“Don’t do that again,” I muttered against Clutch’s chest.
“Yeah,” he replied breathlessly. Then he pressed a couple fingers to his headset. “Bravo needs pickup now. We’ve got half of Chow Town waiting for us on one side of the bridge, and Dogs set up to chase us down on the other.”
Silence except for the growing hum of moans and shuffling feet.
Clutch scowled. “Copy that. Three hours. Over and out.”
I pulled out a flask and took a quick drink. It was still half full, but no telling how long we’d be out here. There was no sound of engines, which meant the Dogs were still there but hopefully still oblivious to us. “Did you see how many Dogs were in that truck?”
Clutch shook his head.
I continued. “Once we get across we might be close enough to get clear shots.”
“That’s assuming they don’t take us out while we’re climbing across,” Clutch replied.
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I whispered and glanced back to find Tack climbing up onto an I-beam under the bridge.
I pulled away from Clutch but kept close by his side as I crawled toward Tack. The underside of the bridge was a zigzag of iron. After cracking my knuckles, I grabbed onto an I-beam. The beams were large, so there was plenty to grab on to, but I wasn’t convinced I had the strength in my fingers and arms to get all the way across. I slid my legs around an I-beam and shimmied toward Tack.
He was already several feet ahead and putting more distance between us. I followed, with Clutch behind me. It wasn’t a long bridge by bridge standards, but the arm strength it took for pulling myself across, it could’ve been the Golden Gate. Every time a gunshot rang out, I froze, waiting to feel horrible piercing pain. But none ever came. At only about a third of the way across, my arms shook, as much from my fear of heights as from my own body weight.
At the halfway point, two I-beams intersected and I was able to lean on one to catch my breath, though the humid air did nothing to help my breathing. Afraid if I stopped too long, I’d never get across, and so I continued. Minute by minute, putting one hand before the other, I made it to the three-quarters point, then only ten feet left. Eight, six, four.
By the time I reached the end, I had nothing left. I literally dropped off the bridge and collapsed onto the ground next to Tack. I rolled onto my back and grasped long grass with both hands.
Clutch dropped next to me, and we all lay there for several moments. When Tack moved, I stayed put, watching him Army crawl up the hill and scout the scene. This side wasn’t quite as steep and—thankfully—zed-free. He backed himself down to us.
“SITREP?” Clutch asked.
“I see only two Dogs,” Tack replied in a hoarse whisper. “One driver and one gunner. The driver looks like he’s taking a lunch break. The gunner is busy watching the herd behind us. I think they’ve got him spooked. I count three zeds at the tree line. A few more dead on the ground.”
Which explained the random gunshots.
“Can we get close enough to take them out without being seen?” Clutch asked.
“Maybe,” Tack replied. “It looks like the gunner is still watching the other side of the bridge for us.”
Clutch nodded and pulled out his pistol. “We head for the tree line. That way, if we’re seen, we can still find cover. Cash, you take the driver. I’ll take the gunny. Tack, make sure we’re covered.” He didn’t wait for a response.
“There’s no telling how many zeds are in those trees,” Tack warned.