Chapter 43
The road west of the bridge town curved through stripped farmland.
Sophie walked ahead, her feet healed enough that Rachel no longer checked them at every rest. The map in her back pocket had softened along its creases where her thumb kept finding Brenton.
The town was still farther west, but distance felt measured in problems now, not miles.
She checked the map at a crossroads where the pavement gave way to gravel. A dotted county line crossed the paper.
Beyond it, the river that had blocked their canoe route curved south.
Patricia’s notes showed a secondary bridge eight miles ahead.
The bridge appeared as a dark line across the valley.
Rachel stopped before the approach. The center span had dropped from its supports, cracked open above fast water, and exposed rebar.
“People have been trying to cross anyway,” Sophie said.
Scuff marks crossed the cracked concrete near the edge. A torn strip of canvas hung from the guardrail, either left behind or placed as a warning. The river below moved hard enough to kill anyone who fell.
“We’re not crossing that,” Rachel said.
The map offered one official detour, a northern route through two crowded towns before another crossing. Patricia’s registry notes said both towns were packed with refugees from the eastern counties. Rachel had seen what happened when fear met hunger. She didn’t want to see it again.
“There’s another way,” Sophie said.
A gravel service road cut through the undergrowth east of the bridge approach. Rachel hadn’t seen it from the main road. Rain had darkened the gravel, and old tire ruts showed where something heavy had passed weeks earlier.
“Where does it go?” Rachel asked.
“Follow it and find out,” Sophie said.
The service road carried them to a railroad corridor.
Tracks ran west on a raised gravel bed worn smooth by weeks of travelers.
Strips of yellow, red, and blue cloth hung from branches beside handwritten signs nailed to telephone poles.
Rachel stopped at the nearest pole. The sign was written in black marker on cardboard torn from a shipping box.
Washed-out culvert ahead. Stay left of tracks.
Danger. The railroad ran straight west before disappearing into low hills.
“People are using this,” Rachel said.
“They’re maintaining it,” Sophie said.
They followed the tracks west. The ballast was uneven, but it beat the mud-choked ditches along the road.
Rachel kept the map folded. The railroad wasn’t on it.
Two miles west, another warning on corrugated metal leaned against a signal pole.
Tunnel ahead unsafe. Use service road to north.
Don’t enter. The handwriting was different from the first warning.
Rachel spotted a narrow path leading north from the tracks, marked by more strips of cloth.
“They’re talking to each other without being here,” Rachel said.
“Or someone’s talking for all of them,” Sophie said.
The maintenance yard appeared as the afternoon light softened.
Rail sidings branched from the main line.
Three yellow maintenance vehicles sat with intact windows beside a two-story metal building and a water tower.
Boxcars lined the eastern edge with their doors open to bedding, crates, and cooking areas.
Children played between the cars. Adults worked near a central fire pit, where beans boiled over the flames.
A man in his fifties left the fire and walked toward them.
His gray beard was trimmed, and his eyes moved from Rachel to Sophie.
“Jonah Reed. You two are the first today. Usually they come in groups,” he said.
“Rachel Mercer. This is Sophie. We came off the main road after the bridge,” Rachel said.
“The county span went three weeks back. Heavy rain undermined the east support. We’ve been routing people through here instead. It’s safer than the highways, if you don’t mind walking ballast.”
“You run this place?”
“Run is a strong word. I worked maintenance on this line for twenty-eight years. When everything stopped, a few of us came back because we knew the corridor. We mark hazards, clear service roads, and try to keep travelers alive. There’s a smaller outpost eight miles west, and we rotate crews between them,” Jonah said.
“I could help with the map. I’ve been keeping records for weeks. Names, destinations, hazards people reported. Your warnings are good, but they’re scattered. Someone should consolidate what travelers know,” Rachel said.
“We’ve got space. You organize what we know, and you get a safe place to sleep and directions west that might lead you to where you’re going. Fair?” Jonah asked.
“Fair.”
“Have either of you seen four young men traveling together? Early twenties, carrying packs, keeping to themselves. They’d be moving west.”
“I haven’t noticed anyone like that,” Rachel said.
“I have,” Sophie said.
“Since when?”
“Since we left the bridge town. Three days ago, maybe four. They stay far enough back that you won’t notice unless you’re looking.”
“Tell me exactly what you’ve seen,” he said.
Sophie described the men with a precision that unsettled Rachel.
The four had appeared at the eastern edge of the bridge town the morning Rachel and Sophie left.
Sophie first noticed them near a disabled delivery truck, watching the barricade without moving closer.
Later, she saw them crossing a field half a mile south of Rachel’s chosen road.
The third sighting came near the stream where Rachel had stopped to refill their water.