to be at the top of the rope.
Every muscle in his body strained and ached as if tearing. When he glanced down again, he saw the corpse swinging and flapping around from his struggle.
“Come on, Nearly Eleven, you’re almost there. Grab my hand.” Lola reached over and held a hand out to him.
The gap was too great for him to reach.
Pausing, he took deep breaths to regroup. With a loud grunt, he resumed his climb.
Then he slipped.
When he caught himself again, he looked up at Lola. She’d visibly feared the worst too.
“Come on, Nearly Eleven,” she said. “You can do it.”
When he tried to push up with his feet, the rope slipped through them again. “I can’t, Lola. I can’t do it. The rope’s too slippery.”
Leaning farther down, Lola stretched out to him. “Come on, keep climbing.”
What little strength he had drained from his limbs as he tried to push on, and he couldn’t get a grip on the icy rope.
After another small slip, Lola shouted, “Grip tighter.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?”
The rope slipped through his grip again and he fell another few inches. “I can’t do it.” When he shouted up, his voice cracked. “Help me, Lola. Help me.”
Michael watched Lola flap an arm in his direction. “I can’t reach that far.”
The dark river below looked like blood. The corpse shook violently on the end of the rope like the last of its life was thrashing from it. He had nothing left to give. “Help me, Lola.”
Then he slipped again.
Greasy Pole
Panic battered Michael’s insides as if it were a beast trying to escape. It worsened with every inch he slipped. The cold air had turned the rope into a greasy pole. A scream threatened to burst from his lungs, but he kept it in. The men may be out of sight, but in the near silent night, his cries would carry like a church’s bell.
He slipped again and the rope between his legs pulled his trousers up. It burned his shins as well as his palms.
“Michael,” Lola called down to him.
Unable to look up, Michael slipped again. His feet now rested on the head of the corpse. A groan shuddered through the rope only seconds before a crack rang out as it snapped. Michael’s stomach lurched as both he and the corpse fell.
Snap
Michael caught the thick knot at the end of the rope, a jolt snapping fire through his shoulder blades and down his back at the sudden halt. With his legs hanging, he watched the corpse hurtle toward the river. It dropped with everything pointing south. It fell like it had hung from the bridge… dangling toes, limp arms; even its face watched the water as it plummeted.
The loud splash disappeared almost instantly. The river consumed both the corpse and the disturbance. Another casualty meant nothing for the powerful body of water.
As well as the searing pain in his back, the sudden halt felt like it had broken his hands, but Michael held on to the thick knot.
As Michael swung with the other corpses in the wind he saw where the rope had snapped.
The break happened at the point that would have been level with the corpse’s Adam’s apple. Two separate strands, both frayed where it broke, hung loose. Even in the darkness, he could see the stain where it had snapped. It must have been where the body had started to rot around it and the juice of fleshy decay had weakened the fibers.
The sour tang of rot filled his senses. It may have been from the freshly snapped rope or the bodies surrounding him. It didn’t matter; it stank and he needed to get away from it. A few weeks ago, Michael had never smelled the reek of death; now it seemed like he couldn’t avoid it.
Still gasping from the fall, Michael’s lungs burned as he breathed in the freezing air. The rope above creaked. Please don’t let that snap too. The corpses next to him hung limp and lifeless; their downcast faces emphasizing his fate.
A particularly strong breeze barreled down the river, catching Michael and all of those around him and pushing them in the same direction. As he flew back in toward the bridge, spinning above the water, he crashed into the body next to him. The surprisingly firm corpse released a strong stench like he’d opened a jar of rotting offal and Michael gagged; if only he could cover his nostrils.
He did the next best thing; he closed his eyes.