The island was just starting to wake up when it realized that the better option was to roll over and go back to sleep. It all began at the various beach outlets across Brasil. Beach goers were eagerly hurrying to their windows, ready for another sunny day to begin. Workers were heading out the door for their shifts to begin. Under the shadow of night, they all were blissfully unaware of the upheaval that was occurring. The moment they stepped outside or looked out their windows, they found a haunting sight greeting them.
They were not greeted with the rising sun or the chirping of birds. The entire island was dead beneath a great cloud of fog that was so thick that it deadened the sun’s power. It was as if a blanket of darkness fell over them. Even those with the best eyesight found it difficult to see more than five feet in front of them. The reactions varied from household to household.
Jules Scarborough, the school superintendent, was quick to call off school. Judging by the reports he was hearing, he knew the buses would not be able to make their usual routes. One of the drivers, a man named Greg, tried navigating the roads and got caught on a backroad. When he radioed in, he said, “It’s thicker than my mama’s pea soup. Gonna have to wait it out. I’ll call back when it clears up.” For almost an hour, he had not called. With the buses out, it would be next to impossible to get families to bring their kids.
Children were spooked by the foggy sight but forgot as soon as they realized school was canceled. Plenty of foolish scamps took off out their backdoors or slipped out their windows to make the most of the day. With the cloud of darkness covering everything, there were dozens of mischievous things they could get into without any adults judging them. Needless to say, throwing eggs and toilet paper at houses was the least of the offenses.
Sighing, adults decided that they needed to attempt going through the day like normal but it became clear they underestimated the problem. The fog made it impossible for anyone to drive. The local police went out with bright lights to help guide cars through popular intersections but their intervention failed to help. The brightest lights were absorbed by the thick mist.
Some tried calling out from their jobs, only to find their bosses begging them to show up. Many employers were willing to pay overtime just to ensure their employees didn’t dodge them. If the employee insisted on calling out, the boss made it clear they would not have a job the next day. There was the occasional employee that decided to skip work without calling. These particular souls had an unsettling sense that something terrible was on the horizon. How right they were but no one would know this for some time.
At the businesses near the beaches, everyone understood the dire situation everyone was facing. This began with the lifeguards. The beach monitors found something particularly disturbing that the dock workers had reported two hours earlier. It was as if the island had sunk down three feet into the ocean. The tide was up to everyone’s thighs and it reached all the way to the parking lots of the resorts. With each passing minute, the water was moving closer. They feared that the lobbies of every hotel and every restaurant around the beach would end up submerged before all was said and done. Preparing for this, employees started moving all valuable equipment to high floors in their buildings, putting them inside a row boat, or placing everything on the roof.
Emergency workers started to get the sandbags out to protect the electrical plant on the island. Fifteen years ago, they had a terrible flood at the plant when a storm tore the bathrooms apart, breaking pipes and sending water throughout the building. It took weeks before they could get the power restored for the entire island again. The last thing they wanted was for the plant to go down in the height of the summer. Mayor Reynolds hated the idea of having to rely on the mainland for support. The inhabitants of Brasil were fiercely independent to the point where some would rather wallow in broken glass before asking a mainlander to help them up. Brasil’s mayor was of that same mentality.
The immediate problem everyone knew needed resolving was the fog. A few electricians tried creating a light strong enough to penetrate the thick cloud on the island. The light was absorbed instantly. They tried using industrial fans to thin the fog out. That was a failure as well. No matter how hard they pushed the fans, the fog would roll around from the gust and disperse back to where it originally lazed. The island, so often filled with the joyous sounds of vacations and lazy days, was eerily quiet. Mayor Reynolds knew this was a major problem. Islanders were a tough people. It took a major catastrophe to unsettle them. He feared that he was living through such an event.
Poor Vincent Malone found himself smack in the middle of this chaos. His little radio booth was turned into the home base for the call center, orders from the boss in collaboration with the mayor’s office. Some secretaries and volunteers set up right outside his office but they did not speak over the radio. They would field some of the calls or provide additional assistance to those that were finished speaking with Surf’s Up Bud. Most of their time was spent assisting the elderly, who were greatly shaken up by the whole ordeal.
The old radio personality wanted nothing more than to drop the act and be a regular human being. In times of crisis, he didn’t think that a loud-mouthed surfer dude was needed. Unfortunately, his boss, the bothersome Jonathan, thought otherwise. “Bob is a staple of the airwaves here. When people call in, they don’t want to hear Vincent giving dime store advice.” There were plenty of times where old Malone wanted to sock his boss right in his moisturized nose. Young men didn’t say stuff like dime store anymore. That was the old station manager’s way of talking. This kid wanted nothing more than to make everyone think he was his father but everyone knew that wasn’t the truth. He was a spoiled brat that was riding the tidal wave of his daddy’s success. When Vincent looked into the youngster’s eyes, he could see even the pompous kid knew the truth but he was going to fight it until his last breath.
“They want to hear Surf’s Up Bud giving them some laidback words of encouragement,” Jonathan insisted. “He’s a calling presence, letting everyone know that it’ll be okay.” Vincent was close to arguing further but his boss pulled his trump card. “If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone else.” As always, work was work. One had to do whatever was necessary to survive. The aging thespian had to think of the future. Back in his youth, when the world seemed to be his oyster, he might have stormed out and refused to play the part. Young men could afford to stand on principle even when there wasn’t any money to pay the bills. Old men had to swallow their pride and do as they were told.
Biting his tongue, Vincent gave up the fight and danced like the little circus clown he was. Surf's Up Bud gave the minute-by-minute update on everything. “Looks like we had a bit of a wash out this morning dudes and dudettes. Hope you got your swimming trunks on cause you’re gonna get wet today. Derry’s Diner is open for business until further notice, so you tourists looking for some good grub will have to get over it. Right now, Derry’s the only game in town.” The phones were ringing off the hooks for hours as reports came in from all workers listening in.
“That boat that was supposed to come in this morning hasn’t shown up yet and we still can’t get a hold of anybody,” a gruff dock worker named Owen reported. He coughed throughout his call. Vincent assumed the guy was smoking like a chimney.
“Some people have been swiping some of our boats. Probably these crazy kids that have nothing better to do without school,” said Henry O’Reilly, who owned a monopoly on the boat rental market. “Somebody tell ‘em that any thieves will be shot on sight.”
“This sudden change in the water has to be a result of global warming,” concluded Penny, a young blonde woman that moved onto the island a year ago to run a holistic store. Vincent remembered her well. It was days like this that he really wished he had some kind of assistant to give his voice a rest. The ratings were never higher, even back during Hurricane Kelly that threatened to wipe out every beach resort.
He had at least twenty calls in an hour from the elderly complaining about everything for chills to children making a ruckus in their neighborhood. Those calls were quickly shuffled back over to the volunteers. From time to time, Vincent asked the public their opinions of the matter at hand. This was a radio trick that was used to keep viewers tuning in but the old host truly wanted to hear the listeners voicing their thoughts, regardless of how confused or upset they were. Everyone was scared, frustrated, and lost. They needed someone willing to help. The radio station was the only friendly voice they had. He wanted to use it for their benefit.
The ones that got most of the airtime were those on the boundary of panicking. Vincent felt like Kelsey Grammer talking poor souls through their psychological trauma. One woman named Zoey was hyperventilating about how the waves were getting dangerously close to her house. “We bought this place on the hill because we were certain the tide wouldn’t reach us. Now, it’s gonna run right into my living room and ruin everything.”
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“Zoey,” he said in the most soothing voice his character could allow. “In life, we always do the best we can to prepare for the worst. Problem is, the worst is always something beyond what we expected. When we find ourselves facing it, we have to deal with it the best we know how. I’d say you start piling up anything you can in front of the door and get anyone you can to dig some trenches. You might be able to channel the water away a bit; but if that ocean comes up to meet you, the best thing you can do is grab your favorite belongings and head to higher ground. I know your house and belongings are valuable but you and your loved ones are priceless. Don’t forget what's most important.”
At around seven twenty-three, a dark-headed secretary, whose name tag read Wendy, knocked hard on the window. Holding the phone to her ear, she extended four fingers before slowly pointing at the phone. Her request was clear. He needed to take the call. Line 4. Perhaps the alarm bells should’ve gone off in his head but Vincent was in radio mode. Her face was as white as paper. Hands were trembling. She was biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Someone should have noticed. Told old Vincent to not take the call or make him cut to commercial break. Unfortunately, it was too late. He took the call.
“What’s hanging, big dog? You’re on live with the Bud man himself. How’s this day treating you?”
A low raspy breath blasted over the airwaves. “You should count yourself blessed, Mr. Vincent Malone. Today, you will join those that have slipped the bonds of filthy existence and passed into life eternal.”
A dead silence fell outside his booth as all the volunteers, secretaries, and officials stopped moving as if they were petrified by some mythological creature. The only one with the strength to keep going was Vincent himself. As an actor, this was not the most ridiculous thing he had heard in his life. When he struck out in one of the big cities, back when he was certain he’d become the next Christopher Lee, he dealt with a handful of shady characters. It was horrendous, the kind of filth that world attracted. Needless to say, he’d heard men and women say vile things toward him. He listened to his fair share of threats. Once, he beat a slightly older actor for a role in a small science fiction production of Macbeth. When he got the part, he remembered the older actor walking up to embrace him. As they stood there, he whispered in Vincent’s ear, “Do this to me again and I’ll feed you your own fingers.” The moment the man stepped away, he grinned widely as if he had given the young actor some sage, encouraging words of friendship. Vincent stood in shocked disgust.
Hearing the clear threat over the air didn’t throw him for a loop. Instead, he answered the caller in a gentle, soothing voice. “Now, sir, just to be clear here. Are you threatening me? I should have you know that old Surf’s Up Bud has a security detail with him twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.” This was a blatant lie that the station couldn’t afford. However, Vincent knew that anyone that dared breath threats over the radio was a coward, despite how bold and dangerous they appear. The threat of police power might be enough to take the wind out of his delusional sails.
“If they should desire to join your soul on its departure, they may do as they wish. Nothing they can do will avert what is foretold.” That unsettled Vincent more than he expected. This lunatic’s voice didn’t give a single hint of hesitation. Before the host had the chance to say anything, the crazed caller continued, “I know what you are thinking. This man suffers from delusions but my mind has never been clearer. I speak on behalf of the Order of the Dragon. Our numbers are few but our resolve is strong. We shall not be denied. Our might is one. We bring about the appointed time. The plan of our glorious predecessors has been put into motion. Sacrifices have been made. The earth is watered with blood.”
“What are you getting at?” he blurted. For the first time in fourteen years, Vincent found himself breaking character. Once, he had a live conversation with a husband and wife going at each other’s throats due to infidelity and a messy divorce. He prided himself with his professionalism throughout the ordeal. This was different.
“Is your mind so small that I must elaborate further?” the wild man taunted. “Very well. Three have fallen to my blade this night. As day dawns, another will fall
“Anyone that wishes to see what I mean will gather at Persephone’s Pier at ten o’clock. This will be the first woe. Then, they will understand. Everyone will understand but it will be too late.”
Vincent heard the secretaries banging on the window. One of them held a phone, no doubt the mayor. They wanted him to patch the island’s leader into the call but that was a waste of time. The lunatic was gone and soon the listeners would follow. “Listeners at home,” he shouted, “don’t attempt to go anywhere near Persephone’s Pier. This is a terrorist ploy. Don’t fall for it.”
Even as the words tumbled from his mouth, he knew it was too much to hope that everyone on the island would stay away from the mad man’s next target. Curiosity was a powerful, corrupting thing. It destroyed the good-natured sense of a man and led him precisely where he didn’t need to go even when wise friends told him otherwise. Anyone that heard about that pier would wish to see what the fuss was about. Of course, most would keep enough smarts about them to not get directly involved with whatever was going on. What none of them understood was that a monster like this insane caller, this professed murderer, thrived on an audience. By anyone showing up to observe out of the slightest curiosity, they were giving him exactly what he wanted.
It was too much to bear, knowing what was going to happen and not being able to do a thing about it. A sudden dizziness attacked Vincent, making it difficult for him to even sit upright in his chair. His skin felt hot. The room was too hot. He needed some fresh air. His fingers moved to cut to commercial, but the freak had one last thing to say. “Fear not, dear Vincent,” his voice whispered as if the two were sharing a secret. “It is not my blade you will fall beneath. Your executioner has already crossed your threshold.”
With a thump, the caller’s voice went silent. Vincent sat unable to make his heavy tongue move enough to speak. Unconsciously, he stood up and left the room without even bothering to end the dead air. Nigel, one of the studio’s gophers, rushed in to run the commercials. Vincent lingered outside the recording booth like a drunken statue. His thoughts were a jumbled mess. Pressing a hand against his chest, he felt his heart pounding so hard it hurt to even breathe. He desperately tried to understand what was happening to him. Wiping sweat from his brow, he felt as if he were going to throw up.
After stumbling, he made his way to the bathroom while his guts churned. He leaned against the wall, struggling to gain control of himself. It was as if the entire world was spinning. “Calm down,” he muttered. “You’ve dealt with nutjobs like this before.” This was a lie. He knew it as soon as the words slipped out his mouth. This man was unlike any he had spoken to before. Never before had he heard anyone utter such madness with unshakeable conviction. What kind of people were this Order of the Dragon?
The kind that are going to kill you too, a quiet voice hissed.
Bursting through the bathroom door, he locked himself in. Looking down into the bowl, he puked up what little remained of his breakfast. Traces of a fried egg, seeds from a kiwi, and lots of brown stomach juices. His mouth hanged open until dry heaves escaped his throat. Wiping his lips with his shirt, he dropped to his knees, all strength vanishing from his body.
How did everything go so wrong so quickly? At first, it was a missing ship, then the fog. Waters rising, uncertainty in the face of a storm, and now some group of crazy murderers. People were getting hurt and it could only get worse from here. “What do I do?” he whispered. “What do I do?” He hoped that if he repeated the phrase enough that the answer would present itself. What could one man hope to accomplish in this maelstrom?
“Mr. Malone,” a young secretary’s voice called from outside the bathroom door. “The mayor wishes to speak with you.”
Suddenly, Vincent found himself back in his right mind. There was something he could do: continue being Surf’s Up Bud. Regardless of his feelings toward his pushy boss, the old radio host could not deny that the character had his role to play. Those that called in, madman excluded, needed his help. He served as a guiding post, a beacon, toward sanity. As long as he was on the air, there was a sense that everything was going to be okay. Collecting himself, he understood that the longer he stayed locked away, the longer they lacked his calming voice.
Okay, Vince, he told himself in Surf’s Up Bud’s voice. Time to slap on your big boy pants and show the world what you’re made of. Rising to his feet, he opened the door to face the world again.
The knife pierced his throat so fast that he didn’t even realize it happened. A choked grunt escaped as he fell back onto the tile floor. He couldn’t breathe as his blood spilled down his chest, pooling in his lap. Towering over him, a bespectacled woman with red hair stooped down to clasp her fingers around the thin blade. One of the girls was in on it, Vincent thought in alarm as his thoughts became muddled by death’s encroaching embrace. Her eyes blazed with the lust for destruction. She twisted her lips into a cruel grin of pure delight.
“The Order of the Dragon thanks you for your sacrifice,” she whispered as she dragged the knife along his throat, bringing Vincent Malone’s life to an end.
As the island suffered tragedy after dilemma, the only ones that did not seem to know or care about the ongoing problems were the tourists. Some were calling managers asking when the next boat would go back to the mainland. A few were bold enough to demand refunds since they didn’t pay to be in the dark for their trip. Cries of distress rose from spoiled children. Entitled women fussed. Pompous men grumbled. Many voices carried the same question, “Why was today starting like this?”
Out in the distance, hidden by the fog, a low rumble answered them from deep inside the storm.