Any roadway has it’s share of dead animals. But the bridge was always absolutely littered with tiny bodies, swept there by passing trucks and minivans. The small corpses of raccoons and possums, crows and rats, seemed purposeful. like little sacrificial mounds. 

On a night run over the bridge, as one song on his Ipod ended but before the next began, he heard a low, watery chuckle drift up from the wet space below him. 

 He changed his route.