In the Fog

by Andrew J Brandt

  He could still see her in his mind’s eye. Catherine’s tight jeans hugging her ass and legs, her body gyrating on his as the music from the digital jukebox played some recent hip hop hit. He remembered putting his hands on her hips. Her looking back at him through locks of dark brown hair streaked with purple, a smile curling on her mouth. She looked beautiful, enticing. Hungry.

  And he also remembered that same mouth gaping open, those eyes wide and bulging, her hair matted to the back of her head and around her face. He shook the image from his brain. Grant couldn’t comprehend that fate.

  “We were together last night, but after we left the bar, I went back to Craig’s house. We played pool,” he finally said.

  The investigator nodded. “Yes, I understand you did leave the bar. You left in your own vehicle. Your friends told Officer Barnes that you didn’t immediately show up at the house, though. You arrived approximately fifteen minutes after the others.”

  “I—” Grant started. Don’t know was to the last two words of that sentence, but he stopped himself short. He racked his brain for information, hoping he’d find a clarity that had so far eluded him. “I don’t recall taking that long,” he finally continued. “I think maybe the guys have exaggerated how long it took me to get to Craig’s. Got stopped at a red light for a few minutes.”

  Duncan, his lips pursed, nodded his head. He held his hands out on the table. “Look, Grant, I’m going to be honest with you, and I want you to be honest with me. Here’s what I think happened. You saw Ms. Harlow at the bar. You had a few drinks together. You’re having a good time. This, by the way,” the investigator interjected his own thought process, “is all corroborated by several witnesses who saw the two of you together. So, you’re dancing, things are getting hot and heavy. Then you leave. In your inebriation, you followed her back to her house. You weren’t ready to go home. You wanted more, perhaps, than she really wanted to give. So you took it. In a drunken state, you took advantage of Ms. Harlow and perhaps took it too far.”

  Grant felt the man’s eyes burning at his soul. “No, that’s not what happened.”

  “How do you know?” Duncan interrupted. “You don’t. You can’t remember. I’ve seen the look on your face hundreds of times in my career. I know the look of a man who is sitting there, in that seat, trying his damnedest to extract any information he can from memories he can’t access. It happens, Grant.”

  A lump formed in his throat, and his heart sunk to his stomach.

  “Now, look. If it was an accident, if we can say that you were drunk and this wasn’t a premeditated attack, that you aren’t a dangerous person, we can get your sentence reduced. You’ll still have to do some time of some form, but we’re not talking the needle. Know what I’m saying?”

  Grant felt the heat in his face, the redness in his neck start rising, the way it always did when he was upset. “I didn’t do it,” he said, his eyes to the table, the words barely audible.

  “Grant, come on,” Duncan pleaded. “Let’s get this over with. You did. You were there. You were seen leaving this morning. What were you doing? Seeing if she was still there? Going to apologize?”

  Grant, his head still low, tears streaming down his face, finally spoke up. “I want my lawyer.”

  CHAPTER 19

  CHRIS | 3:45PM

  WHEN HIS FATHER came in the house earlier that afternoon, talking about the emergency in town, that all the women in Decker had seemingly disintegrated sometime in the middle of the night, it was the best news Chris had ever heard in his entire life.

  For a moment, he thought he’d literally jump for joy at the prospect that the evidence of the previous night’s proclivities had been erased from the face of the earth, giving him both the knowledge of the experience as well as the prospect that his actions left no evidence.

  Of course, his elation was short-lived—and just his luck, no less—that the one woman who didn’t vanish was the one he’d finally taken. The one who bore the brunt of years of frustration, anger and pent-up rage by his hands.

  For years, he’d been the subject of constant bullying. Even as a teenager, he was picked on, shoved into lockers in the halls of Decker High School, beat up in bathrooms, the videos shared all over school. He never grew to be as large or as intimidating as his father And, truth be told, it was his father’s position in the community that put a spotlight on young Chris. He was an easy target for bullies.

  Women rarely looked at him. When they did, it was usually with disgust. The gangly young man without an ounce of muscle on that puny skeleton was hardly the target of objectification. When he was in college, he hoped that a new place, a new city would mean a new beginning. At Stephen F. Austin University in Nacogdoches, he thought he could remake himself. Instead, the ghosts of Decker seemingly followed him, and the women at the university looked at him less than the girls in his hometown.

  He came to determine that it wasn’t men who were shallow; it was women. They desired men who could offer them only position, possessions or posh lifestyles. Even the ugly men who found attractive women to love them offered little more than the three p’s. It disgusted him.

  Reading all he could on the internet about sexual attraction and women, he tried to game the system. He read The Game by Neil Straus front-to-back multiple times, trying his hardest to extract all the information, to crack the code. He worked out. He bought new clothes. He went to bars and tried pickup lines. None of it worked. Women looked at him and were repulsed.

  It was as if all the women in the world conspired against him; that these shallow bitches on this planet all conglomerated to deny him sex. The currency of the human experience slipped through his grasp, time after time. It was bullshit. Online however, in forums and message boards, he learned that there were thousands of young men just like him, all the target of an invisible conspiracy that left them unwanted. This curse, Chris learned, even had a name. Involuntarily celibate. Some of the incel guys on the internet message boards talked about taking a gun into a Victoria’s Secret and open fire on all the pretentious women. That would make the females notice them, taking their attention with a bullet.

  There was one woman in his life, though. One who noticed him, who showered him with attention and love. They didn’t make women like Penny McMillan anymore though. After she was taken by cancer, Chris’s grades at SFU suffered and he ended up back here, back in Decker. The last place he wanted to be, but nowhere else would take him.

  But last night, he’d finally done it. After months of debating, the inner turmoil, the fear of getting caught, or even being recognized, he crossed the threshold of manhood. He’d taken it.

  That woman at the bar last night, down at Mulligans, shaking her ass for all the men to gawk at. He’d seen her before, the hippy chick with the tattooed flowers on her wrists. She frequented the bar, playing pool with the men who couldn’t offer anything more than a one-night stand. Yet, she gave it to them. Not to Chris McMillan, though. No, just like every other woman in this godforsaken existence, she was too good for Chris.

  So, after the bar shut down, he followed her home. He crept through her door. In her drunken state, she never noticed as he watched through the doorway when she undressed. And when she collapsed onto the bed, he went in.

  And he took it.

  She thrashed against him, but it felt so good. He barely lasted five minutes in her, and as he rode her, he wrapped his shirt around her throat, tugging hard. The woman tried to escape him, but he held her down. This was payback. For every woman that turned her nose at him, for every woman that denied him what he deserved, he made her pay the balance.

  It was amazing.

  When Chris climaxed, he didn’t even pull out. He wanted her to feel his manhood deep inside her. He looked down at her body though to see it lifeless and limp. He slinked off the bed and continued to stare, leaning in to her face to see her eyes bulging and wide.

  Quickly pulling his clothes back on, he could feel her stickiness between his thighs, bu
t he needed to get out of there before anyone saw. He’d made it home and collapsed on the couch in the basement, with the images flashing through his brain. He didn’t want to forget the experience.

  When he’d come to this morning, the throbbing in his head was nearly unbearable, but it had subsided after his shower. Sitting in the Tahoe next his father now, the old man dumb and unknowing, he felt a sense of pride. Not only had he pulled off the ultimate, he’d gotten away with it.

  Or so he thought.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  He’d left her body there. He thought he’d have more time, have an opportunity to go back this morning, clean up his work and dispose of her body. Now, in the passenger seat of a police car, his palms were sweating and he wiped them on the too-large police uniform pants. The motion of the vehicle made his headache even more pronounced and he nearly winced every time the vehicle went over a bump.

  “You alright?” his father asked out of the corner of his eye.

  “Just a migraine again,” Chris replied softly. He tilted his head, nearly resting against the window, watching the city in the daylight. He’d spent so much time in the dark down in the basement, staring at a computer screen, that he’d almost forgotten how bright it was during the day. The sun, warm even for an autumn day like this, beat down on him, judging him for the crimes that he’d committed in its absence.

  “You still taking the pills?” his father asked. They turned onto the access road leading up to the highway on the south side of the city.

  “Yeah,” Chris said curtly.

  “Well, are they working? I’m not going to continue spending money sending you to that head doctor if they’re not working,” Howard said.

  “I don’t know, dad, alright?” Chris replied. He didn't want to take the time to explain to the man that they'd already had this conversation, earlier at the house. But, that's how it was with Howard McMillan. The man would have the same conversation with you three times in one day.

  “You know, things are getting bad out here,” the older man said, changing the subject, as he accelerated onto the highway. “When we get back to the station, I’m going to put you on a beat check, make certain everyone knows about the curfew.”

  “There’s a curfew?” Chris asked.

  “There’s going to be, which you’d know if you had actually gotten out of bed and downtown when I told you this morning. But, yes. We’re going to show Decker that lawlessness will not be tolerated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we’re going to deal with those who break the law swiftly and without mercy,” he said. “It’s good to have you out here with me, son. Your mother would be proud. You know, when she died, I was lost. But we need to move on, and she’d love to see us together like this.”

  Chris knew that wasn’t the truth. The old man wasn’t lost, he simply poured all his energies into his job, leaving the house empty and quiet. He was never around for Chris to vent to, to grieve with. His father’s philosophy was to “just keep going on,” but how could he? It wasn’t like he had a girlfriend that could ease his pain. He’d been left behind. The one woman who loved him, who cared for him, who made him feel special. She was gone. And all he felt now was abandoned.

  Chris hid his disgust with his father with a fake smile. “You’re right, dad.”

  The older man’s lips curved upward into a proud grin. “That’s my boy. I have no doubt you’ll make a fine police officer. Finally get you out of that basement, give you some purpose.”

  This was always how his father was after one of his violent outbursts. He’d make up for the backhand slap with some words of affirmation. Chris learned over the years how to twist his father’s emotions to his own use.

  The old man squinted and craned his head forward into the windshield. “By God, would you look at that?”

  Chris peered forward as well and as they crested the hill on the highway and came down the other side, he saw the cloud hanging above the road. It didn’t make sense—the sky was bright above them, the sun starting to make its way to the western horizon. Yet, no more than a half mile ahead, a thick blanket of fog hovered above the asphalt. The cloud seemed to reach all the way up the atmosphere without end.

  “What is that?” Chris asked.

  “I have no idea. Barnes said it was out here when he was going out to San Antonio,” his father said. He slowed the cruiser as they approached the fog. Chris could see the swirling mists folding in on itself, little arms of gray reaching out and then sucking back into the mass.

  “How can we not see this from town? It goes on forever.” Chris scanned the horizon in each direction, and the cloud showed no breaks.

  As his father crept the vehicle closer to the fog, Chris felt his headache pounding. The pain got more intense by the second, and he could feel his pulse in his temples. “Dad, I—” he started, but was unable to finish the sentence. His eyes clenched shut from the pain. He reached to his temples, pressing his palms into either side of his skull and let out a scream.

  When Chris opened his eyes, he was confused. He was no longer in the car, but in a bedroom, the blinds drawn shut and the sunlight barely filtering in. It looked oddly familiar. Had he passed out in the car? Where had he been taken? Where was his father?

  “Dad?” When he spoke, the word echoed out, bouncing as if in a long tunnel. He blinked twice, adjusting his eyes to the light, and as his senses came back to him, he realized he was lying prone on a bed.

  He must have passed out from the migraine, and his father had brought him back to the house.

  No, he thought. That couldn’t be right. This wasn’t his bed. And there was no longer a bed in the spare bedroom, just a desk and a recliner that faced a wall-sized television that played nothing but Texas A&M football. He turned his head to the right and nearly screamed again, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Paralysis took over his body.

  The woman’s eyes were wide open. The lifeless orbs bulged from the sockets and dried spit and blood caked on the corners of her mouth. The neck twisted in a supernatural angle, enough that her face was mere inches from his own.

  It was her.

  They’d figured it out. The police had pinned him to the murder and put him back in the bed with her. This, probably his father’s idea, was some sick form of punishment.

  His entire body broke out in a cold sweat and he felt bile inching its way up his throat. He opened his mouth to vomit, but nothing came out except shallow gags and dry heaves.

  “She’s not waking up,” a quiet voice behind him said.

  Chris snapped his head to the sound. A little boy, holding a cup in one hand, stood in the doorway. He had a mop of brown hair and big eyes of nearly the same dark color.

  “She’s not waking up,” the little boy repeated.

  “Little boy,” Chris said. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “You did this,” the boy said. He raised his hand and pointed an accusing finger at Chris, who was still paralyzed and held to the bed by some invisible force. “You are bad man!”

  “No!” Chris exclaimed. “It wasn’t me!” The lie came out fast, but he knew it was unconvincing. “Get me out of here!”

  Behind the boy, a man appeared in the doorway, his silhouette masking any features that Chris could make out. He remained silent, watching.

  “What is this?” Chris screamed, now angry. Spit flew from his lips when he shouted. The man, however, remained silent and he hovered behind the little boy in the doorway.

  The child’s eyes turned red. Chris felt fire in his irises. It burned. He shut his eyes to keep them from burning out of his head. The boy’s voice, at first quiet and soft, turned deep. “You did this! You bad man!” the boy repeated, every time Chris felt fire sink through his eye sockets and travel to his brain. The fire would melt his brain and he would die in this bed next to the woman he’d suffocated.

  He turned away from the boy’s searing stare only to be faced by the woman. Her ope
n maw, gaping and dead, gurgled and he thought she would vomit on him. Instead, dark gray fog seeped from her lips, rising into the air. It began pouring from her nostrils and her eyes, the thick fog reaching up to the ceiling, spilling out the window sills and into the night air.

  “No!” Chris cried out. He turned back to the boy, feeling the fiery red eyes hit him again. His arms finally came free from the mattress and he reached up to his eyes, trying to claw the fire from the sockets before it melted his brain. “No! No!” As he yelled, the “no’s” began melding together, forming a new word. “No! Nononone! One! One! Two! Three! Five! Eight! Thirteen! Twenty-one!”

  The man, more a dark silhouette, reached two hands up and forced his way into the room toward Chris. As the dark man did this, the little boy’s demonic voice echoed through the room, cutting through his own screams “Chris!” the demonic voice cried out, over and over.

  “Chris!”

  Chris’s eyes shot open to the sound of his father’s voice and he felt bile finally lurch up his esophagus. He bent over and vomited. The hot liquid landed with a splat at his feet and he realized he was back in the police cruiser. He leaned back and sank into the seat, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.

  “Ah, shit!” his father yelled. “Jesus Christ, kid.” His father shoved a couple of convenience store napkins from the center console at him and Chris stayed hunched over.

  “Sorry, dad,” he said.

  “Goddamn, son. Are you alright?”

  “I don’t know what happened.” Chris mopped up the vomit with the napkins, wadding them up and tossed them out the window. “My head started pounding and then…” he trailed off. He didn’t want to finish the sentence.

  “I thought I was going to have to pull you out of the car. You were having a seizure or something.”

  The little boy’s eyes still burned in his skull. And Chris realized they were driving again. The sun was behind them. “Are we going back to town?” he asked.