As he paused, his hoary breath slowed after the dash from the forest. Left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. The track showed nothing, but that meant little, for there were dangers secreted everywhere. High above, he could hear the waves lapping in the gusty, North-easterly wind, straight from the Steppes.

There were three of them that morning, and as the light faded, he was the only one left. For a few moments, his smallness lingered in his thoughts. After all, what difference could he make, in the bigger scheme of things?

The backpack felt heavier and he reminded himself that the purpose of the mission must be his focus for the next few minutes. Looking around at the silence once more, he lowered the canvas bag to the floor and retrieved the small, intricate mechanism. He would only have one opportunity, for the patrols were consistent along the roadway that ran along the top.

They had planned the action over the last few days, holed up in the crumbling wooden shack in the woods, with that panoramic view. Their target took centre stage as they watched and considered it carefully. They had argued back and forth over the vulnerable spots, their plan balanced between successful placement and potential for discovery. But Jimmy had the best insights, with the plans he stole the year before, when he’d had the job in the pumping station they could see from their hideout.

The patrols finally flushed them out earlier than they preferred, leading to the end for Jimmy and Alex, so Lewis had to push on alone. Not for the boys’ sakes would he press ahead; would he succeed, but for the cause against the Fascists. For the people they had rounded up and shot; for the women they raped; for the abused children of the future. The reason he was here, a thousand miles from home, fighting for this alien cause.

He knew exactly where he had to be that afternoon. The window was small and he understood it was down to him now.

~##~##~

He saw the movement before he heard it, just out of the corner of his eye. The jeep rounded the bend far to his left and disappeared. He saw it again, the contours hiding then exposing it in an alternating cycle. It was a couple of minutes out and closing. They had not seen him yet.

He took his precious cargo, nurtured it like his child for a second or two and primed the fuse. As he scrambled down the scree beneath the oak beams providing the vast supports, his clock was ticking. The loose rocks made it hard to control himself as he slid and this caused his gaze to wander as he sought out more stable footing.

The bright red shawl in the bottom of the valley captured his attention immediately. Against the grey of the frozen earth, it stood out clearly. And he watched as best he could as he lost control until he stopped. The small ravine had saved him a fall to the bottom, which he knew from their deliberations was not the best place for the charge. The weaker spots were not always where you might have thought they are.

It was a girl in red he’d noticed first of all, and she was eventually followed from the riverbank scrub by two other children, both wearing brown neutral clothing. They picked their way alongside the torrent rushing down the broad and ice-covered riverbed. The river restrained only by the structure above him.

The clock indicated three minutes left as he reached the target strut and strapped the charge tightly. A squeal came from behind him, downriver as the children played, either uninterested or merely ignorant of the man standing working at the base of the structure they knew so well.

He sprinted the two hundred metres to the kids without a break, lungs bursting, feet slipping and sliding out of control some of the time, at others making good ground, until just before he reached them. He heard the shot only after he was hit and fell into the icy water.

“Run,” he shouted at them, but they did not respond, for they did not understand. They looked around them, back at the way he was pointing and the beams and the structure that held back all that water.

He saw them shift their glances in unison over to the road that ran alongside the valley, with the soldiers and the guns. He saw them point and begin to run down the riverside to where it rose up into the village.

He heard their squeals and the rocks crashing as they ran and saw them hoist themselves up the bank with an ancient frayed rope, perhaps a sign of riverside fun in times gone by.

No-one had noticed what he’d achieved but a few seconds before. No-one seemed to consider the reason he was there at all. Men appeared on the roadway at the very top of the dam and pointed.

~##~##~

The blood from his gut was seeping into the water, and he knew he would bleed out before anyone reached him. The rhythmic pulsing of the artery enhancing the pace of his demise.

The three children were now making their way along the high bank, and he knew he’d done enough to save them. Done enough to get them out of the way before the charge echoed through the trees and down the valley, bringing the water with it.

He cared not that he was now in its path. He knew what was coming. He cared less about the damage he had done and, despite the consequences he now faced, how he’d done his best for the future of these people.

He saw the flash of the explosion before he heard the water as it cascaded through.

Water which was now so very, very cold, as he rested his eyes one last time.

Prompt: Desperate Times | Word Count: 1000 | Genre: Thriller

Author’s note. This piece has been in my head almost forever. That is since the early 1970’2 when I discovered Leonard Cohen. Those who know his work may recognise that the concept of this story comes from a line in ‘The Partizan’ as follows:-

There were three of us this morning
I’m the only one this evening
But I must go on

So love Leonard Cohen!