I had to hold Janey. We had two bodies, and screaming and crying didn’t help but she wouldn’t stop. Neither would the other kids. I would have done anything to get her smiling but all I could do was hold her and pat her back to keep her from choking on the sobs.
Scrutinizing eyes were burning on Mike. He had left the shotgun on the counter and everyone furiously dialled on their phones fruitlessly. Sarah and the burly cook were holding each other in the kitchen. There was a way about how he eyed her, how his hand’s moved along her back with long soft strokes, that told me he probably cared for her much more than she did for him. I knew we had to go; we had to get to Tara. It was all getting mad in here. It was cold, too cold at times, then suddenly I was flushed and sweating.
I moved to Mike.
“I saw.”
He glanced up at me then dropped his face back in his bloody hands. “I saw him. He was mad. He was going to kill you. He was coughing blood when he came back. You know I think it’s something out there. It hurts to breath in that fog.”
“Just shut up, shut up. Okay?”
I was getting agitated; my hands were shaking and my eyes blurred.
Across the room, Joe was flustered, kneading his forehead with his palms. I walked over and got close enough so no one could hear.
“Joe, I’m telling you it’s something in the fog. First Rafa comes in here in a state of catatonia then that trucker pulls a shotgun. You’ve got two bodies in your diner.” I said watching his unconvinced eyes, it wasn’t getting through, “Joe, just listen, that Sabre guy, he said something about the fog taking us, about us being animal. Now I don’t know what that means, but he gave me a feeling that he knew something.”
I said looking out at the fog and the quiet flashes that burnt it's image into my eyes. “It stings your eyes and makes your throat itch and by the look of it, it makes you act strange. Now we can’t call the police until the phone lines are back up and we can’t leave until the fog clears so we are going to have to take care of the bodies first, for the kids’ sake.” I watched Joe’s face with the anticipation I get when yanking a mower chord over and over waiting for it to lurch into life. Then some tectonic movement occurred which barely surfaced, but I knew he had realised I was right. He disappeared into the kitchen. I went and repeated what I had said to Mike Fisken.
He stood and looked back at his kids, with eyes washed with concern. He agreed to help clean up the trucker. The other truckers sat in a booth, barely moving. The couple were tighter than ever, they sat next to Claire Fisken and the children.
Joe returned with a mop, and a large sheet of plastic following like a ghost.
“I know it’s a crime scene, but what else can we do?” I said and with that, we slid the body onto the plastic sheet and out through the kitchen. I suggested he go in the chiller and Joe agreed. The plastic sheet left a body wide red stain like a painter’s brushstroke.
Joe started to mop, and after one sweep, he hunched over and hurled into the bucket. I took the mop and refilled the bucket out the back of the kitchen then finished the job. The water was a pink dye. Every time I hit a hard thatch of skin and shredded flesh, bile started up my throat.
After the clean up – could a euphemism be more disquieting? - I sat down and held Janey. She was a strong brave little girl, but she wept, she asked where her mother was and why we can’t leave. She asked if the trucker was okay and when the ambulance would come. I told her he was okay. I hated lying to her, but I hated the feel of those warm tears rolling onto my chest even more. The Fisken children were too young to understand what had happened, or perhaps they had inherited their father’s nerve. They still pestered their parents about when they were going back to the lake house and if they can have another milkshake.
Claire Fisken had tweaked loose the top two buttons of her blouse. She had a mole on her chest that peeked out and I felt something, at first it was an insatiable attraction, then it was guilt. I was goggling this young married woman while my wife could be stuck in the fog out there. I got angry; I wanted to hurt something, hurt myself. I gripped my emotions as best I could. It all come in a flood, it was strange, and hard to explain. Mood swings were as common as the fog itself to me but here I was, fists tight and sweat coming on all over.
I guess that’s the problem with emotions. You get so good at controlling them; you have all the tricks, the routines to supress what is innate. I was running flights east to west, away from home five days a week. I had my wife and my baby girl at home, waiting. All I was to them for five years was a pay cheque and a week long vacation in Hawaii every August. Sometimes I would surprise them, when a particularly harsh storm kept me grounded. I would be back early. Sometimes I would be away for longer, weeks and weeks. I got lonely but I learned the tricks. I learned what substances helped. I learned about gambling. I learned to count to ten when I wanted to whack someone and to look away when a pretty girl with painted lips came my way. Something about the thought of Tara drained me, the fly-screened window left ajar.
But here now, I stood and goddamn I couldn’t take my eyes off that girl. I felt a little contempt towards Mike, I looked at his neck and wondered how much weight those bones could take, how many fists that nose would stand before inverting completely. It was already bent all out of shape and his eyes were concealed almost entirely in bloody blue rings, but I could get him better, if I wanted. I could hurt him better. He could run with both crowds and I knew it, a suit by day but a brawler by nature. I stalled these thoughts. I suddenly had an urge to hit Mike and I don't know why, the thought of it now makes my gut feel real empty. Even at the time as this urge came, part of me wanted the thoughts to pass.
I found my original booth and sat. I trained my emotions, jogging my thoughts over familiar ground: Tara and Janey, my flight schedule, my time off to sort out the migraines. Then I noticed something, a black case. It was under the table where Mick Sabre was downing scotch. I slyly moved over, placed it in the table and opened it. There were stacks of paper and a few newspaper clippings crudely tossed in untidily, huried. The first sheet of paper was covered in ink.
RE: Resignation
Mr. Sabre,
Please consider this my formal resignation effective immediately. I don’t want any severance; I don’t want a golden handshake. I just want my name wiped from the project. What you are doing is wrong, even if you claim to have no control over it. This is a dangerous game your organization is playing. Stop now.
Yours sincerely,
Jakob Lindegaard
A dangerous game? I frowned at it, studying it for more. What was this project? I picked up one of the news articles, and on the cover was a dead bird held by an angry looking conservation officer.
Birds mysteriously poisoned, the title read. Then I found it, a sheet of paper that made my guts plummet.
31st March 2005
0.2 g/M. Subject three continues to display memory lapse, failing not only cognitive processing test two and five but one and three and general response to previous controlled trauma.
0.4 g/M. subject three no longer responds to controlled trauma testing. Fails CP test one through five.
0.06 g/M. At 0.6 moles Subject three displays heightened reactions to emotive stimuli. Subject three, rejects food when presented with a mate or other subjects. Subject three seems to act entirely on instincts. Prior trauma means of behavioural development have been superseded. No further testing recommended for subject three.
It seemed to take longer to read. I went back over it again scouring.
Act entirely on instincts.
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