Chapter 31

  Michael Whyte

  “Was it back this way?” Michael peeked around the corner of an intersection.

  “I think…that way,” said AJ. She seemed to have some idea, which was more than Michael had. He’d gotten so turned around after being separated from the others that he had no idea how to get back to the ALL-Rover. The fog, the transient creatures therein, and the occasional cluster of hurrying people from which he and AJ hid themselves, did not help.

  They crept together down a dank concrete hall. It emerged into an open space full of silvery mist. Stacks of steel sheeting rose up on their left, and a huge industrial machine of mysterious purpose loomed in the fog to their right.

  “Right,” said Michael. “I think we’re back in the warehouse.” Or some warehouse, at any rate. Or a factory floor. It probably meant they were getting close. The cement underfoot and the sense of space reminded him of the place they had entered, where they had all gotten separated by the giant mist monster.

  “Do you think everyone’s going to meet back at the ALL-Rover?” asked AJ in a whisper.

  “Maybe. I’m just worried about our siblings.” Jimothy and Elizabeth had been left in the ALL-Rover for their own safety. Michael had seen the vehicle’s defensive capabilities firsthand, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable leaving his brother comatose inside while dangerous men were on the loose. “I think we should try to wake them up,” he said.

  He stepped carefully out into the misty space, leading the way because he had a gun. He didn’t want to have to use it, so he took it slow and stayed alert. One foot in front of the other, careful, quiet.

  Something crashed nearby, metal on cement. The sound went on for a few seconds, as if a pile of something heavy was spilling onto the floor. Someone cursed in the mist.

  Michael froze in place. AJ adhered to his free arm with a tight grip.

  Someone, possibly the same person, screamed. It sounded like a man, but echoes distorted the cry as though it reverberated from far away. The sound was abruptly cut off, replaced by shouts and a low, grumbling growl.

  The gun felt slick in his hands as Michael used it to gesture to the left, away from the noise. They shuffled carefully across the slick cement.

  A man spoke; his deep voice cut through the fog. “What’s this?” A murmured reply. “And who are you? Do you not know that I can see you?”

  Please don’t be talking to us, Michael thought. Please don’t—

  The surrounding fog cleared, swept away in a broad circle that stranded him and AJ in an empty space on the factory floor. A forklift rested half in the mist on one side, stacked steel beams on the other. And behind, in the direction from which the deep voice had spoken, a man stood. He was not tall, but his broad shoulders made him seem large. He wore a dark gray woolen suit, singed and stained, and he peered at them through dark round spectacles that seemed to peek out from between the great mass of his black beard and shaggy hair. He carried a thick book under one arm, and in his other hand he held a fancy calabash pipe. The smoke from the pipe trickled up to join the mist above. Something about his stance, and the book and the beard, put Michael in mind of an old-school Baptist preacher, just on the brink of thundering some elegantly worded anathema involving fire and brimstone.

  “I’ve seen him before,” AJ whispered, fear in her voice. She didn’t need to say more.

  Michael leveled the gun at the man, and he held it with both hands to keep it steady. Still, the tip quavered. This bothered Michael since he was not, at that moment, particularly afraid. He had a gun, after all. The other man had a pipe, and a book, and a small, satisfied smile. The two orange-coated men on either side of him shifted, but did not make any aggressive moves.

  “Michael Whyte? Amber Jane Eddison?” The man placed the pipe in his mouth and puffed on it while he opened the book under his arm and flipped through it. He came to rest on a page somewhere in the middle. The dark lenses of his eyes tilted down to read, and then the book snapped shut. The clap of the book shutting echoed strangely in the mist. Something else caught Michael’s eye: the way the smoke rising from the pipe bent back down to curl around the man, wreathing him in strands of gray vapor. Michael could smell it, a woody tobacco.

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  A primal fear coiled within Michael. He should run. He should take AJ and run. The more he looked at, and heard, and now even smelled this man, the more wrong he seemed. The would-be Baptist preacher in front of Michael was setting off warning alarms that Michael hadn’t even known he possessed.

  “Yes?” asked the man, speaking around the pipe. “I suppose you know who I am?”

  “No,” answered Michael, in a valiant effort to keep his voice steady. AJ’s hand, dislodged when Michael had raised the weapon, now returned to rest on his shoulder. That helped.

  The man removed the pipe from his mouth, replaced the book under one arm. “Shadrach Therst? No? Nohow. And you: Mr. Whyte, Ms. Eddison. Are you necessary?”

  “Necessary?” He shifted his weight, preparing to run.

  The man—Shadrach—smiled, revealing stained teeth. “Nohow.” He gestured at them with the pipe.

  AJ saved his life. She pulled him aside with a grunt as something heavy slammed to the cement where they’d been standing. Its impact shattered the cement floor; Michael’s ears rang as he rolled to his feet.

  It appeared to be a huge block of metal, fallen from somewhere directly above. But even as he stared, the block began to dissolve into mist.

  “Too many pieces in this game,” said Shadrach, unmoved. “Shall we leave the pawns cluttering the field?” He again made a vague gesture with the pipe, from which trickled silvery grey smoke that blended into the mist.

  The mist to Michael’s left coalesced into a vague hulking shape that snarled and bristled.

  Michael aimed the shaking gun again at the man called Shadrach, and this time it was with intent. “Call it off,” said Michael. “We can talk.”

  The man smiled and put the pipe in his mouth. “Nohow.” A vaporous pseudopod of mist extended in front of him, took form—and there was Jimothy. He stood in front of Shadrach, looking confused, blocking Michael’s shot.

  Michael fired anyway. Three times, which was half. He was sure he missed at least once. He tried to ignore the false Jimothy’s cries of pain, but the sound still hurt. The illusory form of his brother quavered, struggled to maintain itself. Michael fired again. (Four.) Jim dissolved entirely into fog. The beast nearby growled, moved closer, undeterred by the thunderous gunfire. AJ, who had stifled her initial squeak of alarm at the sound of the gun, pulled on his shoulder. She was right. It was time to leave. Michael put one more round into the mist in front of Shadrach, which now served as a smokescreen. He didn’t know if killing or wounding the man would get rid of the monster he’d summoned, but it was worth the shot.

  He heard Alan as he took AJ’s hand and ran. If you need more than six bullets, you’re in more trouble than this can get you out of. Well, he had one bullet left. And there was Alan Sheppard, briefly, in the mist beside Michael as he ran.

  He and AJ ran almost directly into a wall, then followed it to the left in search of a door. Sounds of pursuit came close behind, shouts and threats. None of the voices sounded like Shadrach’s.

  They found a door, locked but breakable. Michael handed AJ the gun as he heaved his weight against it. The flimsy lock splintered partway through the cheap plywood door. It took another body slam to crash the door inward.

  He didn’t retrieve the gun from AJ when they ran. He unslung the camera from around his neck and popped off the lens cap. What, he thought desperately, would be most useful?

  “What are you doing?” AJ hissed at him. “Here, take this!” She tried to shove the gun back at him.

  Michael shook his head, glanced around. “Hang on to it. One shot left.” They were back in the hallways. Plain cement floor, plain white walls. A red stain on the floor nearby. One open door. Michael took a picture of the blank wall. Then the open door.

  “Can you run from me?” asked a familiar deep voice somewhere behind them.

  By now Michael knew exactly where to find the typically obscure ‘superimpose’ feature on his camera. He selected the photo he had just taken of a blank wall, aimed toward Shadrach’s voice, and snapped a picture.

  The mist collapsed into a wall that blocked off the hallway. But how long would it last?

  “Oh!” said AJ in surprise, though she had seen him do this with the camera before.

  They turned and ran.