Chapter 32
The rowboat pushed away from the gravel with a soft scrape of wood against stone.
Martin took the stern seat with one oar, Rachel the bow seat with the other.
Elaine and Sophie sat amidships, their backs to each other and their knees nearly touching in the narrow space.
The current caught the hull immediately, turning them parallel to the shore before Martin dug his oar deep and straightened their course.
After weeks of walking, of blisters and unbalanced packs and the constant pressure of gravel beneath worn soles, the river carried them forward without requiring anything except balance and attention.
Rachel felt the difference in her shoulders, in the absence of weight across her back, in the way the morning’s stiffness began to ease as her arms found the rhythm of the oar.
They covered the first mile in less than twenty minutes.
Trees slid past on both banks, their reflections broken by the oars and the boat’s wake.
The sky had gone the deep purple of approaching night, and the first stars showed above the eastern tree line.
Martin pointed ahead. Rachel followed his arm and saw the black silhouette of a bridge spanning the river where the channel narrowed.
Even in the fading light, she could see that something was wrong with it.
The near span dipped at an angle that concrete wasn’t meant to hold, and dark shapes that might have been fallen timber or wreckage clustered beneath the supports.
“Once the current catches us under there, we don’t get to change our minds,” Martin said.
The river narrowed under the bridge. Broken timber and twisted railing jutted from both banks, and the current quickened as the channel squeezed the rowboat forward. Martin braced his feet against the stern seat and pointed toward the gap between a fallen slab and the eastern support.
“Widest point. Keep her straight and don’t slow down. The current does the work. We steer,” Martin said.
Rachel dug her oar into the port side, feeling the wood shudder as it caught the hard current.
The bow swung toward the opening. Elaine pulled Sophie lower in the center of the boat, both of them pressed against the floorboards where the hull felt strongest. A waterlogged branch swept past the starboard side, dark and half-submerged.
It missed the hull by inches, but the next one didn’t.
A stripped pine log slammed against the port gunwale with a crack that ran through the frame.
The impact shoved the boat sideways and sent a supply bag sliding toward the water.
Sophie moved before Rachel could call out.
Her hand closed on the strap as the bag tipped over the edge.
Water soaked her sleeve to the elbow, but she hauled it back into the boat and held it against her chest.
“Good catch,” Martin said.
The gap ahead narrowed faster than Rachel expected.
What had looked like eight feet of clear water had shrunk to five, with submerged debris forming a jagged funnel.
She kept rowing. Her shoulders burned, and the rough oar handle tore open the blisters on her palms. Martin’s oar struck something solid beneath the surface.
The shaft bent with a wet crack and stuck fast. He tried to pull free, but the current wrapped the oar around submerged wreckage.
The handle tore from his grip hard enough to scrape his palms. He cursed under his breath and grabbed the spare paddle.
The spare paddle was meant for calm water, not a debris-choked current.
Martin drove the blade into the starboard side, but it wasn’t enough.
The boat began turning, stern first, toward jagged metal beneath the surface.
Rachel threw her weight against the oar and drove it deep until her arms shook.
Water sprayed across her face and chest. The boat kept rotating for three long seconds before the bow swung back toward the center of the gap.
Metal scraped along the hull, high and grinding.
Rachel felt each inch through the soles of her boots.
Elaine held Sophie down as the boat shuddered through the narrowest point.
Then they were through. The current carried them into wider water beyond the bridge supports.
The speed eased from terrifying to manageable, and Rachel kept rowing until her arms failed.
She let the oar rest across the gunwales and listened to the water against the hull and Martin’s ragged breathing.
Martin guided them toward a gravel bank fifty yards downstream. The boat ground onto the stones, and for a long moment, nobody moved. Rachel’s hands had locked around the oar handle. She peeled her fingers free one by one, exposing raw skin and two bleeding splits.
“Everybody out. Let me check the hull,” Martin said.
They climbed onto the gravel. Sophie moved stiffly, the supply bag still clutched against her chest. Elaine and Martin tipped the boat onto its side and checked the port planks.
A long, shallow gouge ran from near the waterline to the gunwale, but the hull held.
No cracks showed, and no splinters had opened beneath the scrape.
“Lucky. Another inch to the right, and we’d be bailing,” Martin said.
Rachel checked the packs. The travel rations, water purification tablets, first-aid supplies, wool socks, rain ponchos, and map were still there.
One bad roll or one capsize would have taken everything.
Sophie still hadn’t set the supply bag down.
She stood on the gravel with it pressed against her stomach as water dripped from her soaked sleeve.
The scrape on her forearm had reopened, leaving a dark line from wrist to elbow, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“You okay?” Rachel asked.
“Yeah,” Sophie said.
Across the river, between the trees crowding the far bank, a flame appeared. The orange glow moved parallel to the waterline, paused, then turned toward the gravel bank where the rowboat sat.
“Don’t move,” a man said from the darkness.