridge groans and protests as the piers bend inward, the great giant sinking to her knees. Wood snaps, crumbling and burning. The orange and red flames burn my eyes, evaporating my tears. My own cries are lost among the hundreds that die before me. The horses that scream as they fall to their deaths.

We did it.

We succeeded.

Though technically there was no “we”.

Thousands alive and yet to be born, saved because of Mark.

Victory is ours today and everything it entails.

But even the truth of that turns to ash in my mouth. I can taste the bitterness of it in the embers that float on the wind. Injustice and anger at the unfairness of it all take root.

There is no victory for me today.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan began her writing journey by scribbling on a page—and being incredibly proud of her “stories.” Years later, she has had several works of short fiction published. You can find her work in Havok’s World Tour and Legendary anthologies. Rebecca aims to write stories that show healing through the power of story and help the brokenhearted. Besides writing, Rebecca loves the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, cooking, blue oceans, salsa, and all things apothecary.

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