Smoke on the Water
Forty three people jumped the opening week. We were in trouble, but didn’t know how much until after the mist rolled in. Impervious to the freshening spring gales, a dank milky reeking haze shrouded the rocks beneath the bridge.
When six fire-fighters did not return from their grisly task of recovering that night’s smashed bodies, nor the two cops sent to search for them, the Chief stopped anybody entering the mist, closing the bridge completely.
Their black helicopter did not disturb the morning mist, nonetheless the Government men strutted confidently onto the bridge, brushing aside warnings. The watery light now revealed fifty one black posts, poking like rotten teeth from the pale gums of the mist.
The lead agent calmly vaulted the rail. His partner ran screaming for the land, and shot himself. Down below, slowly, silently, another post slithered from the newly roiling fog, now faintly redolent of brimstone.
This story was written for Angela Goff's Visual Dare Challenge