The Assault: The Revealing, Infestation, Infiltration, The Fog

by Frank Peretti

  “I’ve rechecked my calculations.” Krone stood beside me looking at the davit and the safety line we attached to it. “The length should be right.”

  “Should be?” I needed a little more optimism.

  “Sorry.” It looked like he tried to smile, but his lips misfired. He only managed to look scared out of his wits. I didn’t want to know how I looked. “Speech patterns are difficult to break. Architects learn to speak with caution. Did you know that malpractice insurance for architects is more expensive than that for doctors?”

  “Are you stalling, Mr. Krone?”

  “Yes, yes I am.” This time his smile worked just fine.

  One of the mayor’s bodyguards moved closer. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m doing it anyway.”

  “I spent ten years in the Marine Corps and have seen many acts of bravery,” the bodyguard said. “This one takes the cake.”

  “I don’t feel brave.” It was an honest admission.

  “Bravery is defined by what you do, not what you feel.” He shook my hand then pulled a Glock 9mm handgun from beneath his tux coat. “The mayor said you wanted one of these.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  I pulled the slide, putting a round in the chamber. “I have an uncle who is a sheriff. Any visit to his place would sooner or later end up on the shooting range.” I didn’t tell him I’m not big on guns.

  “You know there are more of those creatures than there are bullets in that piece.”

  “The gun isn’t for them.” I let that hang in the air. There was too much talk, and I was losing my nerve.

  The professor laid a hand on my shoulder. In his other hand he held a fire axe—the kind with a blade on one side and a point on the other. It had been in a cabinet near the stairwell.

  “Tank—” The professor choked, cleared his throat then tried again. “Tank, I’ve been rough on you, but I want you to know—”

  “Stop, Professor. I don’t want the girls to see me get all emotional and stuff.” I took the axe.

  He patted my shoulder and walked away.

  I was done talking. Every minute that passed brought the fog closer. Every minute that passed took a little of my spine with it.

  No more waiting. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. I tightened the muscles in my left arm, then my right; I did the same for each leg. More deep breathing. It was the way I got ready for a football game. It was the only thing I knew to do.

  I stepped on the parapet, careful of my balance. I needed to leave the roof in a particular way. Falling wasn’t the way.

  I glanced back at my friends and saw tears in their eyes. I looked down at the pale demons in the fog, then I turned my eyes to heaven. “Father, this is stupid, but it is the only thing I know to do. Help me do it.”

  I crouched, then leaned forward. With all the strength I could muster I sprang into the nothing, screaming all the way. The moment I exchanged the solid roof for the air, I twisted so my back was to the fog.

  The sky overhead disappeared in a blanket of white. That didn’t matter, I was looking for green.

  Something zipped by but missed—almost missed. It scratched my arm. In the few seconds of free fall, I saw dozens of the creatures. They swooped at me, but missed me each time. They would have had better luck catching a falling meteor.

  Green.

  I raised my gun. My trajectory had changed. I was no longer falling. Instead, I was swinging right into the building. I extended the Glock in my left hand and fired, and fired, and fired. The sound was much louder than any gun I had ever heard. The creatures diving at me disappeared as if the noise hurt them. Fine with me.

  I continued to fire. I had been told the weapon had ten rounds. I tested that by firing until the gun went silent. I released it.

  Allen Krone told me the glass skin was made of a type of tempered glass. Very durable. Very strong, but not bulletproof. The glass would shatter into small cubes.

  He was correct.

  My momentum swung me through the spot where one of the green windows had been. The next part was going to be tricky. Somehow I had to stop my swing once I sailed through the window area. That’s what the axe was for.

  The lights on the floor were in full force. All green, but in full force. Outside, the fog, which was now inside, was white. Here it was a moss-green gas.

  When I felt my direction change, my shoes were one or two feet above the floor. I rocked forward and drove the pointed end of the axe into the floor. Krone told me the floors in the building were made of something called lightweight concrete—concrete with air blown in it to make it less dense and heavy. It was a good thing it wasn’t ordinary concrete. I doubt my axe would have made much of an impression. As it was, I could only drive the end of the axe about an inch into the surface.

  It was enough. I stopped my wild swing. I let go of the handle and a swung back a couple more feet, just enough for my feet to set down.

  No sooner than I had touched down, I began to unclip the safety line. I had to try three times before I could unleash myself. The harness swung back through the shattered window and into a swarm of fog-swimmers. They attacked it.

  I yanked the fire axe free and turned to face the things that wanted me for tonight’s dinner. I steeled myself for the onslaught. I had the advantage of speed when I leapt from the building and the sudden change of direction when I reached the end of my safety line. That was then. Now, I was standing flatfooted in dress shoes and a tux—hardly fighting clothes. The floor, the walls, the machinery all buzzed and vibrated, just like the vibration we felt right before I committed to this mission.

  The charging, swirling swarm of creatures didn’t come. They stayed outside the building, swimming past the area of the shattered window. They didn’t come in. They just stared at me like I was the ugly one, a fish in a tank.

  I would like to have sat and pondered what kept them outside, but I didn’t think I had the time. They might change their minds—if they have minds.

  That’s when it occurred to me: I was breathing the fog, and it felt like any other fog I’d been in. I’m not sure what I expected; I was just glad to be breathing. I backed away from the window and tried to make sense of my surroundings. This was supposed to be an equipment floor, and sure enough, there was equipment. There were large metal structures that were a mystery to me. Big cylindrical tanks like giant propane tanks. They were a mystery to me. Overhead were conduits, pipes, ducts and, yep, more things that were a mystery to me.

  What I was looking for had to be different. I didn’t know how. A sudden fear, a new fear gripped me—what if I couldn’t find the . . . whatever it was I was looking for? What if it was disguised to look like a refrigerator or somethin’ else familiar?

  No, it had to be obvious. If we were right, if Andi and I had linked everything together, then somewhere on this floor The Gate had set up a portal to their world. I don’t think you can hide something like that.

  I moved slowly around the floor, not certain what I was looking for, but certain I’d recognize it. Every few steps I looked behind me, fully expecting to see one of the blood-splattered faces of those critters. Brenda’s drawing stuck in my mind.

  I studied the ceiling again and this time I noticed that the green light was not uniform. It was brighter farther back, to the left. I made that my destination.

  My steps were slow, and I peeked around every machine, fearing what I might see, then I saw a movement near the westernmost wall.

  A figure.

  A man.

  A man in a red robe.

  There was something familiar about the robe. I had seen something similar before.

  The figure stood at a console of some kind. To his right was an opening the size of a garage door. The opening was sealed with green glass. As I drew closer, I could see one fog-swimmer after another falling through a green mist. I corrected myself. Not falling. Swimming down to somepla
ce lower. Maybe the underground parking floors.

  The vibration increased. The noise was deafening, which is probably why the man in the robe hadn’t heard the window shatter.

  He spun suddenly, looked at me, and reached for something inside the robe. It was Waterridge, and he had a gun.

  He raised it.

  I threw the axe in his direction. I wasn’t trying to hit him. I was trying to hit the control panel and maybe buy enough time for me to move closer.

  He dove to the side and covered his head. There was the time I needed. The axe hit the control panel and bounced off. No damage to the panel. No damage to the axe.

  Waterridge had dropped his weapon. Apparently seeing a firefighter’s axe flying at his head had broken his concentration. It had skittered several feet beyond his reach. He began a desperate crawl for it. I got there before he did, grabbed the gun, and stuck it in my waistband. I needed both hands for what I had to do next.

  I retrieved the axe and studied the panel for a moment. Metal conduit and hollow aluminum pipes ran from the panel up the wall and into the ceiling. I laid into them with the axe.

  “No!” Waterridge struggled to his feet.

  Sparks flew. The vibration stopped. And the portal with its streams of creepy things and fog went empty. A few creatures that had been swimming down the fog-filled channel dropped like stones.

  The vibration stopped, too. I was glad for that. For a moment.

  Waterridge struggled to his feet. “You’ve killed us.”

  “Sorry, pal, but the way I see it, I kept you from killing thousands of other people.”

  “You’re a fool!”

  “Sticks and stones.” That’s when I noticed it. There was a screech. Just one at first. Then another. Then several.

  “How did you get in here?” Waterridge stepped closer and I wondered if I was going to have to deck the guy.

  “Through the window. It was recommended that I not take the stairs. I think you know why.”

  “We’re doomed.”

  Another screech.

  Waterridge was just a decibel two or so shy of screaming. “They’ll get in. The sound, the vibration, is what kept them from this floor.”

  Uh-oh. “Why aren’t they here?”

  “They’re not smart. They don’t reason. They don’t discuss things and make conjectures, you idiot. They are purely reactive. They’re sharks in bloody water. It will only take seconds for them to realize they can come in now.”

  He was right.

  Boy, was he right.

  At first there was just one. I spied its bulbous white head peeking around a large piece of machinery. It moved slowly. A lion stalking. A killer whale eyeing seals. A shark circling. They might not be reasoning creatures, but they seemed to understand self-preservation.

  I pushed Waterridge to the side and retrieved his gun from my pocket. A .22 caliber. I would have preferred something a little heftier. I pointed at the scout. It wasn’t alone. Another head appeared.

  “Shoot!”

  “Not yet.” There was no way this little gun held enough ammo to take on the hundreds of creatures that lurked in the fog. I could take down a few. Maybe a half-dozen if my aim was good. Maybe. Doubtful. It didn’t matter. Brenda’s prophetic drawing had already told me my fate.

  “Shoot!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to have some control over these things? You got the red robe and everything.”

  “You put an end to that when you cut the power to my control panel. You doomed us.”

  “You doomed thousands.”

  The first creature floated through the fog. Several more appeared behind them, and they were showing signs of being less patient.

  I pulled the trigger, and the bullet slammed into the head of the first one around the corner. I expected blood. Instead I saw a spray of yellow custard. If fear hadn’t occupied most of my brain, I would have tossed chunks right then and there.

  The others scattered, more from the sound of the gun than the death of their companion.

  Motion from the portal window caught my attention. Last I looked, creatures were falling past; now they were rising, sucked up to wherever the wide shaft went.

  The first ones up were the last ones down. They were battered and broken. Dead. Then I saw a living one struggling against the flow. It was trying to swim down the fog column, but the riptide was too strong.

  An idea started to grow, but Waterridge stunted its growth. He charged me and seized my gun hand.

  “Let me have it.” I saw nothing but panic in his eyes.

  I dropped the axe in my other hand and popped the architect in the nose. He staggered back two steps.

  Something on the ceiling moved. I looked up. They clung to the ceiling tiles, claws holding them in place. There—were—hundreds of them, a quivering mass of putty-white bodies, their heads turned our direction, each mouth filled with barracuda teeth.

  Waterridge took another step back. “No. No.” He raised his hands. “I command you to leave.”

  That didn’t work. One dropped on his head and dug its claws into his eyes. The scream echoed in the room. I considered shooting the thing on its head, but I could miss and blow the man’s brains out. For a moment—God forgive me—for a moment it seemed the right thing to do.

  Then one hit me in the back. They were coming at us from every direction. I drove myself back against the wall. Something squished. My back felt wet.

  Another came at me flying five feet above the floor. I dropped it with a shot from the .22. Fighting was useless, but I wasn’t wired to stand around.

  Waterridge was on the ground, writhing. Then the screaming stopped. Then the writhing stopped. All that was left was the sound of the feeding frenzy.

  A creature hit me in the side. Its claws ripped through my dress shirt. My skin offered no resistance. One bit my arm. Another laid into my leg. I went down on my back. For every creature that dropped from the ceiling another appeared to replace it. There were five on me. Then more.

  I fought. I punched. I shot one or two more. My blood flowed, and with it my ability to fend off the beasts.

  Again, a motion in the portal demanded my attention. Creatures were being sucked up the shaft by the dozen . . .

  I still held the gun. I could still see out of one eye. It took everything I had to move my arm enough to aim. The sound of the gun sent the creatures on me scrambling, but they would be back in a moment.

  I fired again. And again. Then I could hear only the sound of dry firing. I was out of ammo. The glass had cracked, but not broken.

  I rolled on my side. There was the fire axe two steps out of reach. Crawling to it, I took in in my right hand. My left wasn’t working very well.

  A creature landed on my back. I was beyond caring. “I hope you choke.”

  Using the axe for support, I pushed myself up. Another foggy latched on. I stumbled, but at least I stumbled in the right direction. Several more creatures hitched a ride. One thing I had noticed about them: They were very light. I guess you’d have to be to swim in fog.

  This was it. My last effort. The last thing I would do in this life. I refused to waste it. The biting and clawing increased. The frenzy was beginning.

  I lifted the axe, turned the pointed end out, and put my body into the swing.

  The axe head bounced off the glass, and the axe fell to the floor.

  “I tried, God. I tried.”

  The glass gave way, its pieces imploding into the shaft. Wind. I felt wind. Then I keeled over.

  There were screeches. The air whistled through the room and around the edges of the portal. One by one, then two by two, then by bunches, the creatures were pulled into the open portal. I couldn’t tell if it was the wind or something else dragging them away. I didn’t care as long as they left. They made it clear they didn’t want to go.

  The fog that filled the room went with them. It was like watching milky water go down a drain.

  The fog-swimmers clinging to me sloughed
off. Glad to see them go. I turned to where Waterridge had gone down. There were still bits and pieces of him left.

  For a few moments I watched fog and creatures sail by, but keeping my eyes open was becoming more work than I could manage.

  “I’m ready, God. I’m ready . . . to . . . go . . .”

  The green and the white of the room dimmed to black.

  Epilogue

  How are you doing, son?” Allen Krone walked onto the balcony and sat in one of the outdoor chairs. He had a right to. He owned the chair, the balcony, and the eight-thousand-square-foot house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The house was in the northern part of San Diego County. We had been here for two weeks and had full run of the place. Krone and his wife stayed in one of their other homes.

  “I’m doing okay, sir.”

  “It looks like you’re healing up nicely.” Janice brought a tray of ice tea for us. Krone did a lot of entertaining, he had said, so there were plenty of chairs. Daniel sat on the deck playing a video game on his phone.

  “The healing is slow, but I shouldn’t frighten too many children.”

  I wore shorts and a white t-shirt. The scars on my neck, arms, and legs were visible reminders of what had happened earlier that month. The rest of the scars were hidden by clothing. I’d be wearing long-sleeve shirts and long pants for a good many months. The plastic surgeons told me the scars would fade, and those that don’t can be handled with a little surgery. Somehow that didn’t seem important.

  I studied our host for a moment. “You’re looking pretty good yourself, Mr. Krone.”

  “I keep telling you it’s Allen. And I feel good. Thanks to you.”

  “Not me, sir. God does the healing. I’m just a washed-up football jock.”

  “Not in my book, young man.” Krone looked over the ocean as if seeing something no one else could. “You are the bravest man I know. Your friends, too.”

  “Eh, they’re all right, I guess.” That got a reaction.

  “I thought we had lost you,” Andi said. She kept her eyes closed and her face toward the sun.