Title Page
Captive by the Fog
Laura Hardgrave
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An imprint of
Musa Publishing
Copyright Information
Captive by the Fog, Copyright © Laura Hardgrave, 2012
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
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Musa Publishing
633 Edgewood Ave
Lancaster, OH 43130
www.musapublishing.com
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Published by Musa Publishing, October 2012
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-1-61937-410-2
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Editor: Megan Embry
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Content Warning
This book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where you made your purchase. Store your books carefully where they cannot be accessed by younger readers.
Dedication
Dedicated to Lizette Hardgrave (1952 – 2007)
Dear Mom,
Thank you for the library of picture books, colored pencils, love, and endless support. And for showing me that beauty does not always need to be seen with eyesight.
Love always,
Jellybean
Chapter 1
The chickens twirled around and around on their metal skewers, and I scowled at them from across the restaurant kitchen. My shift was supposed to be over, yet here I was in my pink “Crazy Cluckers” polo shirt and apron, waiting for the night shift to show up. My apron was silly, and my hat was even sillier. It was of course, a chicken-shaped hat, bright yellow plastic beak and all. I wanted to cram the beak into my co-worker’s face. Matt was probably busy sucking his girlfriend’s face instead of getting his ass to work.
The bell on the front door jangled, and I turned to yell at Matt, but it wasn’t him. I frowned intensely at the elderly couple who entered and shuffled up to the counter. They gave me a strange look in return and gazed back at the door, perhaps wondering if they were better off leaving.
I tossed them a tired smile. “How can I help you?”
Just then Matt stormed inside, causing the stupid bell on the door to really jangle. The couple looked back and forth between him and me, probably wondering if he was going to rob the place. Matt swaggered toward me, obviously drunk, and laughed. “Sorry!” he said, his face bright red. “I…uh, got stuck in traffic.” He hiccuped.
“Right,” I said in a flat voice, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “And I’m the queen of Scotland.”
He waved his arms out wide. “And my, what a lovely one! You sure you’re not a king though? You’re kinda gruff ’n’ stuff.”
“Honey,” the woman said, tugging her husband’s sleeve, “we’re in the presence of royalty!” Her eyes shone bright through the glaze of Alzheimer’s.
Matt broke out in a series of guffaws that made him appear as though he wasn’t quite right in the head either. “C’mon Sam, you know you love me, even though you’re a dyke!” he said, holding his stomach in laughter. He hiccuped again and leaned over the counter. The distinct scent of his girlfriend’s awful perfume hit my nostrils.
As I glared at Matt, the elderly woman turned to me and grabbed my hand over the countertop. I almost jumped back in surprise as her glimmering eyes met mine. “The fog has come,” she said, her voice low. A large frown cloaked her face, the wrinkles around her mouth burrowing deeper into her skin.
Her husband pulled her away from the countertop. “I’m sorry. She’s not well.”
“She’s fucking brilliant!” Matt said with another hiccup. “It is foggy out there!” His voice dissolved into obnoxious laughter.
The old woman stepped forward again, attempting to fight off her husband’s grasp. “No,” she insisted. “The fog. It comes.” Her gaze looked through me rather than at me.
I groaned at all three of them. I’d heard enough crazy talk for one evening. I took off my chicken hat and threw it onto the counter. “Buy a chicken meal deal for your fog friend, have a free hat! I’m outta here.” The gate slammed behind me as I stomped past the counter. I took off my apron and tossed it on a nearby table then stormed out the door without looking back.
The Frisco night air welcomed me with open arms, and I gulped in it, thankful for its chilliness. I wiped my brow after I marched around the corner, ducking out of sight from my workplace. Crazy fucking Matt, I thought, shaking my head in disbelief. Who does he think he is?
I continued storming down the street toward the bus stop. I’d already missed my usual bus. It would be another twenty minutes for the next one, but that didn’t matter. I was happy to be out of that grease joint and away from Matt and that creepy lady. When I reached the bus stop, I plopped down on the bench, brought my legs up, and sat cross-legged. I always sat like this, and I wasn’t sure why. It had to make me look about twelve years old.
The fog rippled through the night air as it headed toward San Francisco Bay. I sat near the top of a hill, with the bay area and its fog bank looming below me. It was hard to see much besides the fog and the random lights trying to shine through it desperately, calling for attention. The fog brushed against my skin, sending goose bumps up my arm.
I ran a hand through my short, messy brown hair and sighed, willing the fog to wash off the chicken grease that coated me. Matt was an idiot, but I wasn’t sure why his drunken commentary bothered me so much. I was definitely gay and pretty soft butch at that, but it didn’t give Matt the right to treat me like a goddamn freak show. Not everyone knew I was gay. I didn’t enjoy flaunting it, but at the same time, it didn’t deserve to be hidden.
I’d hidden it from my father, Bruce, until I was twenty-four, even though all of my other family and friends knew before I was eighteen. When I finally told him four years ago, he’d taken it about as well as I had expected.
“I didn’t raise you like that!” he screamed. I was driving us to one of his doctor’s appointments. We were always at the doctor’s back then. Chemo sucked.
“What?” I shot back. “It wasn’t part of my raising or development! It’s just who I am!” I didn’t raise my voice to him often, except when he deserved it. He deserved it this time.
He gave me a stern look. His jaw shook. Ever since his stroke, back when I was in high school, his left side had had a slight tremor to it, best visible in his jaw and neck. Whenever I was pissed off at him, the tremors stuck out to me and pissed me off even more.
He didn’t say anything more to me for the rest of the day. Every now and then he’d give me this distraught look, his blue eyes and wrinkly cheeks drooping, like he was profoundly disappointed in me.
“Did your mother know?” he asked me finally, on the way home. The sun was setting behind his pickup truck as we trav
eled along the I-5. Crimson and peach-colored hues blazed from the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” I said, “I told her a couple of years before she passed away. She was surprised, but in the end she just wanted me to be happy.” I cringed, wondering if he’d be disappointed in me for not telling him after her death, which was more than a year ago.
My dad nodded but refused to face me. I didn’t know why he’d assume I hadn’t told her. My mom was like my best friend—she knew everything about me.
“I was looking forward to walking you down the aisle like I did with your sisters,” he said, still not facing me. “I don’t even see them anymore. You’re all I have left.” I struggled to hear him. The sun set deeper behind us.
“Well, you still can walk me down the aisle…I just have to meet someone first.” I gave him a fragile smile.
“If you do, please do me a favor and don’t tell me. What you wish to do is your own business, but I won’t be a part of it.” He stared out the truck’s window toward the graffiti-covered walls separating the freeway from the rows of Los Angeles houses.
My insides burned. Flames flickered in front of my eyes as my hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. “Dad, I…” My voice had a shaky edge I couldn’t control, yet I tried my best anyway. “You live with me. I take care of you. I drive you to your freaking appointments! How can you not be a part of my life? Am I supposed to lie to you, come home late at night, and get grounded? I’m not fourteen.”
I used that age specifically because that was when I had my first boyfriend in high school. My mom and I had hidden it from him wonderfully. It was a shame I messed around with trying to date boys at that age, but I figured that’s what I was supposed to do. The truth finally dawned on me when I was sixteen and found myself attracted to that same ex-boyfriend’s sister, Jamie. She was one of those playful types who flirted with anything that moved. It was probably good I had dated him; otherwise I might’ve never met Jamie. It had also been fun to watch my ex’s jaw drop the first time he saw Jamie and I together.
My dad never knew about any of that. So it wasn’t a matter of me not being able to hide relationships from him. I just didn’t want to—I wanted my father to be accepting.
But he refused. “Whatever it takes,” he said, refusing to let me see his eyes. I turned back to the road, trying to hold back tears.
The nighttime fog followed me onto the bus. I supposed it had nowhere better to go. I didn’t enjoy carrying it around, its heavy gray tendrils wrapping around my neck like a dust-covered chain. I lugged it around like Bruce lugged around his cancer. Any sane person would have grabbed the nearest jackhammer, but nope, not me. I flung around chicken grease and slogged home to take care of my homophobic father. The second time around.
After the initial diagnosis, Bruce fought his illness head-on. He moved in with me, and we drove hours to visit every throat cancer specialist in the area, eating up miles of graffiti sunsets and most of his retirement. I asked my two sisters, who were actually half-sisters from my father’s side, to come back to California and help, but they wouldn’t. They refused to even visit, telling me he didn’t deserve a dime when—for years—his wages went toward whiskey. I told them Bruce didn’t drink anymore, but they didn’t have a reply. I couldn’t fault them. Bruce didn’t recall much about his years spent sloshing liquor, but his three daughters would never forget.
The specialized chemo worked—for a while. His cancer went into remission, and I left my shabby apartment and moved to San Francisco. I needed my own space and a chance to actually find a girlfriend. Four months after the move, Bruce showed up on my doorstep, telling me his cancer had returned and that he’d spent all of his savings. I didn’t know what else to do. I took him in again.
It wasn’t a long ride home. I got off the bus and walked toward my duplex, winding my way through the narrow stretches of grass the city liked to call parks. The fog crept around me, following along like a chilly puppy. The sidewalks were damp from its drool, and I wished I had remembered to bring a jacket. The long, drawn-out cry of a foghorn filtered through the drool-filled tendrils.
I shivered, and a sudden image of the old, wrinkly lady from Crazy Cluckers swept through my mind. The fog is heavy tonight. It’s like a cloud of mist has enveloped the city. But why was she so paranoid about it? I shook my head, forcing the thoughts out of my brain.
Thankfully, I had reached my front doorstep. My dad hadn’t turned on the porch light for me, so I fumbled in the fog for my keys. I was stubborn and refused to carry a purse, somehow managing to stuff everything in the pockets of my jeans. I finally found them, dropping my wallet and phone on the wet grass in the process.
“God dammit,” I cursed in a low mumble, quickly grabbing my things and wiping them against my shirt—not that it helped. Everything was wet. Sighing, I unlocked the door and opened it.
It was almost too warm inside. My dad screamed about using the AC in the summer and ran the heat like it was the Antarctic in the winter. I found him on the couch as usual, watching some John Wayne marathon on TV. He lived in the past when it came to TV—and in a lot of other aspects of life.
“Doing okay?” I asked him, standing in front of the heater long enough to dry off some of the fog-drool.
“I guess.” He didn’t turn to look at me.
“Anyone call?” I took a fast sniff of my shirt then grimaced. Chicken. That would have to go the hamper before I did anything else.
“Nope.”
“Ready to eat?” I started to head toward my bedroom, already knowing the answer.
“After this.” He gestured toward the TV. “And after we eat, you should join me for a movie.” He gave me a weak smile, and I did my best to return it. Ever since I was a teenager, he knew he could easily talk me into a movie. I wasn’t a huge fan of old westerns, but every now and then I found one I enjoyed. Film history had been one of my favorite courses in college.
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll be back.” I worked my way into my room, and an orange furry butt greeted me along the way as a fluffy tail wrapped around my ankles. I grabbed the furry butt and the big cat it belonged to. “Hi, Simon. Hungry?” I held him close to my chest then set him down on the bed. He watched me as I changed out of my chicken-scented shirt. “That probably smells good to you,” I told him. “Too bad. No more chicken, at least not for tonight.”
My room was a mess. I tried to keep the rest of the house in semi-good shape, but my room looked like a disaster in comparison. I had four bookshelves overflowing with books and my computer desk in the midst of a sea of clothes and random junk on the floor. My dad used to jokingly say that I’d have a hard time keeping a husband with my inability to clean and cook. How right he was.
I fed my dad via his tube feeding, made some dinner for myself and Simon, and then the three of us settled down to watch a black and white western. Bruce fell asleep halfway through it, which was pretty normal. I clicked off the TV and left him on the couch with a blanket. He often slept in the living room. Even though he would never admit it, I think he was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to hear him if he called for help from his bedroom. I was sure I could have, but there was no telling him that.
Simon and I went into my room. I had just plopped down on the bed and flipped open a fantasy novel when a mechanical sound that reminded me of a tractor or huge truck starting up roared outside my window. I jumped up out of bed, my book falling to the floor. “What the hell is that?”
The harrowing, revving noise continued and then stopped abruptly. I glanced down at Simon and saw him balancing himself on my headboard. His face was glued to the window, his body stiff as a block of ice, and his tail was puffed up and huge. I tried to look through the window but couldn’t see anything beyond the darkness and fog.
I needed a better look. I headed into the living room and to the front door. To my surprise, the door was wide open and the couch empty. I sprinted out the door and found my father sprawled out on the ground,
half of his body on the sidewalk, the other half on the stairs.
“Dad!” I yelled, “What the hell are you doing? What’d you do, fall off the stairs?” I bent down to help him up and then realized he wasn’t looking in my direction. He was frozen in place, staring directly at the sky. I followed his gaze, and I too froze. My heart leapt inside my chest, scrambling to escape.
A huge, metallic, disc-shaped object hovered in the foggy darkness above the grass of a nearby park. Round portholes on the sides emitted silver beams of light that screamed soundlessly into the fog. Three large metal beams extended from the base and onto the ground. Landing pads. I didn’t see a door. Yet.
My breath caught in my throat. My vision almost glazed over, and I had an overwhelming desire to run and escape my body and what I was witnessing.
“I—it…c-can’t b-be…It’s…It’s a…UFO…” The words tumbled out of my mouth, rolling over themselves like a rock slide.
I averted my eyes from the object and saw my neighbors all out on their front doorsteps. Their eyes and bodies were rigid as they stared up at the spacecraft. Some were in their robes and pajamas. One woman two doors down lay in the grass after having fainted, her hair in curlers.
Bruce still hadn’t moved or uttered a word. He swallowed hard and gave me a quick, terrified glance. His mouth gaped open as he attempted to find words. There were none to be found, and his jaw shook with tremors. His frail frame shuddered beneath my hands, and my insides felt just as shaky.
My gaze drifted back toward the spacecraft, almost in slow motion. My mind tried to force my body to look away as if I were watching a horror movie, and the zombie was about to jump out of the shadows. A garage door-sized hull opened on one side of the UFO, and a large, metallic cube floated out. It was about the size of an RV but had no windows or wheels. Instead, it had discs on the bottom that emitted blue beams of light down toward the ground. It hovered in the air through the power of that light. A single huge, mechanical arm extended from the front, and next to the arm were two mechanical jaws clenched shut. It reminded me of a trash truck—only sterile, alien, glistening, and unquestionably life-threatening.
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