In Which Life Exploded

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A cacophony of car horns cried out in the frustration of morning rush hour. In reality, 'hour' was an unceremoniously gracious and egregiously misleading name—as was 'rush,' come to think of it; ain't nobody rushin' nowhere at that time. The typical metro-Atlanta 'rush hour' lasted from 0600-1000 and 1500-2000 on Fridays. The Friday rush began Thursday and ended Saturday. In the gap of locational ambiguity between the Perimeter and Midtown, an extended bridge carried drivers along 85 over top of several surface streets. That morning, with an impressive standstill even by Atlanta traffic standards, nearly 200 cars laid in wait on that bridge.

Without warning or mercy, a string of explosions rocked the ground and sent the bridge crumbling. The car horns of frustration screamed in terrified desperation that someone, somehow could drive forward and open a lifeline. Tires squealed as broken concrete crashed to the ground; all of which were drowned by the people crying out.

By the time the dust settled all that remained was a pile of carnage and strobing emergency lights. 

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