This story is by Lucas Miguel Hernandez and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
The Traveler was nearing the end of his walk across the Hillsboro Industrial Bridge. The first mixed steel and concrete bridge in Mabry City, its two turquoise beams linked the city from the Ayers District to the Goodwin District. The railings on each side seemed like wide open arms welcoming him inside as it led him into Goodwin, with the blue skies and the warmth of the sun adding to the welcome. Very few crossed the Hillsboro since it had opened long ago but he was set on exploring the city through this bridge and recrossing it. Despite what had happened the day it opened, it didn’t make sense to him why many people believed what they did about the bridge.
As the Traveler walked, images of the Hillsboro’s opening day in 1911 after four years of construction passed through his mind. The ceremonial first crossing by foot and vehicle by everyone in Mabry City, the citywide celebrations marking the city’s latest move towards modernization. The three young men drinking from a glass jug of moonshine, stumbling their way through a park, one of them being seen kicking over a log of a bonfire. The jug they were holding, smashing against the lit logs and immediately creating a fireball, the orange flames with blue outer linings surging throughout the city and burning away at everything. People flailing helplessly as they were engulfed in the flames, the sounds of screams for help mixed in with shrieks, coughs and gags becoming strangled chokes from thick smoke, the waves of people running desperately through this bridge to survive. The frantic rescue attempts that included even the injured themselves trying to help. One hundred nine people left dead when it was over with nearly ten years passing before the city fully recovered. Since the day of the fire, many residents came to believe that the brand new bridge was cursed and had caused the disaster.
Every following generation was made to remember this as a means to keep everybody, including those who visited the city, from crossing the Hillsboro. The Traveler also knew about the other measures taken. He had seen old films of the watchtowers constructed two yards away from opposite sides of the bridge, each holding a guard standing ready with a rifle to shoot and kill anybody seen walking through it. When this method contributed to a large deficit, the city council switched to making arrests, payment of a mandatory five thousand dollar fine, and a permanent ban from Mabry City. Twenty-five years had now passed since these penalties were ended but most people still decided to keep their distance from the bridge. Baffling city residents, it did go through renovations in recent decades, including a modern asphalt pavement road and improved concrete sidewalks, with the construction crews coming in and exiting the Hillsboro from where they entered from. Since they wouldn’t actually be crossing the bridge, this was deemed safe.
“Another way to spook everybody about this bridge, and boost city tourism at the same time,” the Traveler said as he thought about how the renovations were done.
Still there were always those, residents and visitors, who never believed in the curse. Many survivors of the fire didn’t and publicly said so, more than a few times angrily so. And there were people, from all over, who still crossed the Hillsboro. During the penalty era, those who were caught seemed willing to face the consequences. Some even refused to pay the fine. But every single act of defiance couldn’t avoid a permanent ban. In the years that followed everyone who crossed the Hillsboro maintained that nothing truly horrible had happened to them or anybody they knew. In fact, they all expressed a deep sense of accomplishment after doing it. To everyone who dismissed the curse, the Traveler included, the truth was that in the one hundred plus years since the disaster no other event nearly as terrible had happened within the city.
Before starting his walk, the Traveler thought about everyone that opening day, the people who were killed and those that survived, and everyone who fought the fire and helped rescue anyone they could. He said a quiet prayer for all of them and made a promise that the walk would be a dedication to all of them and that, like them, he would enjoy the city after using this bridge just before the tragic events began. Something made him feel that they all gave him their approval.
Right now he measured the length between himself and the end of the bridge and estimated that he had about fifteen feet remaining. All of those who wouldn’t cross the Hillsboro, and everyone who made those that did pay the full price, nothing but a pathetic bunch of chicken shits and assholes he thought to himself. Just like the few other men, women, and kids who weren’t led by fear, he was going to cross the bridge, take in the sites of Goodwin, and then enjoy the walk back across the same bridge. He, too, was not going to have any regrets afterwards. The Traveler felt his left leg begin to go limp as he walked with the feeling spreading down to the foot. Moving his right foot in front of him he found himself having to drag his left leg and foot over. The limpness then spread to the right and as both legs hesitated forward his feet seemed to be being pushed one after the other without really moving. He stopped and held on to the railing and started to massage and shake his legs to get rid of the timidity while at the same time flexing his feet. He then stood completely still, unsure if he could move.
Carefully, he moved his right foot forward and, with the same caution, he moved his left past it. He could walk normally again. There was no more limpness in his legs or dragging of his feet. He was relieved. As he continued walking he didn’t feel, nor did he even sense, anything evil about the bridge. What he was seeing around him and before him was tranquil. He was now a few steps away from entering the Goodwin District. Remembering the extreme lengths once used to prevent this made him roll his eyes. The guards’ fingers pulling the triggers of their rifles that were pointed at whoever they spotted, the arrests, the mugshots, the holding cells. He began to slow down his steps. The standings before a judge, the verdicts, the people’s own looks of contempt, the banishments. The Traveler’s foot now hovered over the Goodwin District.
Suddenly, the Traveler spun around and ran. He had not seen or heard anything, but the fear that he was now feeling was making him run. Everything in front of him appeared to move in double time as his legs jumped wildly up and down at the same time they were shoving his feet forward. Rapidly the Ayers District, the spot that he had entered the Hillsboro from, was getting closer. Running off the bridge he kept going until his shoe got caught in the ground and he began to fall. Landing on his knees, he stopped his fall with his hands. Staying in this position, he gasped for breath while sweat ran down his entire face. Every part of his body shivered as he stared blankly at the ground.
Sitting down, he tried to calm down. Looking down there was blood coming out from a tear on his right sock. Rolling it down he saw a long cut above his ankle. It was shallow but lines of blood slid down, covering the ankle and continuing down to the heel. Feeling around inside his pant pockets he took out a paper napkin and started wiping off the blood. After getting the cut to stop bleeding, he slowly got himself up, as calm as he could be. He looked at the bridge and over at the land on the other side, only being able to stare at them. Soon he felt a mix of disgust and anger at everything: not crossing the Hillsboro, the promises he had broken, what had made him run off the bridge, the story that the bridge was cursed, everybody whoever said that it was and still were, those three drunk off of moonshine bastards, and at himself.
“I’m sorry,” the Traveler said with shame, “damnit, I’m so sorry.”
His nerves were still too shaken to try again, but this was not over. One day he would be back and do what he had come here to do. It was a promise. He also remembered the promise that he had made before stepping onto the bridge. When he returned, he would not leave with failure. The Traveler nodded his head as he looked at the Hillsboro Industrial Bridge and over at the Goodwin District that it led to.
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