Page 102 of Sinners Retreat

In reality, losing Kindra is my greatest fear, but that bridge is a close second. It’s a long way to the bottom of that ravine. I’ve seen someone make the journey, and it never ends well.

A bit deeper into the foliage, I come across Ice Pick. A fresh kill lies below him.

“Any sign of her?” I ask.

“Not yet.” He grunts and pulls his ice pick from the dead woman’s ear. “I’ve been keeping a lookout, though. I saw Grim a few minutes ago, and he said he came across a man who’d had his throat slit pretty good. Whoever killed him damn near took his head off.”

“He thinks it was Kindra’s handiwork?”

The woman’s legs begin to move, and Ice Pick jams his tool through her right eye. The pointed end slides past the eyeball instead of going through it, which forces the errant globe out of her skull.

“That’s what Grim thinks,” he says as he uses his foot to ram the pick deeper. “Rosie took a bow and some arrows, so it couldn’t have been her. Grim has a machete and a few hand grenades. I can do some dirty work with my pick, but he said this cut was clean.”

Bennett planned to bring his new toy—a flail—so that counts him out, too. Maverick...Well, let’s just say that Maverick is far more thorough than a slit throat. There are other killers out here as well, and Jim has been known to favor a blade, but something about this kill screams Kindra.

“Thanks, Ice Pick. I’ll keep looking.”

We head in opposite directions. I keep moving toward the bridge while he ventures deeper into the trees.

As I walk along, I keep my eyes peeled for any bodies. I find only one, which is a man. The left side of his skull has been reduced to confetti, and a small rodent of some kind runs off with a bit of his brain as I draw closer. This definitely wasn’t accomplished with a blade or any sort of precision.

The chaos screams Bennett.

I nudge the body with the toe of my shoe, looking for any definitive sign that Kindra has been here, but I find nothing. I can’t stall any longer. It’s time to cross the bridge.

A cold sweat slicks my body as I think of that dilapidated mess of boards and ropes. The rocks and shallow water at the bottom make my stomach drop, and I’m not even there yet. Just seeing them in my mind is enough to send me into a panic.

“You have to protect Kindra,” I say to myself. “If that means crossing that death trap, so be it. As long as she’s safe, nothing else matters.”

And if she’s on the other side of that bridge, she definitely needs my help. She doesn’t only have killers to contend with over there. Jim sets out traps, and if she walks into one, she’s as good as gone.

Somewhere behind me, a man screams. Footfalls pound across twigs and leaves. I turn and watch as an older man in a pink jumpsuit stumbles and falls to the ground. A single arrow shaft juts from his right arm.

Like a silent phantom, Maudlin Rose appears from the trees, raises her bow, and fires an arrow into the man’s ass. The broadhead connects with bone, and the man lets out another shrill scream.

“Nice one, Rosie!” I call toward her.

She gives me a thumbs up and a smile, raises the bow again, and finishes the job by sending another arrow into the back of the man’s neck.

“Have you seen Kindra anywhere?” I call back to her.

Her smile falls, and she shakes her head.

“That’s okay. Keep looking!”

She gives me another thumbs up, then makes a silent exit.

With all of us looking, surely one of us should have spotted her by now, and the fact that no one has only reinforces my need to cross the bridge. We typically hang out on this side for as long as possible, as most of the Cattle stick to this part of the jungle. We usually don’t venture over there until we’ve snuffed out most of the life over here.

And there it is. The Ezra Carter Bridge. That’s what they’ll call it next year, because there is no way I’ll make it across this thing.

A stiff wind sweeps through the ravine, and the ropes sway against the force. Even the birds avoid the monstrosity by flying around it instead of over it. The ropes are so frayed that a healthyshit from one of the gulls will probably send the thing straight down to the bottom.

Yet I plan to walk on it.

I step to the support posts and grip the ropes on either side of my body. I’ve never stood this close to the edge before, and I regret doing so now. Some of the boards have begun to rot through. Others are already gone, replaced by a thick knot. This will be like walking across a ladder over the Grand Canyon, but the rungs move and the rails are made of twine.

My love for Kindra pushes my feet forward. She may be up against something far worse than this rickety piece of shit. If I slip, I might have a chance to call for help, but there is no help for her. She’s on her own.

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