The last of his comrades made it to the end of the bridge. They didn’t look back.
He turned and saw the first of Franco’s troops cresting the hill and charging down the slope towards him.
He winced at the pain from his shredded legs. The blood pumped from the bullet holes. He tried pulling himself forward on the wooden planks of the bridge. There was no way he would make it to the other side in time.
He took the grenade from his pocket. He put the pin in his mouth and pulled it out. He held the grenade to his chest and lay down on the bridge. He saw the blue sky.
Written as part of the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details here). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (below).
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