That’s when it began. It was sudden. A thud. I was snatched midway of my third read-through and everyone was suddenly on their feet, even bloody Mike Fisken, who looked wily and wild as ever. He had taken off his spoilt shirt, now he wore a white tank top. His biceps sat like cannonballs, and his chest protruded like a tumour; he may well have been an NFL player himself if he wasn’t so short. The thud came again; no one could see where it had come from. An empty heart-lurching thud.
“There, someone’s out there!” The boy of the couple said and we all followed his finger.
A man with scraggy wisps of hair. The fog was so thick his head seemed to be suspended in it, close to the glass. His eyes, like Rafa’s, moved about in red where it should be white. Another thud came as a hand with spread fingers slapped and stayed for a second then drew back. The black fog lit up with a bright flash as we all watched. Again I couldn’t contain my emotions, I was angry.
The man stayed, palming the window like a drum, and his eyes not quite human. Mike Fisken seemed to be moving slowly toward the door, or perhaps toward the discarded shotgun. The thuds came louder and a woman with a bloody nose was outside of the glass as well. She thudded more regularly. She was clad like any young woman, a nice white floral dress and her hair was in a high ponytail, but it was her red eyes and the way her mouth gnashed, as though she was toothless and gobbing prunes. The drumming got louder, faster. It got so loud I could barely here Mike asking what the hell they were. I could barely hear Janey’s screams.
The woman was at the cracked window and it started to move, it was ready to go. The crack slithered slowly, approaching the bottom corner.
“If that window goes, that fog will fill this place in no time!”
The girl of the couple was sobbing and the boy held her. It felt like everybody turned to me, synced. Everybody except Mike, who moved to the door with gun in hand he kicked it open and craned his neck out. The two outside stopped, their heads sharply cocked and suddenly their eyes were on him. Through the fog, they found him and in unison, they charged.
Mike must not have seen them through the fog until it was too late. They crashed into the door. The force sent Mike carting back on to the floor where the trucker had pinned him. The two frenzied. The door had closed on them but they couldn’t open it. It was unlocked but they stood bashing it instead of pulling it. They kicked and threw their heads at it. It was still too loud but I could have sworn Mike had laughed. He was back on his feet now holding the shotgun in two hands.
“What the hell is going on?”
“It’s the fog, I’m telling you, I read something in Sabre’s case. They were testing chemicals, probably to sell to the military. He mentioned something about how he was going to buy up all the land.” I found my voice getting loud, barely loud enough to overcome the rolling thuds. Patches of blood were appearing on the glass as the man rocked his head hard into the panel; they would crack soon just how the other had cracked with the docile birds strike.
“Claire,” I began, and for the first time she looked concerned, “Can you take the kids out back, is there an office back there Joe?”
“Yeah just put them in the staff room.” He said gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.
Claire carried her youngest son, and took Janey and her elder son by the hand, leading them through the kitchen.
There were more thuds, louder thuds. More faces lingered, suspended in the fog, an old man. And a boy, no older than 11 or 12. They beat their hands against the glass. It was all about to come down, the building everything. The stale coffee air was hot and thick, and my heart was throwing itself against my chest.
The young couple moved away from the window, walking backwards afraid to turn away from the fist-falls, which came on like thunder. A new truckers announced his arrival with a bone jarring thud which made the crack branch out and splinter.
“That windows going to go, we need to get them back!” I said.
The manic trucker moved along the window outside, towards the two at the door. It was sickening, how he attacked. He snatched the other man by the hair and crunched down on his neck between bloody teeth. He pulled back, tearing. A jet of blood hit the glass. His throat was gaping and surging. The young girl screamed and turned away.
The attackers red eyes found mine, fixed in a stare. He seemed to smile, chin steeped in blood, fingers spread in the dead man’s hair.
The manic trucker dropped the body and took his place next to the woman bashing at the door. The crack in the glass had almost reached the corner.
“Mike we need to get them away, we can’t let that window go. How many shots you got?”
Mike counted them up.
“Seven.”
“Okay I will force this door back; you need to get these two, then the others. It’s something in the fog, it makes you act savage.” Mike gave me that look of doubt, the one I could see him giving his wife all their marriage and one day he would give it to his kids. That I’m right you’re wrong but I won’t bother explaining why look.
“Why don’t I open the door and you do the shooting.”
I snatched the gun from his grip and walked to the door. I had never killed anyone, I didn't want to but they were dead already. It would get us if I didn't do it. As we approached, the thuds outside got harder, faster.
“On three.”
The two outside stumbled back as Mike shoved the door. I got one off and the gun thumped against my shoulder. My teenage seasons duck hunting had barely prepared me for this. I Pumped again then squeezed out the second. The fog was already burning me up inside but we needed the others. I charged forward, holding my breath; I got the old man in the face then the kid, who was thrown as if I fired a truck and not a shot. I couldn't move back inside. It was like a shift in gravity. I eyed the boy, dead on the ground. I still held my breath out there but I couldn't leave, I had killed the boy. Mike's call from the door snapped my trance, I turned and ran.
Inside, the two truckers were looking on, with faces contorted as though they were watching a foreign film without subtitles, eating olives and drinking wine, instead of beer and peanuts. I gasped for the safe air and pressed my back against the closed door. The boys helpless eyes, manic then fearful.
Even with a crew cut and puffy jacket, the younger trucker was still just a boy. The only part of him that was old was his weary eyes looped in dark bruise. He looked like the type that had the hubris and bluster amongst his friends, but when death ambled along his path he was the little boy again.
“It’s not safe here, not in this fog, I’m going. I’m taking my truck; I’m going to take the 54 until I’m out of this fog. I mean we have more of a chance driving out there, than waiting here for more of those things.”
He wasn’t entirely convinced himself, but he may have been right. How vast had the fog spread? And, would he be safe moving to the truck? I wasn’t ready to ask these questions, I still found the shotgun clutched to my chest. Then Joe spoke up.
“No you stay, you stay and defend. Whatever is going on out there, it doesn’t matter. You all stay to defend.” He was serious. His cook held his waiter behind him in the kitchen. The young couple were shaking and sobbing together. No one was of any use.
“Joe, that’s unreasonable.” I began but he simply raised a hand and turned his head.
I dropped the shotgun on a table and found a booth away from the windows.
Joe slyly moved towards me, and before he arrived, he had snatched it.
“That’s right,” he began, his black eyes wild and his hands shaking around the gun, “No one’s going anywhere.”
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