The Codex

82

Tom turned just in time to see the fiery human meteor that was Hauser streaking into the bottomless chasm, flickering dimly and silently as it hurtled down through layers of mist before disappearing, leaving nothing behind but a faint trail of smoke.

The entire midsection of the bridge where Hauser had been standing was on fire.

“Get off the bridge!” Tom cried. “Run!”

They ran as best they could, supporting their father, advancing toward the four soldiers, who quickly retreated to terra firma but remained blocking the far end of the bridge. The soldiers looked confused, uncertain, guns raised, liable to do anything. Hauser’s last order had been to let the Broadbents pass — but would they?

The leader of the group, a lieutenant, raised his weapon and cried, “Halt!”

“Let us pass!” Tom cried in Spanish. They kept coming.

“No. Get back.”

“Hauser ordered you to let us pass!” Tom could feel the bridge trembling. The burning cable was going to go at any second.

“Hauser is dead,” said the lieutenant. “I am now in charge.”

“The bridge is burning, for God’s sake!”

A smile crept up on the teniente’s face. “Yes.”

As if on cue the whole bridge jerked, and Tom and his father and brothers were thrown to their knees. One of the cables had parted, sending a shower of sparks into the abyss, while the bridge whipsawed under the sudden release of tension.

Tom struggled to his feet, helping his brothers raise their father.

“You must let us pass!”

The soldier answered with a burst of fire just above their heads. “You die with the bridge. That is my order! The White City is ours now!”

Tom turned; smoke and flames streamed from the bridge’s midsection, fed by the updraft from below. Tom saw a second cable start to unravel, spilling burning bits of fiber into the air.

“Hang on!” he cried, gripping his father.

The cable parted with a violent lashing, and the entire deck of the bridge fell away like a curtain dropping. They clung to the two remaining cables, struggling to hold on to their weakened father. The bridge was whipsawing back and forth like a spring.

“Soldiers or no soldiers,” said Tom, “let’s get the hell off this bridge.”

They began edging along the two remaining cables, their feet on the lower one, their hands on the upper one, helping Broadbent along.

The teniente and his three soldiers advanced two steps. “Get ready to fire!” They dropped to a stable firing position and took aim.

Tom and his family were now only twenty-five feet from land, and the soldiers would be firing at them from almost point-blank range. He knew they had no choice but to keep going toward the men who were about to kill them.

The third cable parted like a spring, sending a recoil through the bridge that almost knocked them all off. The wreckage of the bridge hung from the single remaining cable, swinging back and forth.

The teniente pointed his gun at them. “You die now,” he said in English.

There was a hollow thud, but it was not from his gun. A surprised look came into the teniente’s face, and it was as if he were bowing down before them, a long arrow sticking out of the back of his head. This struck momentary confusion in the other five soldiers, and in that moment a bloodcurdling yell went up from the edge of the forest, followed by a huge shower of arrows. Tara warriors poured out of the jungle and raced across the flat area, leaping and shrieking, firing arrows on the fly. The remaining soldiers, caught by surprise on the flank, out in the open, threw down their guns in a panic to flee and were instantly transformed into human pincushions, struck with dozens of arrows simultaneously; they staggered about wildly like drunken porcupines before falling to the ground.

A moment later Tom and his brothers had reached land — just as the final cable parted in a great cloud of sparks. The two blazing ends of the bridge swung lazily toward the canyon walls and crashed into them with a shudder and a cascade of burning debris.

It was over. The bridge was gone.

Tom looked ahead and saw Sally stand up out of the brush in front and run toward them. They moved toward her, helping their father along, aided by Tara warriors. In a few moments they had reached her. Tom folded her in his arms and they hugged, while Hairy Bugger, now safe in Tom’s pocket again, squeaked his displeasure at being squeezed in the middle.

Tom looked back. The two pieces of bridge were hanging over the chasm, still burning. A half dozen men had been left trapped in the white city. They stood on the edge of the precipice, staring at the dangling wreckage. The mists began to rise and, bit by bit, the silent, stupefied figures vanished.