The Fog

by Dennis Etchison

  It had invaded his beach all the way to the rocks, white and stiff as cumulous clouds; but Mrs. Kobritz had said it was not clouds. It was fog, it was. But it was not like any fog he had seen before. It surged forward like an occupying navy, enfolding whole houses in its wake, establishing a beachhead and advancing toward the road and the trees, moving inland.

  Wonder if I could take a picture of it? It wouldn’t look like anything. Probably wouldn’t even come out on the film. He ignored it and set to work.

  The beach was relatively dry under the bedrooms. He counted the pilings, dug in his knees, and lit the flashlight.

  The same starfish still hung prickly on the tarred posts, arrested by the driven cleats and drying twisted and deformed in the yellow circle of his Scout flashlight. They had not moved, he was sure.

  It might be nice to have one for a trophy.

  But why bother? They sure weren’t going anywhere.

  Unless they could be revived by water. The tide would be higher again in a few weeks.

  He had read of such things in the Time-Life picture books: an African mudfish, he forgot the exact name, which buried itself in a sort of cocoon in empty riverbeds and hibernated, waiting for the first rains of the year, or the next year or the year after.

  But they didn’t have nails hammered through them.

  What if he pulled the nails out?

  He probed his pale beam at the darkness under the house, hoping to surprise new ones in the process of climbing, or at least to discover some clue as to what they were doing there. The stilts were solid, but some of the high beams were being eaten away by dry rot. Strands and bulbs of blistering kelp had collected about the timbers in an arcane pattern, surrounded by soft terraces and drainage canals that connected back to the sea. Here the sand was crosshatched with a maze of punctures, tiny bubble holes drilled when it was wet by sand crabs buried under an unusually high tide; there bunches of mossy sea wort spread in wiry scalp locks to dry among the blanched shells; and there, a continuous line of craterlike impressions, footprints that led under the house. The footprints were rough and frenzied, as if chopped out by the hooves of a wild animal on the run. There was not enough light to be sure, but they had probably been made by an unleashed dog. He hoped it had been a dog.

  He propped the flashlight on his knee, trained his camera on the starfish, and tripped an exposure.

  The stark throw of the flashbulb froze spiders under boards, bits of jellied sand dangling from their webs, a hermit crab in the act of feeding, torn paper wrappers and the feathered pages of an old TV Guide, a rotting rubber balloon, a broken oar, the filigreed bones of a poisoned fish. He thought of the long-dead and rotting mussels, clams, oysters, lobster, squid, puffers, eel, sea snakes, sharks, barracuda, trilobites, spiny horrors that were once sentinels of the deep, abandoned here on the changing shoreline and layered beneath his knees and the house in which he lived. And then the Polaroid photo ejected from the front of the camera. He turned his flashlight to it, impatient.

  All that there was so far, of course, was a greenish cloud of developing chemicals. He lowered the beam and decided to try another shot, in case the first one did not take.

  The outline of the climbing starfish remained before his eyes so that he only had to raise the camera and point, lining it up with the afterimages he already saw. He released the button and another searing flash illuminated the underside of the building.

  He had several more shots left on the flashbar. He scuffled around for another angle, and noticed then that the starfish had become misty, almost transparent, threatening to fade out and disappear even as he watched.

  He crawled closer, leading with his scout light.

  It was the air. It was diffused now, scattering and diffracting the once-sharp lines in front of him. He wiped the lens clean on his shirt and removed the previous print. A fall of dustlike moisture particles settled on the glossy square and on the plastic of the camera and on his hands, making them sparkle. As if they were glowing in the dark. It was beginning to give him the creeps.

  He turned around quickly and checked the beach.

  A veil had descended over the whole coast, erasing even the details of the life raft and his pail and shovel. It wrapped itself around the sand dunes and braided through the telephone wires up on the road, sneaking over the landscape and cloaking the sea. The fog, if that was what it was, was white as vanilla ice cream.

  Whatever it was, however it made him feel, he knew it was special. It may not happen again. He repositioned his camera toward the beach and fired.

  The flash hit the wall of fog and bounced back at his eyes, blinding him temporarily. He dropped the camera. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands but it did no good. All he could see was the great white reflector before him, mapped with the red lightning bolts of blood vessels in his retinas. He moved his hand through the stuff and patted the beach for the camera. He could not find it.

  And then he heard a pounding.

  It was so close it might have been only Inches over his head, or behind him or beside him. It was like the slamming of storm waves against the cliffs, or a mighty fist on the window by his bed. Thoom. Thoom. Thoom. It was like his own heart hammering in his chest and in his head, clamoring to be let out.

  He compressed his body into a ball, praying that he would not be noticed.

  The pounding feet came closer.

  He raked the sand for a stick or a rock, something with which to defend himself, but could find only the camera.

  Then the pounding stopped.

  He waited, counting his heartbeats. This wasn’t fun anymore. He had reached a level of uncontrollable fear, the terror of falling like a shot into the bottomless pit of a fever nightmare, and it was more than he could handle. I’m sorry, he thought, I didn’t mean to do it, whatever it was, I’ll be good from now on, I promise! I swear!

  He heard the ocean rustling to the right and left of him, drawing closer.

  Except that there was no ocean to his left, he was sure. There couldn’t be. He held his breath.

  Sand rained over him in the path of a terrible approach that could not be stopped, bearing down on him. In another minute it would be here. In another second. In—

  He heard a breathing in front of him.

  He fumbled the camera up and tripped the button. It was a chance, only a chance, but it might blind whatever was standing over him, just as it had seared his own eyeballs, and give him enough time to get away. He jammed the button again and again till the flasher was used up. The light burst into the fog bank in front of him.

  “Andrew,” said a voice. “I’ve come to take you back. What’s the matter with you, boy?”

  Dazed, he stared at the tall figure against the backdrop of fog.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Get inside this minute, do you hear? Scamper!”

  “Oh, Mrs. Kobritz!” he cried. “I’m so glad! Was it you all the time? Was that you walking up on the floor? Oh, thank you, thank you . . . !”

  “Right now, young man. Your mother telephoned. I didn’t have the heart to tell her you weren’t in your room. You’ll catch your death out here.”

  He picked up his pictures and followed her inside, into the warmth of the house, not bothering to look at what had been developing there on each frosted square of the SX-70 prints. He scampered. The first thing he did was to lock the door. The second was to make for his mother’s radio, filling the rooms of the house with music, waiting impatiently for the sound of her voice.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mel Sloane was double-checking the printouts when O’Bannon’s car hit the gravel in front of the Tri-County Weather Station. He lost his place in the row of numbers, recalibrated the dials, and started a new column at the top of his graph. Outside, O’Bannon popped a can of beer and pounded on the door.

  Sloane gave up, folded the readout back into the basket, and sauntered to the front of the building. O’Bannon was standing there with his belly out, a dopey gr
in on his red face.

  “How’s it going, Mel?”

  “What’s the matter?” said Sloane. “Forget your keys again?”

  “Nope. I just wanted to let you know you’ve got company, so you’d have time to zip up your pants.”

  “You took the mountain road again, didn’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m not even going to ask you if you set a new world record tonight. I don’t want to know. I swear, Danny, you better get that junkheap of yours fixed one of these days, or you’re going to wake up and find yourself shoes-up at the bottom of some gorge. Either that or save the brewskies till you get here. I heard you drive up. Like a diesel pumpin’ oil. Jesus. Anybody get hurt in that wreck?”

  “Why, Mel, you know we’re not allowed to indulge on the premises. This here is throat medicine. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, your girlfriend on the radio’s been talking about you.”

  “I know. I only came in tonight to keep her happy.”

  “I thought you were off tonight. I thought it was supposed to be Romero.”

  “I’m in love with my job.”

  “She turned you down again, eh?”

  “Romero wants the graveyard shift.”

  “Fine, wonderful. Till then, you can tell Stevie all about that big mother fog bank moving southeast there.”

  O’Bannon went to the radar screen. “Where?”

  “You find it, ace. I got to see a man about a dog.”

  “Loan me your keys? I’ll lock up after you and leave ’em with Romero.”

  “I thought you didn’t forget them this time.”

  “I lied.”

  “Danny, Danny,” said Sloane. He unhooked the fob from his belt, removed his car keys, and tossed the ring to O’Bannon. “Don’t forget to keep the shortwave on. The Captain gets a wee bit testy when nobody’s on the line for the hourly feed. Catch your act tomorrow.”

  “The hell you will. I’m off tomorrow.”

  The door slammed.

  “See you,” said O’Bannon.

  He searched the scope. The door opened.

  “Don’t forget to bolt the door behind me,” said Sloane.

  “Right.”

  “Regulations, remember? You never know when an inspection’s coming down.”

  The door slammed again.

  O’Bannon fixed his bleary eyes on the scope as it made a complete sweep. This time a definite mass interrupted the green circle, like a dark star a few degrees south and east.

  “Aha,” he said, “gotcha.”

  He turned the radio up to a reasonable level. Music. He reached for the phone.

  “Hello, KAB.”

  “How are you, sweetheart?” O’Bannon’s voice was tinny.

  “Take the phone out of your chin, Dan.”

  “It is. You sound glad to hear me.”

  “I thought you were celebrating.”

  “What’s a party without you?”

  “Be serious. I haven’t got all night. I do, actually, but not for you.” She filled her lungs, relieved, and put out the cigarette. She didn’t need it anymore. Reflected in the window, the burning tip arced down like a meteor.

  “Another fog bank, pretty lady.”

  “How would you know?”

  “It says so right here on my scope.”

  “Where?”

  “Coming in off the ocean from the southeast. Moving inland now. Should be here where I am in about five, ten minutes. Then I’ll get to see if it’s really pea soup or what.”

  “Hold the line, will you?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She spun a knob, fading the music down, and patched herself back on the air.

  “Here’s a special bulletin for all you meteorological freaks,” she said. “The Coast Guard Weather Station on Russell Road reports a fog bank moving southwest along the coast. So batten down the hatches, kiddies. I’ll be talking to you again on the half hour.”

  She faded the music back up and took O’Bannon off hold.

  “Are you sure that’s the whole story, Dan? I thought I saw something blowing in from the other side, as well. Could it be hitting us from both sides, do you think?”

  She disconnected the studio monitor and pressed the receiver tighter to her ear. She could hear only a rushing sound. This was no time for Dan to clown around, she thought. She shook the receiver, then placed it up against her ear and listened hard. Like the blood in her head, it was starting to pound.

  “Dan? Are you there?”

  Cold night air streamed through the windowless truck. Elizabeth pushed her hair back and discovered that it was damp. She examined her palm in the dashboard light. It was sparkling, as if she had dipped it in sequins.

  “Look at this,” she said.

  “Mind if we make another stop first?” said Nick.

  He overhanded the wheel, ran off the highway, and braked. Then he made a J-turn and barreled back in the opposite direction. He was looking for a break in the trees. There was no sign, but he found it.

  “This must be Russell Road,” said Elizabeth. “Is that what she just said?”

  “This isn’t it, but it’ll get us there. You’re a quick study, kid.”

  “Don’t call me that, okay? ‘Hey You’ or ‘What’s-Your-Name’ or even ‘Sweetheart.’ ” I shouldn’t have said that last one, she thought. She had tried to make it sound the way Bogart would say it, but it hadn’t come out right. “Only not ‘Kid.’ Okay, Nick? Nothing personal.”

  “Back where I come from,” he said, “it’s a term of endearment. But you wouldn’t know about that in Pasadena.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Hold on. This road hasn’t been repaired for twenty years.”

  They bumped down a grade, found what was left of the pavement, and geared up. The springs were squeaking, bouncing them up and down like an amusement park ride. But he knows what he’s doing, she thought.

  She slid closer to him.

  “Dan?”

  “Still here. You sound different tonight. Sort of intense.”

  “I feel like talking, that’s all.”

  “You told me the other day you don’t like talking on the phone. You said you get all talked out on the air. Remember?”

  “Dan, where’s the fog now?”

  “The fog? Hell, I should be able to see it from my front door.”

  That close, she thought.

  “Wait a minute, Dan. I’m going to try something.”

  She carried the phone with her to the window and closed the light switch. For a moment she was in total darkness. Then the rows of colored lights on her board appeared in the glass. She looked through them. There in the moonlight was the coast, dotted with rows of porch lights and windows up and down the beach. She followed the coastline to the horizon.

  “I can see it!” she said.

  The fog now rimmed the waterline completely. You couldn’t miss it. It had curved around the border of Antonio Bay and was unfolding along the beaches in the manner of a neon snake.

  It was glowing. Distinct.

  “Did you hear what I said? I said—”

  “What’s the big deal?” said O’Bannon. “If you see fog once, you’ve seen it for life.”

  “There’s something different about this fog, Dan. It . . . it’s bright.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. But it’s glowing. I’m looking at it right now. You’ll be able to see for yourself pretty soon. Is it there yet?”

  “Glowing? Oh, I get it. You take something to keep you going, right? Gets you lit up sometimes?”

  She followed its progress, fascinated. It seemed to be a living thing, a churning tube of radiant energy.

  “Hey,” said O’Bannon.

  “What? Did you say something?”

  “The lights went out here, that’s all.”

  Stevie cupped the earpiece closer. She could hear that same static sound in the
wires again.

  “Yes?” she said. “Keep talking, will you, Dan?”

  “Sorry. Jeez, my compass is spinning like a sonofabitch. Feels like the air conditioner just shot all the way over to sub-zero. Did Mel leave a window open? Hey!”

  The static was louder.

  “What in the holy hell is that?” said O’Bannon.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  The static broadened into a swishing sound. Now she was certain it was not in the wires. It was definitely coming from the other end.

  “Dan? Dan?”

  “Had me goin’ for a minute there. Somebody’s shining a light outside the window.”

  “Dan, listen to me.”

  “I’m gonna check this out. Hold on, sweetheart.”

  “Dan? Oh please stay on the line! Dan!”

  The swishing sound became the hissing of steam under pressure. She heard Dan’s footsteps fading into it. They reverberated hollowly across the weather station. The footsteps left the phone but continued to resound louder, much louder, pounding and pounding. Her heart double-timed, assaulting her eardrums, but the pounding was even stronger, more deafening, a series of short explosions hammering at the door of the outpost. O’Bannon’s voice came to her from the other end of a long tunnel, the walls throbbing around him with that ungodly pounding.

  “Come on. This has gotta be a joke. Now he’s got a light outside the damn door . . .”

  A nameless fear seized her for reasons she only dimly comprehended. She shouted into the phone, knowing that he would not be able to hear her. “Dan! Stay away from the door!”

  “. . . And whoever it is, he ain’t gonna like finding me home!”

  She heard the squeak of the doorknob at his end, the door whispering open.

  “. . . Damnfool,” said O’Bannon. “It wasn’t even locked. All he had to do was . . . Hello? Somebody out there?”

  The sound of a dripping like rain, slow, steady, replacing the pounding, and then a menacing rush of air. She heard O’Bannon shouting outside his office.

  “I guess some asshole got into the hard stuff and started taking this hundred-year business a mite too seriously . . .”