The bridge was long, and stretched out over the icy black waters hundreds of feet below them. They wore masks for the deadly particles in the hazy air, and their clothes were ragged and tattered.
They had been walking the bridge for two days, and had yet to glimpse the far side. Every hundred meters or so, great stone posts dove deep into the ocean floor, anchoring the bridge in place. The winds were furious and unrelenting. Every day was a miracle. Every step a struggle.
The oldest in the group, a bent man with white hair and beard stumbled at the back. Another man went to help him, but heard an echoing howl from behind. Then another, closer. With a lingering, sorrowful look at the old man, he turned and pressed on. A weak link in the chain could not be repaired.
They could only hope that there would be shelter on the other side of the bridge. That’s what all the rumors said. If there wasn’t, that would be it. It wouldn’t be so bad though. At least it would all be over. No more fear or pain. No more running.
The group of men walked along the bridge, and the howling followed.