Page 73 of Wandering Wild

I shudder at the thought of what might have happened if we’d been using the ropes when they came undone. And then I shudder again when I realize the enormity of what we now have to face.

“We have fifteen minutes,” I say grimly, checking my watch. “Hawke said that once we cross this, all that’s left is for us to head straight through those trees over there”—I indicate the small thicket beyond the far side of the bridge—“and we should find the clearing for the helicopter.”

“That’s all well and good,” Charlie returns, her voice tight with fear, “but we have to live through this in order to make it to that clearing. And I’m not super confident that’s going to happen.”

I have doubts as well. “It’s your call. If you’re happy for us to try crossing it, then we will. But if you’re not, we won’t.”

Charlie makes a frustrated sound. “Don’t give me that responsibility! If we die, you’ll haunt me forever, blaming me for your untimely death.”

Despite my growing dread, my lips still curl upward. “I don’t think ghosts can haunt other ghosts.”

“You’ll find a way.” Charlie’s face is dead serious. “You’re stubborn like that.” But then she repeats her frustrated sound and says, “We have to cross it. There’s no way in hell I’m going back into that underwater tunnel to retrace our steps to Hawke and Bentley, and we still don’t know how long a search party might take to find us. This is our best chance at a rescue. In fifteen minutes, we could be on our way home.”

Or on our way to the bottom of the gorge, I think but don’t say, because as much as I don’t want to do this, I agree that crossing the bridge is our best course of action.

With our decision made, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable, so I step forward. “I’ll go fir?—”

“No.” Charlie grabs my arm to hold me back. “I’ll go first this time.” Her face is pale but determined as she explains, “Some of those wood planks look like the slightest touch will make them disintegrate, and you’re heavier than I am. If one breaks beneath me and I fall, you can catch me. It won’t work as well the other way around.”

“I knew I should have skipped that burger in Katoomba,” I mutter, rubbing my flat stomach.

Charlie groans. “Don’t make me want to laugh right now. I need all my concentration not to pass out.”

“Is this where I remind you that you’re the one who wants to go on grand adventures all around the world?” I ask dryly.

Through gritted teeth, Charlie clips out, “No. It is not.”

Now I’m the one who has to bite back laughter. But any humor I feel vanishes the moment Charlie moves to the entrance of the bridge, her hands reaching for the tattered ropes strung along the sides and grabbing onto them like her life depends on it—because itdoes.

“I’m right behind you,” I tell her, staying close.

I see her shoulders rise and fall as she breathes in deeply to steady her nerves, and I do the same. It does little to calm my racing heartbeat, which only speeds up more when she takes her first step onto the bridge.

Every muscle in my body is tense as I prepare to lunge for her and drag her back to safety, but there’s no need, because the wood holds under her feet. She tosses me a relieved smile over her shoulder, and then steps forward again, pausing to make sure I’m following.

My mind blares a warning as I set foot on the ancient wood, my survival instincts screeching for me to back away, but I ignore them and press onward, praying the timber will be strong enough to bear our weight the whole way across.

Step after step we venture over the bridge, balancing our weight on the sturdier outer edges of the planks where they connect to the rope rather than the weaker middle sections that bow worryingly downward.

“You doing okay back there?” Charlie asks.

“I’ve got the easy job,” I say, all of my focus on making sure she doesn’t fall. It helps distract me from the gaping holes that have started to gather between the planks the further out we walk, and how the wind is making the bridge swing in an alarming way.

Step.

Step.

Step.

We’re halfway across the gorge when the first plank cracks beneath Charlie’s boot.

A gasp leaves her and I react without thinking, dropping one hand from the rope to snake it around her waist, hauling her back against my body.

“We might skip that one,” she says shakily, patting my hand at her stomach. “Thanks for the quick reflexes.”

While the wood didn’t snap completely beneath her, the warning crack is still ringing in my ears enough that I don’t want to let her go. But we’re at the most dangerous point in the bridge and we need to press on, so I hesitantly release her and watch even more closely as she steps over the now-broken plank to settle on the next one along.

“It’s solid,” she reports, testing it with a small bounce.

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