If she looked down, she’d see them.

Long dead hands reach. They grasp blindly. Cracked and broken fingernails crawl across the old wood.

She fixes her eyes ahead. The mist is a curtain, both metaphorically and realistically. The land of death and destruction lives behind her. Her new life and safety waits in front of her. Just beyond the mist.

All she has to do is make it to the end without looking down.

One step.

Something cold brushes against her ankle.

Two steps.

Her body screams alarms to brush it away.

Three steps.

The hold releases. For the first time since she set foot on the old bridge that connects the land of the dead and the living, she dares to breathe.

Four steps.

Her foot slips on a spot of water.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

She pinwheels, arms wild and eyes squeezed tight.

Eight.

Like the boogie man under a kid’s bed. The dead stay dead, unless you give them your attention. They feed off fear, like vampires. You look at them. You let them see how terrified you are of them. You tremble. Or cry out. Then they have you.

She’s seen it too many times to count. Men and women torn apart by the dead things rising up.

Nine.

She opens her eyes.

In front of her the mist is clearing. She sees green meadows and sunshine on the other side of the curtain. Close enough to touch. She aches to run. To dive into that green sea. Soak up the sunshine, like she hasn’t since before the dead things.

Ten.

Just one more step.

She raises her leg.

Leans her weight forward.

The old bridge gives a mighty crack as it collapses under her.