With every minute that ticked by a new theory rose from the truckers table, each more dire than the last. One was talking about a Stephen King story, the other pestered on about chemical weapons from the ‘rag-heads’ and Joe was back at the table, still stubbornly pushing the unseasonal fog argument. At one point Joe stood on a seat and cleared his throat.
“Okay, don’t worry everybody, the fog will soon clear. The moisture in it is blocking radio signals and the roads will all be closed by now. So everybody stay put until it is lifted and the lightening has finished. The kitchen is still open and from now we will be doing two for one meals.”
I looked around as he spoke and no one seemed to pay him much attention. It was opportunism. Joe would have as soon seen us out the door if he didn’t think there was still dollars to extract.
The clock was getting close to ten and the smell of pancakes and coffee was becoming sickening. The room went through phases in unison, when the lightening flashed close enough to light the room, people would stop mid conversation. Unease came and passed. And every time Joe stood up with a plug for coffee and bacon, people’s eyes would sharpen on him, then glaze over and the conversations would resume before he had finished the announcement.
The first thud came around 10:30.
It came echoed by gasps.
Nobody saw what it was, just a sound against the glass, like the kick of a bass drum. Then the next and the next. Then they came faster. A black shape formed as just a shadow, materialized then struck the glass and fell. This all happened almost too fast to see. A small crack started and began to seam right across the centre, inching closer with ever thud.
“They’re birds.” The boy with the leather jacket said. “I can see them when they hit, they look like magpies, but magpies don’t flock, I don’t think anyway.”
The thud’s stopped after a minute.
“Damn birds, my insurance premium is going to skyrocket. Those windows are about six hundred a piece to replace,” Joe was saying, though no one seemed to hear. The same concerned look came, all eyes centred on the crease. That window was going to go at any moment.
“It looks like they’re fighting down there.” The boy was saying, standing over the seat with his hand binoculars against the glass again.
Janey stirred. She blinked out the remainders of sleep and shuffled a little in her pyjamas.
“Daddy, where is Mommy? Can we go home?”
“Not just yet Janey, we can’t leave ‘til the fog lifts.”
“What’s wrong is Mommy okay?”
“She’s fine Janey,” I lied. “I promise.”
I had a bad feeling. I wanted to go to the bathroom. I also wanted to get the flare gun out of my truck, but I didn’t want to leave Janey alone.
“Janey, let’s go meet that family, you can make a couple of friends?”
She gave a small tiresome sigh, then took my hand and led me over.
I remembered what Sabre had said. They were the Fiskens and he was Mike Fisken, an NFL player agent. As we approached, I let my eyes centre on the man, trying to steal his gaze. He looked like the type of guy that shoots from the hip. He had hard cold eyes and a strong jaw. I held out my hand, “Ross Stone.” He stared at it like I was offering a tofu burger. His lip curled back over his teeth. He still held his phone to his ear, waiting for reception. The wife took it; she was a pretty thing, much younger than he was, with lustful curves and lips coated red.
“Claire Fisken and this is Mike,” She said.
“Wait.” I was a hockey man myself but could bluff my way through football talk, “The Mike Fisken?”
Suddenly he looked interested. “The NFL ‘super-agent’?”
His cheeks quickly washed red.
“And, who are you?”
“Ross Stone.” Finally, he took my hand. I felt uneasy looking into those eyes, tempered blue with every arctic implication. I needed someone to watch Janey so I pressed through.
“So, you are the Mike Fisken? I’m a big fan of football.” I began, and after some warming up he was talking trades and players and he had forgotten about his phone. His young wife knew what to say and when to say it, she entertained the kids but every so often she added a dollop of sweet southern drawl.
Janey found a seat next to the kids who were a little younger than she was.
The more they smiled and the faster they spoke the more prepared I was to finally ask.
“Do you mind watching Janey just for a moment; I need to grab something from my Truck.”
“Yeah sure, Ross,” she said, smiling and there seemed to be something suggestive about her eyes, but it was no time for thoughts like that. I went to the door and as I reached out to grab the handle, someone hailed me.
“Ross, Ross, Ross, don’t go out there, wait for it to clear. Sit down and have some lunch.” Joe was saying, “You saw those birds Ross, you’re blind out there.”
I ignored him, pulled my shirt up as a gas mask over my nose and walked out. I rushed to the car. The fog was so thick I had to resist the urge to stretch out my arms, like a bather wading in a lake. I ripped open the glove box and rifled through it until I had the flare gun. I slammed the door and got back to the diner. My vision blurred through the surfacing tears, and my makeshift gas mask failed to keep my throat from itching.
I burst back in holding the flare gun in one hand. It was as though I had interrupted a dinner party, all talk ceased and suspicious eyes fell on my gun. I put my other hand up as though surrendering.
“It’s a flare gun, just in case.” The suspicious eyes still fixed on me. I shoved it in my pocket and made my way to the bathroom to rinse my eyes, and when I opened the door, it felt like I was dead already.
Spoiler! :
I don't want to sound like a broken record by not moving onto something else now.
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