Miles outside of town, they couldn’t drive any further. Despite how they tried to outrun it, the fog caught up to them. It bypassed them as if it were a gang of motorcyclists, tired of trailing behind the slower minivan. The fog enveloped the car, coating every window in its opaque mist. It crowded the windshield, smearing a thick layer of gray that no eye could penetrate. Hissing in frustration, Ron brought the car to a stop. After their little mishap back at the shoreline, the last thing they wanted was to risk their lives again by plunging into the dark haze. Ken said nothing, knowing they had no other choice. On the island, fog was bad news on the best of days. Embraced by the smoky blanket, locals lost their sense of direction on Main Street. Thankfully, fog didn’t stay for long, particularly as dawn approached.
For a long moment, Ken and Ron waited for the mist to lift. Such a quick-moving fog couldn't stay forever. They didn't bother looking at the time; unfortunately, they were aware of the minutes ticking by as fast as old drying honey dribbling off a spoon. Minutes swelled into quarters of an hour, adding up to halves. Ken looked to the eastern horizon, eager to see the sun's welcoming face. His heart pounded in anticipation. After his tenure in Brasil, the rising sun was a constant he could always depend on.
The dark sky continued to stare down at him, not showing the faintest signs of breaking. "It's past dawn," Ron proclaimed, voicing Ken's growing concern. His former coworker looked at the car clock in utter disbelief. "The sun should be out by now. Was it supposed to be overcast or rain today?"
Ken found himself shooting his friend a sarcastic glance. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror brought back fond memories. Ron received that look hundreds of times during his rookie days, when young officers always stated their dumbest ideas. It was difficult for Ken to break himself from shooting the raised eyebrow at Ron out of sheer habit, regardless of what the man said. Even years later, the look stayed with him.
"No," he answered. "Do you think an old man wants to shop for a car on a miserable, thunderstorm of a day?" First-time tourists looked forward to their first rain on the island. They heard of its gentleness, bringing cool weather that's perfect for rocking on a front porch, listening to the pleasant cadence of the water droplets. What they didn’t know was that was the aftermath of a much bigger tempest, the kind of weather tourists hated. Brasil rains began as a thunderstorm, severity varying due to many factors Ken didn't know. What he did know was that they had a wretched impact on his aging bones. Once he got wet and cold, it took forever for him to get warm again.
"Then what's going on?" Ron asked. Flipping on the radio, he switched it to the local news, where Surf's Up Bud kept the islanders up-to-date on all things political, educational, and economic, as well as serving as a lay meteorologist. Vincent Malone was his real name, a local thespian lacking the skill to make it big in the big mainland cities. For what it was worth, he had a great radio persona.
The stranded friends waited through two Beach Boys classics and a few Buddy Holly covers. Ken's nerves danced on his fingertips as he played with the Tiger's Eye. At last, Bud popped in to say a few words. "Hey, all you crazy cats. Can't believe ya'll loopy enough to be up this early. The old Bud would rather be sleeping, but duty calls." His radio voice had the typical rhythm and draw of the stereotypical beach dweller. If Ken remembered right, Vincent hated the character, but it was a tradition dating back forty-seven years. The station owner's father made it up, playing the part until his voice gave out at sixty-one. If Vincent didn't play the part, the diligent son would find someone else. Work was work.
"You know there ain't much to talk about this early in the morning outside of the goings-on around the tourist hotels, except today you're in for a special treat. If any of you sailors are listening, crank up that dial and clean the wax outta your ears. Weather is all kinds of messed up. This conflicts with our forecast from yesterday where we expected clear skies for the rest of the week. We’ve got overcast skies that look ready to drop a gully washer of a flash flood on your heads. Better have a raincoat. Had reports of choppy waves off of Turtle Rock. I know. That place is always calmer than a fat cat on a Sunday afternoon. Better stay off the beach this morning until we know what’s going on. Might need to batten down the hatches. Might get worse from here. Moms and Dads, no news on school. Until we hear otherwise, keep your kids inside as they wait for the bus.”
“To make a cruddy situation worse, we received word that a ship was supposed to come. When our dock workers should’ve seen it, a dangerous fog rolled in. That thick mist hasn’t given any hints of letting up. It’s hit some parts of the island without giving up any of its reach on the sea. Won’t be long until it’s at your door. Back to our sea-weary ship, there’s been no sign of it. No one can get in touch with the crew.” Vincent took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice struggled to remain in character. “There’s a strange foreboding today. Remain cautious. You only have one life to live." Coughing, he concluded his report. "To lighten the mood, let's roll back to the good ole days of Chuck Berry and Johnny B. Goode. Rock on McFly."
Ken turned down the radio, allowing the faint riff of the guitar to touch his ears. It was calming in a Rock 'n Roll sort of way. He needed it after what he just heard. Clouds overhead, uncertain weather, a lost ship, and the encompassing fog. It would seem shopping for a new car was a bust. To make matters worse, there was no clear way out of their current predicament. They were at a junction of indecision.
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It reminded him of a minister he once knew. Kenneth was never what you'd call a church-going man. Too many charlatans for his taste trying to squeeze money out of the widows and orphans they loved to cry crocodile tears over. However, he took a liking to Pastor Caleb. That man knew how to preach and teach on a level that everyone understood. One of his favorite topics was the crossroads of indecision. “Be wary,” he always warned. “What might seem like a golden opportunity might be a God-given last chance at escaping the jaws of Hell. Other times, the path froth with danger is the one we must traverse. Only by enduring the dark days can we speak of God’s strength and kindness. So I say again: be wary. The Crossroads of Indecision is never clear.”
“Don’t worry,” Ken said, faking his cheeriest smile. “Everything’s going to work out.” Ron answered nothing in return. He didn’t even bother calling his elder a liar, though he wouldn’t be wrong. Ken couldn’t put his finger on it, yet he felt it deep in his guts. He had a favorite saying off of Columbo, when the titular character said he knew when someone was lying You develop a nose for these sort of things. In police work, Ken learned that to be correct. As the years rolled on, he developed a sense for lies told through clenched smiles, but it applied to other things as well. He could tell the importance of a piece of evidence and zero in on who committed a murder with little proof. Life was the same. The older he got, the easier it was to notice when something was not quite right. Sitting in the car, he felt that they needed to leave while they still had the chance.
Fingers fumbling with the Tiger’s Eye, he almost admitted his suspicions when they were confirmed. Flying above the headlights, a slick object struck the windshield. Both men cried out in surprise as a cracking star burst into the glass. Ken’s heart leaped in his chest. His hand clasped his chest over his heart in a fruitless attempt to prevent a heart attack. Thankfully, his heart returned to its normal tempo. “What was that?” Ron exclaimed, hands clenched on the steering wheel.
Regaining his breath, Ken noticed a thin trail of red oozing from the crack. “Did they start putting blood in glass?” he asked. Neither waiting another second, they flung open their car doors and plunged into the fog. As soon as his shoes hit the ground, sudden cold wetness encased his feet, stretching above his ankles.
“What’d I just step in?” Ron yelled on the other side. It was anyone’s guess. The thick fog made it difficult to see one’s hand a few feet away from his face. In big, breast-wide wing flaps, he waved his hands through the haze, trying to disperse it. His hands slipped through the mist as a hot knife through butter, leaving trails in the fog. Ken frowned as he saw the vapor rush back in, erasing that his hands were there at all. He tried again, only to be met with the same conclusion.
Ron shouted something that Ken couldn’t quite catch. A sloshing sound followed, accompanied by a splash. Calling out to his companion, he edged around the car, keeping both hands on at all times. In this thick mist, he refused to part from his only landmark, which was difficult to see even at that close distance. The strange sloshing churned as his feet dragged across the ground. For some reason, it was difficult to move his feet. Ken was far from the age where walking was a chore.
“Are you okay?” Ken called. Rounding the front of the car, he found a curious sight. His hand felt it long before his eyes spied it. A cold, scaly object greeted his fingers. Leaning closer, he found a dead herring laying on the car’s hood. That’s what hit us, he realized incredulously. There was no doubt about it. A bloody dent rested in the center of the fish’s face. What’s he doing out here?
Spurting, Ron answered, “Yeah. Slipped on something. Not sure what.”
Continuing to slide around the car, Ken asked, “Did you drive us into a river?”
“No.” Another slosh sang out, followed by a chorus of tiny, continual splishes. Sounded like a faucet leaking on a sink filled to the brim with dirty water and scummy dishes.
“Did you drive off into the ocean?”
“Do you think I’m that dumb or are you that stupid?”
“I’m just trying to understand what’s going on cause I’m not liking the most logical choice.”
When Ken reached Ron’s ajar door, he found the man soaked from head to toe. “Don’t doubt yourself, old man,” he spat, water dripping off his face. “You’ve got it right.”
Ken felt his guts weaken. Defying the rocky cliffs which fended off waves from the strongest hurricanes, the ocean had climbed over them, sweeping over miles of land to meet them inland. A memory of the past flooded back into his mind. He hadn’t sat in a church since Pastor Caleb’s death. However, he always remembered a service from fifteen years ago, when the pastor, who some called Reverend Foster, delivered a message unlike anything Ken had heard before. He spoke as a man possessed. The words tumbled so fast from his mouth Ken didn't believe the pastor understood what he was saying. He spoke of false friends, greedy lusts, hellfire, and the dragon of deception. His voice came back, proclaiming from the book of Ezekiel. "Howl ye, Woe worth the day! For the day is near, even the day of the Lord is near, a cloudy day; it shall be the time of the heathen." Ken feared that he would see the fruition of man’s words as this hideous fog rolled in.