The Last Marine
Chapter 35: The Bridge of Sighs

Chapter 35: The Bridge of Sighs

After what felt like an eternity of navigating the treacherous labyrinth of stalled cars, they finally saw it. The military roadblock from the soldier’s journal. The epicenter of the highway’s fall. It was not just a checkpoint; it was a fortress, built across the full span of the Mill River Bridge, a massive concrete and steel artery that was meant to be their primary way out of the city. And it was a tomb.

The sight stole the breath from their lungs. Two M1 Abrams tanks were positioned at the entrance to the bridge, their great cannons pointing uselessly at the sky. Humvees and an Armored Personnel Carrier were arranged in a tight, defensive perimeter, now serving as grotesque planters for the bodies and wreckage that had piled up against them. The entire chokepoint was a solid, multi-layered wall of twisted metal, burned-out vehicles, and the dead.

And the infected... the number was staggering. It was not a horde; it was a nation. Thousands upon thousands of them were packed onto the bridge and the surrounding highway, a seething, undulating sea of bodies. They were drawn here, funneled by some unseen force, their collective moans a constant, soul-crushing roar that was the new sound of the world. They were more agitated here than anywhere else they had been, their movements more frantic, their cries more shrill. It was as if this place was a focal point, a gathering ground for the Shepherd’s flock.

"No," Clara, the last survivor from the clinic besides themselves, whispered, her voice cracking. "There’s no way. There’s no way through that."

She was right. The riot van, their armored plow, would be useless here. It would be like trying to drive through a mountain. Brute force was impossible.

"There has to be another way," Hex said, his voice tight with a tension that bordered on despair. He raised his binoculars, his hands surprisingly steady. He scanned the bridge, the wreckage, the river below, searching for a weakness, a crack in the armor of this impossible fortress. "The main structure of the bridge looks sound. The collapse is all vehicles. The military must have blown the approach to create the initial chokepoint."

Quinn kept his focus on their immediate surroundings, his axe held ready. Even here, a half-mile from the bridge, the density of the infected was increasing. A small group of them, attracted by their presence, broke away from the main horde and started shuffling towards them.

"We can’t stay here," Quinn said. "We need to find cover. Now."

He spotted a large, overturned sanitation truck nearby and herded the small group towards it. They squeezed into the narrow, stinking space between the truck and the concrete median. As they scrambled for cover, Hex slipped on a patch of slick, dark fluid, his hand scraping hard against a jagged piece of metal from a wrecked sedan.

He swore, clutching his hand. "I’m fine," he said, but Quinn could see the deep, ragged gash across his palm, already welling with blood.

"No, you’re not," Lena said immediately, her voice sharp with professional concern. She pulled him further into cover, ignoring the approaching infected. "In this world, there are no minor injuries."

As Quinn and a terrified Clara stood guard, fending off the few infected that found them, Lena went to work. The pressure was immense. She had to work quickly, in a cramped, filthy space, with the sounds of the horde just feet away. She poured a small amount of their precious drinking water onto the wound to clean it, then applied a dose of the powdered wild garlic she had gathered. She wrapped Hex’s hand tightly with the last of their clean bandages. Her hands never shook. She was a beacon of calm competence in a world gone mad.

"It’ll hold," she said, her work finished. "But you keep it clean, you hear me?"

Hex just nodded, his face pale, his respect for the doctor growing with every passing moment.

With the immediate threat handled and Hex’s hand patched, their attention returned to the impossible problem of the bridge. Hex, wincing, raised his binoculars again.

"I see something," he said after a long moment of scanning. He pointed towards the side of the massive concrete support pillar that held up the bridge. "A maintenance ladder. It goes from the base of the pillar up to the bridge deck, bypassing the main roadblock."

Quinn followed his gaze. The ladder was there, a thin, rusty line of iron rungs bolted into the concrete. It was an incredibly risky path. It would mean descending from the highway down to the muddy riverbank, traversing under the bridge, and then climbing the exposed ladder, in full view of any infected that might be looking down.

"It’s our only shot," Quinn said. "A direct fight is suicide."

"How do we even get down to the riverbank?" Lena asked, her eyes tracing the steep, rubble-strewn embankment.

Quinn scanned their surroundings, his mind racing, trying to piece together a plan from the chaos. Stealth alone would not work. There were too many of them. Brute force was out of the question. They needed something else. Something big. Something desperate.

His eyes fell on a large, fully-loaded fuel tanker truck that was wedged between two other vehicles not far from their position. Its tank was miraculously intact, though its cab was riddled with bullet holes. An idea, wild and incredibly dangerous, began to form in his mind.

"The tanker," he said, his voice low.

Hex and Lena turned to look at him.

"We can’t fight them all," Quinn continued, his idea taking shape. "So we don’t. We move them. We create a diversion so massive it will pull every one of those things off the bridge and give us the time we need to get to that ladder."

"You want to blow it up?" Hex asked, his eyes widening as he understood the scale of Quinn’s plan.

"I want to create a river of fire," Quinn said, his gaze intense. "If we can puncture that tank and get the fuel flowing downhill, away from the bridge, and then ignite it... the fire, the noise, the heat... it will be irresistible to them. It will pull the entire horde away from the bridge, towards the flames."

It was the most dangerous plan they had ever conceived. It involved getting close to a massive concentration of infected, handling highly flammable fuel, and starting an uncontrolled fire in the middle of a city-sized tinderbox. A single mistake, a single stray spark at the wrong time, and they would all be incinerated.

But as he looked at the impossible wall of death that was the bridge, he knew it was their only way. He looked at Lily, who was huddled with the other children, her small face a mask of fear. He had to get her across that bridge. He had to get her out of this city.

He would walk through fire to keep his promise. Now, it seemed, he would have to create one.