Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Swaying Bridge

Boot met flesh with a crunch that sent Otsana scraping to the splintered bridge ledge. Not in time to stop her from smashing Radio's skull into the planks.

True's boot came down on the other side of Radio's limp body. Guarding it. Their nail-studded fence plank levelled at Otsana while she crawled back to her feet. Both—empty—hands pushing against the splintered wood. Fuck, where was it?

They chanced a look down. Found it. Laying in a pool of ruby red beside Radio, blood seeped onto the grey wood under it.

"I like seeing you shake," Otsana grinned as the bridge swayed again and sent a tremor through True. Her flinty eyes tracked the waver of their makeshift weapon.

"Fuck you." Their voice was impossibly tight. Choppy waves smacked the legs of the bridge, grey sky reflected on greyer waters. Sweat and rain dripped down their spine, leaving chills in their wake. Radio was too, too still beneath them.

"In your dreams."

The nightmares, maybe.

Get up, Radio, get up.

She inched closer, purposely slow. Taunting. Testing how close she could get. Her gaze flicked over True's shoulder. Frigid metal dented the bare back of their neck. Click. Deafening, and Jonesy's heavy breathing skirted their cold ears.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could they have forgotten that gun?

Gravel crunched behind them, some factioneer coming back from that death pit parking garage that Otsana clearly ached to send them to. As if the odds needed to be any worse against them. Off at the other end of the bridge were probably more factioneers, poised to rush in, not that True could pry their stare off Otsana long enough to check.

Another step closer. "What are you going to do now?"

The gravel crunching ended with an abrupt thud and a gut-deep loss of air from Jonesy. The pressure vanished from True's neck.

"I'll tell you what you're gonna do," Cal said, a faint twang in his voice that True had never noticed before. "You're gonna back up." He punctuated his instruction with the click of a safety. The muzzle of a gun, held steady, preceded him past True.

Otsana reluctantly inched backwards.

The instant Cal was between them and Otsana, True dropped. Throwing the plank off the bridge, their hands found Radio. One to the stab wound, staunching the blood. One sliding under its neck and shoulders. Cold, scarred skin against trembling fingertips. They lifted it just enough to press their ear to its chest.

"Please, Radio," they whispered, the patter of rain drowning out their plea, "please, please, please."

A heartbeat, weak and slow. Calloused fingers wrapped around their wrist, Radio's eyes twisted open, sharp with pain. It curled around its injury, like a black hole had opened in its ribcage and was sucking it into the oblivion of anti-space.

"How we doing back there, True?" Cal asked.

"We're fine, we're fine," they weren't sure if they repeated it to convince him, or themself. It wasn't working either way. They had to stop this bleeding, they had to get off this bridge. They pressed the injury harder. Hot blood poured between their fingers, the only warm thing about Radio.

Cal glanced at them, mouth curved downwards. Turning back to Otsana, he motioned with the handgun. "Go on now, go hide in your hole," he said.

"That thing isn't even loaded," Otsana snarled, moving neither towards them nor away. Without missing a beat, Cal tightened his trigger finger.