The Crying Brigde and the Troll

      The eye of the bridge blinked. The toxic fumes had somewhat dissipated and her weepy eye had regained a modicum of its clarity. She scanned the Eastern Seaboard seeking signs of life among the ruins. What was left of the world (or at least the Jersey coastline), since the day fire had rained from the sky?
      All was quiet. No chug-chug-chug of the big rigs, their diesel engines protesting as exhausted drivers down-shifted to pass across her steel girders.
      No hum of compact electric cars, their drivers' self-satisfied smiles and meandering pace an annoyance to those who had first-hand knowledge of the cast-offs. Mountains of batteries, past their prime, corroding and bleeding chemicals into the soil and streams. And the timeless emissions of gasoline powered vehicles—an endless array through the centuries.
      Double-decker 18-wheelers and Mini Coopers. Motorcycles and motorized bikes; she had cared for them all the same. For she was safe passage. That's what she offered to humans and the cargo they transported, and her eye had seen it all. Trends and passing whimsy. Model-A Fords and Edsels. Yugos and Smart Cars, equipped with less-smart drivers, but never had she seen… nothingness. No life, to speak of.
      Her eye shifted downward, giving her a bird's-eye view of her timelessly engineered framework. Twisted. She was twisted beyond measure. Gaping holes in her girders told the tale. A tale of brackish water and riverbanks, littered with mangled big-rigs and smoldering tires. The only sign of life, the resident troll sifting through blow-fly riddled body parts.