Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) by Jason Jack Miller

sped through the water it splashed off the cliff on my left. Leaning away from the splash was futile. Some of Alex’s bag got dirty, and I felt real bad about it. Her pretty little things covered in mud. It wasn’t until then I considered the toll this was taking on her. I put my hand on her knee. “We got this, okay? I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”
    She nodded, grabbed my hand, and didn’t let go even when I had to shift.
    When the road turned into gravel, I gunned it. The rafting outfitters maintained it because it led to the Cheat Canyon take-out. After a half-mile, most of this spring’s gravel got washed out, replaced again by pocked bedrock and mud.
    Alex didn’t say anything until I pulled up to the old Jenkinsburg Bridge. This was much higher than the bridge over the Big Sandy. The old steel trestle spanned the V-shaped Cheat Canyon quite dramatically. Big pines buttressed each end and a rocky rapid flowed below. Occasional rock outcroppings punctuated the steep, green slopes.
    “Are we crossing?”
    “That was the plan,” I said. “You said you wanted a plan, right?”
    “This one doesn’t look as sturdy.” She sank toward the center of the Jeep and got real low in the seat.
    She was right. The planks hadn’t seen anything other than foot traffic in years.
    I said, “You never heard that you shouldn’t look down if you’re afraid of heights?”
    She just stared silently at the river, some eighty feet below.
    “Alex,” I said. “There’s no other way.” I let the Jeep creep forward instead of waiting for her approval.
    After a pause she tried to negotiate. “Just go slowly, okay?”
    I pushed the clutch in and said, “I was thinking faster is better. That way our momentum is forward instead of… You know.” I pointed down to the river.
    “Can I walk?” She asked.
    “Alex…” I said, drifting toward the bridge. The sound of trucks coming down the take-out road made my decision for me.
    “No time.” I put the Jeep in gear and let out the clutch. “When I get to the other side I want you to drive up the hill a ways. Then that’ll be it. I promise.”
    Butterflies rushed into my stomach as the security of ground fell away on both sides. I’d only stood on this bridge once. And it was at night. And I was high. The rest of the time I was content to paddle beneath it.
    Old wood groaned and the Jeep sank, like we were rolling over a sponge. Seeing the river so far below made me dizzy. The clank of wood against metal followed us across, plank after plank straining then releasing beneath the weight of the Jeep. “I’ve been under this bridge and there ain’t a troll beneath it, okay?”
    Each clack forced my heart rate higher. Each clank made Alex’s grip on the roll bar tighten. In a moment of silent transition the squish of mud replaced the clank as we reached the safety of the other side.
    “Pull up a little,” I pulled the parking brake, hopped out and grabbed the hammer and pry bar from my tool box. Would’ve been a hell of a lot easier just to split Charlie’s head open. “Drive on ahead now. I’m right here,” I said, and ran toward the bridge.
    Looking for the rushing water through the slots between planks let me find one of the steel girders that spanned the river. I scurried across like a squirrel on a power line. Then, about a third of the way across I dropped to the planking and rapped the dry rotted wood a few times with the hammer. Instead of ringing with the thunk of solid wood, it made a soft crunch. I forced the pry bar between the planks and went to work on the area around the bolts which held wood to steel.
    My sweat dripped onto the bridge. The sound of the trucks increased from around the bend. Splinters and chunks fell into the river below as I hacked away at the board. Some of the wood was so soft the pry bar pulled right through. When the wood was firmer I pushed onto the pry bar with both hands, like doing a push-up.
    “Faster,