Children of the Fog

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  Terrified, she covered her mouth with one hand.

  Silence.

  He was listening.

  Sadie's heartbeat pounded in her ears. Could he hear it?

  Footsteps gradually receded and a door slammed.

  She shivered uncontrollably. Is he still here?

  The waiting was excruciating, the silence endless—until the gong of the grandfather clock interrupted it. To be safe, she waited few more minutes. Once her breathing had calmed, she tiptoed up the cellar stairs and pressed her ear to the trapdoor.

  She heard nothing. Not a sound.

  I have to get help.

  Inching the trapdoor open, she peeked out. She couldn't see anything or anyone. The cabin was too dark, and she'd left the flashlight on the table.

  Serendipitously, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the room. No one was hiding in the shadows. But then again, she could only see three sides of the cabin. What if he was standing behind the trapdoor?

  He's gone. I can't stay down here forever. The children need me.

  She eased back the trapdoor and crawled out, waving the knife in the air. When no one attacked her, she strode to the sliding door, locked it and pulled the heavy drape across. Her hands were numb with cold. She knew she had to get warm or risk hypothermia. If that happened, she wouldn't be good to anyone.

  "Dry clothes first," she said, tucking the knife back into her pocket. "Then the gun."

  After lighting a lamp and turning it as low as possible, she carried it into the bedroom where she removed her jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair. She stripped off her wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and vigorously dried off with a bath towel she had left on the bed earlier. Once dressed in warm jeans and a sweater, she sat down on the chair and pulled on two pairs of socks, wincing at the sight of her bruised and swollen ankle.

  "Looks like you had a little accident," a voice sneered.

  Her head jerked up as a shadow slithered into view. With his hat in one hand, a man leaned cockily against the doorjamb. His shaved head gleamed in the lamplight and his beady eyes carefully scrutinized the room. Then his gaze rested on her and his disfigured face twisted into a sinister smirk.

  "We meet again, Sadie O'Connell."

  She gaped at him and swallowed hard. "The Fog."

  At first glance, Sarge only vaguely resembled the sadistic monster that had beaten her, abducted Sam and brutalized him. In a way, he looked like an ordinary man, someone she'd see at the Calgary Stampede or a local bar and never think twice about. Until she looked into his eyes. A madman resided there.

  "H-how did you get in?" she asked in a weak voice.

  He held up a key. "Irma keeps a spare under the welcome mat. Not very original, is she?"

  Her heart plunged when he took a step forward.

  "What do you want?" she demanded.

  "I'm returning something that belongs to you." He dropped a flashlight—the blue one she'd left in the bunker—on the dresser. "Says Infinity Cabin right on it, so I took that as an invitation. Su casa es mi casa. Remember?" He frowned. "I'm surprised it's you though, and not some nosy old greaser."

  She inched back in the chair. "The police are on their way."

  "You called 'em did you?"

  She nodded.

  "Kinda hard to do, since this ain't working." He flung her cell phone at her feet.

  "It was working when I called," she lied.

  She moved slightly. Something shifted under her thigh. She glanced down and saw a glimmer of metal. The knife. She was sitting on part of the blade.

  "There's no service out here when it storms," Sarge said.

  "Maybe," she replied, her hand creeping toward the knife. "But someone's gone to get the police. They'll be here any time."

  "You mean ole Fergus? He's stuck on the road a few miles back. Looks like it's just me and you." He started across the room.

  "Don't come any closer!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet.

  Sarge sniggered. "You gonna whip me with that towel?"

  "No, but I have this." Boldly, she flourished the fishing knife.

  "Better be prepared to use that…bitch."

  It happened so fast that she had no time to react. One minute she was pointing the blade at the bastard—the next, the knife was knocked from her hand.

  An arm snaked around her throat. "One more sound outta you," he hissed in her ear, "and I'll snap your neck."

  Light bounced off something slim and razor-sharp.

  "A little something to calm you down," he murmured.

  A hypodermic needle jabbed her arm, right through her sweater. She tried to fight him, tried to scream, but all that came out was a faint sob. Then her vision blurred, and the room morphed into fuzzy shadows. Within seconds, her legs buckled. If it weren't for Sarge holding her up, she would have fallen to the floor.

  Hot breath teased her ear. "How the fuck did you find me?"

  She moaned. "The children…"

  With a mewling whimper, she gave up fighting.

  32

  An earsplitting shriek woke her.

  She groaned.

  The shriek came again, this time louder.

  She tried to cover her ears, but her hands wouldn't move. She forced her eyes open and blinked, wondering why her vision was so hazy. Had she gotten drunk? Passed out?

  And why was she so cold?

  The ceiling above the bed swam into view, just out of focus. It was morning. She knew that much. An early dawn crept in through the parted drapes and the air in the room was icy, as though she had walked into a deep freeze.

  I have to put a log on the fire.

  Disoriented, she turned her head.

  Sam stared back at her—from the photo beside her bed.

  Then she remembered.

  The children. I have to help them. And Sam! He's alive!

  She tried to call his name, but the sound was muffled. A second later, she realized why.

  A sock was stuffed in her mouth.

  Fear infused her to the core as she inhaled through her nose and strained to regain complete consciousness. She struggled to sit up, but that resulted in a sharp pain in her ankles and wrists. Her eyes drifted over her inert body. She shuddered in terror at what she saw. She was lying on top of the blankets and tied spread-eagle to the bedposts.

  With nothing on but her bra and panties.

  She screamed, but the gag restrained the sound. She screamed again. And again, until her throat burned and her cries subsided into whimpers of uncontrolled terror.

  Something fluttered outside the window.

  The crow peered through the glass, watching her.

  Sadie stared at it with pure dread. Crows were the harbingers of death. The bird was here for one reason. To claim her soul. She knew that now.

  I am not going to die! Not here. Not like this.

  Adrenaline surged through her veins. Behind the gag, she let out an angry yowl and tugged on the coarse ropes above her head. Squeezing her hands, she tried to make them small enough to slip through the ropes. She twisted and pulled, but the ropes cut deeper into her flesh, until her wrists were on fire and her arms ached from being stretched into such an unnatural position.

  A trickle of blood dripped down one arm. For a moment, she watched it, captivated by the bright red against her pale skin. Then she lifted her head and fixed wild eyes on the open doorway. Is he gone? Will he be back?

  Her near nakedness made her feel defiled.

  Did he—? No, don't think of that!

  The wintry air made her shiver uncontrollably.

  A door slammed. Footsteps drew near and a shape moved into the doorway.

  "Good, you're awake. And looking a might…perky."

  Sarge stepped into the room and set a gas can on the dresser.

  Sadie's heart kicked into overdrive. No, please…

  With a shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately wishing she could close her legs too. She felt him
watching her, taking in every inch of her body.

  Something skittered across the floor.

  Her eyes flashed open in alarm.

  Sarge had dragged a chair next to the bed. With one hand, he flipped it around. Then he straddled it and folded his arms across the back—like he had all the time in the world.

  When his hand moved toward her, a wave of repulsion made her stomach heave. She gave a muffled cry and yanked her head away. But that only made her dizzy. Whatever he had injected her with was still in her system.

  "Such perfect skin," he whispered. "Same as your kid."

  She shuddered as his calloused fingers trailed up her arm to her neck, caressing it, circling it. For a moment, she thought he was going to strangle her. Then his sandpaper hand skimmed over her right breast, cupping it roughly.

  "You know, it don't gotta be like this," he said. "If you're nice to me, I could be nice to you. Maybe tell you where your kid is."

  She whipped her head around and grunted persistently.

  Take off the gag, you bastard.

  Sarge's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I'll take the sock outta your mouth, but if you scream, no one'll hear you and I'll just shove it back in. Understand?" He drew his hand away from her breast and removed the sock.

  Swallowing repeatedly, she cleared her raw throat. Cotton fibers clung to her tongue, the inside of her cheeks and the roof of her mouth.

  "I saw Sam die," she said in a hoarse voice. "You killed him."

  "You thought you saw him."

  Sadie recalled the boy in the car. He had been bound in such a way that very little of his face was exposed. And since The Fog had told her it was Sam, she had…

  Assumed.

  "I took that boy last year," Sarge admitted. "But his time was up. So I dressed him in your kid's stuff, tied him in the car and called you."

  "You killed him right in front of me."

  He let out a huff. "Nah, he was already dead. I put him to sleep a week before I took your kid."

  His admission horrified her. "Why would you do that?"

  "He'd served his usefulness."

  "But why make me think he was Sam?"

  "You're not very smart, are ya?" he said, shaking his head. "To kill two birds. You gave the cops my picture and I had to show you I was serious, so you wouldn't say nothing else. I wanted the police to back off. Plus, I figured they'd go slower if they knew I'd kill 'em."

  In the living room, the grandfather clock let out an ominous gong. Time was running out, and Sadie knew she had to keep Sarge talking. She had one chance to survive. And that rested with a red-bearded Scot.

  Please, God…let Fergus get the cops!

  "What about the blood? The police said it was—"

  "Your kid's," he said with a shrug. "I was a medic in the Forces. Until they discharged me. Collecting a little blood and leaving it on some bushes was nothing." He rubbed his chin. "Cutting off his toe and finger took a bit of work though. Your kid's a fighter."

  Sadie's blood turned to ice. "What kind of monster are you?"

  "That's the price of warfare. You should never have fucked with me. I warned ya."

  "Where is my son?"

  "Not so fucking fast!" he snarled. "I want something first."

  "What?"

  His tongue swept over cracked lips. "Something I ain't had in five years."

  When he smiled, acid boiled up into her throat.

  Change the subject! Get him thinking about something else!

  "I know about Carissa," she rasped. "And your kids, Ashley and Adam."

  "What the hell do you know?"

  "I know they died in a fire. That's how your face got burned. You tried to save them."

  "Yeah, except that's not what happened. Not really."

  A sound erupted from him and his entire body twitched.

  It took a moment before Sadie realized he was laughing.

  "Tell me then. What happened?"

  Sarge gripped the back of the chair. "Carrie was gonna take them away from me. Said I was different after I came back from Iraq." There was a baffled look in his eyes. "Do you know what she told me? That my kids were afraid of me. I tried to tell her that wasn't true, that I was a good dad. Sure, I had nightmares. Awful ones. So did most of the guys when we got back home."

  "Maybe she was right," she mumbled.

  "Bullshit! She wanted me to go see some shrink, like I'm insane or something. She was gonna use that against me to keep them kids. I found her all ready to leave. So I had to stop her."

  "What did you do?"

  "I backhanded the bitch. She blacked out, so I set her on fire."

  Sadie's sickened gaze moved to the gas can. "You didn't have to kill her. You could have worked something out."

  "I wasn't gonna let her take them from me."

  "Maybe you could have shared cust—"

  Sarge leapt to his feet. "They were my kids! Mine!"

  Sweat poured down her brow. "But you…k-killed them."

  "That was an accident," he said, pacing the floor. "They were supposed to stay in the bunker where I left 'em. Carrie was on the floor in the living room when I set the fire. I didn't know Ashley and Adam had gone back into the house through the basement." He stood by the bed, reliving a memory she couldn't see. "They were in the window, staring at me, crying. Soon as I opened the front door, the goddamn house went up like a pack of matches."

  "Then you're right. It was an accident."

  Sarge stared off into space. "She wanted to take them away. They always wanna leave me. That's why I have to kill them."

  "No you don't," she argued, straining against the ropes.

  After a long pause, he let out a sigh. "Maybe you're right. Maybe they'll stay now that I found them a mama." He noticed her shocked expression. "You said you'd do anything for your boy."

  "You expect me to live here?"

  "We'll be one big happy family."

  "The children won't be happy. Why won't you let them go?"

  The look he gave her was deadly. "Because they're mine!"

  He stomped to the dresser, grabbed the gas can. "And I won't let you or anyone try and take 'em away from me, Carrie. If I can't have them, no one will. Ever!" He twisted off the cap and the scent of gas quickly permeated the air.

  Sadie knew her time had just run out. He was going to burn her alive if she didn't agree to be a mother to the children he had abducted. But he'd have to let her go to do that, she reasoned, which meant maybe she could escape. With the children.

  "Okay!" she cried out. "I'll do whatever you want."

  "And what might that be exactly?"

  "I-I'll take care of them. I'll be their…m-mother."

  A satisfied look crossed his face. "You'll be more than that."

  Sarge recapped the gas can and placed it back on the dresser. Without a word, he removed the heavy winter jacket and kicked off his boots. Then he peeled off his clothes and approached the bed.

  "Let's seal the deal then."

  33

  Sarge stood before her, his body covered in dense black hair, interrupted by old battle scars and faded tattoos. Between his legs dangled a half-erect, pale worm.

  Terror suffocated her when she saw his growing arousal. She wanted to look away. But she couldn't.

  "No! I said I'd stay, look after them—"

  "Me and them." He gripped her chin. "You'll look after all of us."

  "Please," she whispered.

  He stroked his arousal eagerly, his heavy-lidded eyes drifting shut for a moment. "Sure I'll please ya. You'll be begging for more by the time I'm done. Then I'll tell you where he is. Your kid."

  "Tell me where Sam is first."

  "Not until you gimme what I want."

  Horror engulfed her when he reached out with his free hand and fondled her breasts beneath the bra. She shivered uncontrollably, realizing she had no choice. He was going to rape her. And she had to let him. It was the only way to get the gun.

  It's only sex. It doesn
't mean a thing.

  He tugged aside the bra, his mouth latching onto her nipple.

  Sadie wanted to curl up and die. She wanted to throw up, scream with rage. She longed to beat him with her hands, claw out his eyes, kick him in the balls—anything to keep him away from her.

  Instead, she forced herself to remain still, unresponsive.

  Tap, tap.

  Her eyes locked on the crow. It was still in the window.

  "What the hell do you want?" she shrieked.

  "I wanna fuck you," Sarge replied, biting her breast.

  She cried out in agony.

  With a grunt, he stretched out on top of her. The coarse hair on his chest scratched her delicate skin and his weight crushed her.

  This isn't happening, she told herself. This is a nightmare. You drank too much, passed out.

  Sarge lowered his face close to hers and she could smell the foulness of his rancid breath. Everything about him smelled like disease—putrid…evil. He groped between her legs and she whimpered and automatically clenched her thighs, desperate to close everything off from him.

  Gain his trust, Sadie. Get him to untie you. Then get the gun.

  "If you remove the—"

  A fist connected with her face. "Shut the fuck up! I know how to do this."

  Stunned, she went limp. This was no drunken dream.

  Again, he fumbled.

  She drew in an agonized breath. "I can help you."

  His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, but he said nothing.

  "I need to put my legs up," she said, biting her lip until she tasted blood. "I'll make it good for you."

  "Why would you do that?"

  "So you won't hurt Sam. Or the others."

  "Just for them?"

  "No! For you too." She tried to smile. "And me. I haven't had good s-sex…in a long time."

  He contemplated the lie. "If you try anything, I'll make you suffer. Then I'll kill him." He flicked the photo of Sam that sat on the nightstand and it toppled over. "You got that?"

  "Yes," she said. "But there's one problem."

  He eyed her warily. "What?"

  "The bed is too soft. I need everything…hard."

  There was a salacious gleam in his eyes. "The floor, then."

  He climbed off her and untied the ropes. Once she was free, she stretched cautiously and covered her breasts, until she saw his angry expression.