Fog: The Climate Fiction Saga

by Wendeberg, A.

  ‘There are thirteen kids in the camp,’ I croak, trying not to count the days we’ll be firing at men, and causing bloodshed among the kids.

  ‘Twelve,’ he corrects me.

  Feeling sick, I drop my gaze and swallow. Bile burns in my airways. When I look up at him, I can see it — it’s as if he’s opened a door to his own darkness. Something is coiled up inside, waiting to be sprung. He just took twenty-seven lives as if they meant nothing. Yet, he tries to make my life easier for me. I’ve been his accomplice. I’ve helped him kill and cheat the enemy. And all of a sudden, I find myself wanting to be there when he drops his guard.

  I shake my head and stand.

  ‘If you have a magic wand,’ he growls. ‘Wave it now, because self-pity doesn’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘I…What?’

  ‘Go ahead and lay down your weapon, weep, and go hug someone who needs saving. I’ll not help you dig your own grave.’

  ‘What the fuck, Runner?’

  ‘I have to clean my rifle.’ He stands, walks a few metres away to sit behind a tree, and begins to work.

  Puzzled, I watch him for a few moments, then stick my earbud in and say, ‘Have fun. I’ll see what our buddies down at the camp are up to. Maybe they need a hug. Or something.’

  He doesn’t reply, only takes his earbud from his pocket and stuffs it into his ear.

  I shut up and get to work. Our rucks go into hiding under a pile of leaves, my rifle and I hide underneath my ghillie. That ghillie stinks. I’ve walked, slept, and eaten in it. I’ve lived in that thing since we arrived here. Its inner netting is stiff with sweat and dirt. I’ll have to wash it soon, else I’ll retch.

  After a thirty minute hike, I pick a tree roughly three hundred metres north of the camp and prepare for a long day ahead.

  Laying my cheek on my rifle’s stock, I scan the perimeter. The scope shows me that the camp is beginning to settle down. Bodies are being dragged into the forest; a man with a gun watches a group of boys and girls dig a hole.

  The sun crawls across the sky and slowly begins to dip down again. Shadows stretch. The girl’s body is still stuck to the puddle of her own blood in the centre of the camp. Erik still hasn’t shown. My eyes burn, my mouth is dry, and I need to relieve myself. I edge backwards until my feet touch the trunk, press my back against it, inch down my pants and pee down the bark.

  My head aches. I’m dehydrated and I shouldn’t have let this happen. Enough sleep and water is what keeps a well-adjusted killing machine fully functional. A headache and flickering eyesight from dehydration and lack of sleep invite lethal errors. My accuracy goes from close to one hundred percent down to sixty. At this distance, four of ten bullets will miss their targets. I decide against climbing down to find water; I’ll postpone that until night falls. But I can catch up on sleep. After all, Runner’s just slept off his shooting spree stress. I can hear him stir now. I whisper to him, tell him where I am and that I’ll take a short nap. He says he’ll find us some food. He still sounds like he needs time alone. I wonder if it will always be like this. We kill, then we avoid each other.

  Nestling in a crook formed by two thick branches and the tree’s trunk, I strap my rifle to my torso and lean my head against the bark. Sunlight peeks through the gaps in my ghillie. In the semi-darkness, I watch the foliage above me and the flickering of light until I doze off.

  ———

  A noise awakens me. I twitch. My heart races but I force my movements to be calm and quiet. Move the rifle in front of you, look through the scope, Micka. Breathe. My gaze sweeps over the camp and the forest between my enemies and myself. The scope shows me two guards leaning against a tree two hundred and fifty metres away from me. They’re precisely where they’ve been on the previous days. It seems they believe us dead. Runner’s plan worked out well.

  But then… What woke me?

  ‘Micka, can you hear me?’

  Shit, Runner almost gave me a heart attack. I wipe my face and tap my earbud once.

  ‘Any movements besides the expected clean-up?’ he asks.

  I tap twice.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I tap once.

  ‘Good. Retreat. I’ve moved our rucks two kilometres east of where you left them, I’ll give you instructions on how to find my location once you’re on the move. I’m preparing a late lunch. Goat cooked in a pit. Your favourite.’

  Saliva floods my mouth and I almost forget to tap my earbud to let him know I’m coming.

  Without disturbing a single cricket, I make my way down the tree, find water to refill my canteen, and hike the long way back to find Runner sitting cross-legged under tarp and netting. A leaf-covered hole in the ground burps faint wisps of smoke. The cooking goat meat makes my empty stomach rumble in anticipation.

  We debrief after the meal. I tell him about the group of five who made for the site of the impact, about the pit the kids had to dig and the bodies they had to dump. He tells me he’s satisfied with the number of men we took down today and the smoothness of the mission. Two days’ rest, lots of sleep, good food, and a short dash to our buried ammo boxes. Then, we’ll return to terrorise what’s left of the Bullshit Army. He says there’s a chance some of the kids will escape if the men are all dead.

  Twelve children kept as meat for the bunks and the battlefield. Why wouldn’t they all run the moment they were free? I don’t understand it. Runner says it has something to do with adaptation and fear. But my mind refuses to swallow this crap. They should have the guts to run. Fuck the fucking BSA.

  The two days are over in a rush. I fold my clothes and pack them at the bottom of my ruck, the hammock follows, blanket, mosquito net, cookware, tarp, water filters and canteens, provisions, tools, lines, hooks, tape, a hacksaw, squeeze light, emergency fire starting kit, hunting knife, pliers, a compass should the SatPad fail, and more. MedKits are packed on the sides, ammo in the top pockets. I pack everything tightly and shake the ruck to make sure its innards don’t rattle. We need to be fast, quiet, and flexible.

  I’m still worried about pulling the trigger. I know I can do it, will do it. But what if my rifle jams? What if it isn’t zeroed-in correctly and I don’t get to adjust it with tons of bullets zipping all around me and my calculations are off and… Fuck, what if my fingers tremble so hard I can’t even hold my rifle still?

  The night is moonless. A few birds croak. My earbud is silent. My stomach is pressed against a thick branch about fifteen metres above ground. Dirt covers my face and hands, the remainder of my body is cloaked by my ghillie and the thick tree cover. The ruck is strapped to the trunk behind me.

  It strikes me how natural this routine feels. My old life is far away and utterly strange; a tiny world in a different universe. The sorrows I had seem ridiculous and insignificant. Why did I ever waste a single thought on bad school grades? Who gives a fuck if I had friends or not?

  The wind picks up and I lift my gaze from my scope. The greenery before me has a nicely shaved hole of approximately thirty centimetres width — large enough to allow a mild breeze to move the leaves without disturbing my view too much.

  Only a gush of wind. The weather seems stable. The clouds are thick.

  My night-eye shows me the camp. My IR laser measures seven hundred and sixty-two metres from my scope to the tent at the very centre of the camp. The vegetation is thinner in front of me than it is behind me. One foxhole is forty metres to my left, the other roughly two hundred and fifty metres to my right.

  What Runner once said about owning lives echoes in my ears. Right now, I own the lives of eight guards. They are scattered in pairs at the perimeters of the camp, their backs leaning against tree trunks, submachine guns slung over their shoulders. No lights anywhere — not in the tents, not a single fire lit to cook, not one stink candle to fight off mosquitoes.

  My neck tingles, the small hairs at its back stand erect. I stare through the scope, willing relevant information to show itself to me. Details of the men’s faces are blurre
d by distance and poor light. It’s blindingly dark. No moon, no stars, not even a firefly. The night-eye shows a flickering mush of green and black — the perfect night for an attack, and the perfect night for an ambush.

  ‘Runner. They are different tonight. Quieter. Do you think this could be a trap?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes. Ours,’ he replies calmly. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  I do, and almost jump when one of the guards shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

  My heartbeat crackles in my fingertips and toes. I don’t know if I can even hold my rifle still. My vision through the night-eye is wobbly. I readjust my fist under the gun’s stock.

  ‘Breathe, Micka,’ sounds softly from my earbud. ‘Breathe — in and out, slowly. You will take lives tonight. Remember how it felt: the rage, when you wanted to stick me with that knife, when you killed the dogs, when you saw the man cut the girl’s throat. Use it, Micka. Use the rage. But don’t let it control you. You are the weapon. Push aside what’s not relevant. Close your eyes.’

  I do as he says. My breath grows calmer; my mind shows me the images Ben and Yi-Ting took of the kids down in the camp, and it shows me Ezra. Happy, beautiful Ezra. I can’t even imagine her with empty eyes and a pack of C4 strapped to her stomach.

  ‘The fog has risen,’ he whispers. ‘Open fire when you are ready.’

  ‘Are you ready?’ I croak.

  ‘Always.’

  I aim at a pair of guards straight ahead of me. They are so close to each other, one slightly behind the other, I might be able to take them out with a single shot. I hear nothing but my heart hammering against my ribcage. I see nothing but what my finder shows me. Time slows to a crawl. The pressure increases. A round lodges itself from the chamber and flies through the barrel. Two men fall. I didn’t hear the muzzle report. What’s wrong? Did Runner shoot them for me? Am I deaf?

  Twigs are crackling, men are shouting and running. I can clearly hear them, so my ears seem to work just fine. I check my rifle and find that it did fire. I fired it. The chamber is empty and warm. I stick a finger in my ear and find the earbud. I’ll worry about the missing muzzle report another time. I aim and fire. The taste of bile begins to register.

  A man two hundred meters away is in my crosshairs. My conscience is wiped clean off my chest. I engage the target. I’m trembling. It takes three bullets to finish him off.

  I will my breath to slow: deep, calm — in, hold, out. Repeat.

  Five rounds fired, three men down, the first row of bullets in my arm strap gone.

  Second row.

  Engage target.

  I’m sharp and precise. There’s no better description for this. I’m in my tree. I’m a sniper. I spread terror.

  ‘Cease fire,’ Runner says. ‘Retreat.’

  Finally, I understand his plan in its entirety. The men have no idea where death comes from so suddenly and effectively, or when it will return. Soon, they’ll learn that we come with the fog. They’ll fear the fog even if we’re not in it.

  They are firing now. Bullets spray from their automatic guns, piercing the white void, chipping bark off the trees. We leave the noise behind. The fog cloaks us.

  ———

  I dream of blood. It’s on my hands and seeps from my chest. My rifle plops out bullets the consistency of blueberries. Men laugh, lick the purple juice off their faces, and pin me to the ground. I wake up with a hiss. Runner’s hand is on my arm a moment later.

  ‘You are safe,’ he says.

  I’m struck by the fact that he never says things like, “hey, it’s only this and only that. Don’t feel the way you feel, because it’s silly.” I don’t even know how to properly comfort people. I’d never seen it done before I met him.

  I wonder how he copes with shooting people. Does he ever see their faces? Does he think target engaged, target fell, instead of this man died at my hands? Would he ever think, I killed a man? Or, I killed my father?

  Does it even matter?

  The world doesn’t seem to give a shit. Down in the camp, bodies are dragged to the square, ransacked, and thrown in a pit.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Um. Yeah. Thanks,’ I answer. ‘Didn’t you sleep at all?’ We are safely tucked away, not even the birds seem to notice us.

  ‘I slept, don’t worry. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Thirsty.’ I reach for my canteen but he’s faster, picks it up and hands it to me. ‘Are you worried about me?’

  ‘A little. How are you feeling?’ he asks.

  ‘Erm…’ Do I have to feel something specific? ‘I’m glad I’m not bathed in blood and my bullets aren’t blueberries.’

  He snorts. ‘Is that what you dreamed?’

  ‘Yeah. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  ‘I have the same dream, or…similar. The barrel of my rifle is like rubber, it gets all floppy when I try to aim. Then I’m shot and wake up. Shooting practice usually helps me with the insecurity.’

  We’ve both been talking to the netting and the foliage above us. Now, he rustles in his hammock and sticks his head over the rim of my hammock. ‘You were the first to shoot and a damn good shot that was! Two guys dead with one bullet. I’d expected much more…inaccuracy.’

  I don’t say a peep. Vivid memories of spraying blood and holes punched into chests make my heart race.

  ‘You killed four men, I killed seven. If the fog is as thick tomorrow as it was today, we can take down the remaining fifteen men. Then, we’ll find Erik.’

  ‘Why did we retreat? We could have killed them all tonight.’

  ‘You didn’t notice they hauled the rocket launcher out and pointed it in your direction?’

  ‘Uhm…’ Shit. All I saw was in the restricted, circular view of my finder. ‘Did they kill one of the kids?’

  He nods, touches my arm, and says, ‘I didn’t expect you to perform so well, Micka. I thought I’d have to pull you out much earlier. This was your first night — you focussed on what was most important — as I taught you. I’ve got your back. You’ll learn to broaden your vision, to keep your senses sharp for the things that happen around you, not only the things your finder shows you. And next time, change your location after five shots.’

  I nod. ‘What about the other kids?’

  ‘If they don’t attack us, they’ll be evacuated as soon as possible. Kat is waiting for my go-signal.’

  Only five hours later, our plans are worth the dirt under our fingernails.

  Shouts echo through the woods, bounce off the trees, and are swallowed by moss and soil. Runner left more than an hour ago. I don’t know where, precisely, he is and that makes me feel as if my life support has been cut off. My hand hurts from gripping my rifle too hard. I’ll miss my targets if I don’t relax.

  Targets. There must be a reason for calling humans that and it has nothing to do with where you aim your gun.

  ‘Do not engage,’ whispers from my earbud. ‘Find the foxhole nearest you and close the hatch. Be invisible.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ I croak. My palms itch. I rub them against the bark. Listening to Runner’s breathing, I pull myself together.

  I unstrap my pack from the tree trunk; check the fifteen rounds in my arm strap, the knife that’s fastened to my left leg, and the pistol on my right. A sip of water, a stretching of muscles, and I slip off my tree, step into the dense greenery, and begin to crawl. With danger lurking at my back, my pace feels painfully slow, but it keeps me invisible. My earbud transmits huffs and crackling twigs. They sound farther away and can’t be Runner’s. Is he so close to the approaching men?

  ‘How many?’ I ask.

  He taps twice. Either he’s still counting, or he wants me to shut up. The faint gurgling of water tells me he’s probably close to the stream — a fifteen minute walk from here.

  I reach the foxhole and move the lid aside, then I slip in, rucksack, rifle and all. I blot out prints that could give away my hideout. Hm… he said close the hatch. But then I won’t be able to see
a thing. Being in this hole and not seeing what’s going on outside feels wrong. I place a stone between hatch and ground and push my rifle through the opening, insert the barrel between forest floor and a strategically placed branch, and pull a piece of netting over it. Runner put branches in front of every such foxhole to help conceal the infrared signature of the muzzle from above. If anyone on the ground happened to stare right at it, they could possibly see it. But before they could react, I would shoot their night-vision goggles off their faces.

  ‘Micka?’ Runner whispers.

  ‘I’m in the hole. Lots of movement in the camp now. They know that backup is coming.’

  ‘Close the hatch, dammit!’

  ‘Acknowledged.’ Slowly, I move my rifle, the stone, and finally the hatch. Blackness swallows me. ‘How many men?’

  ‘More than sixty.’

  My heart hollers. ‘Fuck.’

  He must have informed Kat by now. There’ll be no evacuation of the kids anytime soon. The BSA’s ship must have arrived already. How’s this even possible without Kat warning us beforehand? Are these all the men who disembarked? What the heck do they want here anyway? There’s nothing but forest here. No people they can terrorise and kill, no… What precisely does the Bullshit Army want, anyway? If their only goal is to kill all humans, wouldn’t they be the last left alive? Would they shoot each other then, and would the last one kill himself? I shake my head. There’s no use in trying to make the illogical logical.

  ‘Which foxhole did you pick?’ Runner asks.

  ‘The one with the red plush pillows.’ I snort at my own joke. Shit, I’m tense. ‘West of and closest to my previous position.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be to your right. We’ll open crossfire when I say it. Keep your head down till then. I don’t want any of them to stumble over your rifle or the open hatch.’

  ‘Okay.’ My muscles are stretched so tightly, my body is aching everywhere, even my face. And I need to pee. Badly.