Chapter 7: The Beginning of the End

Garden sat alone in the fog on the third floor all afternoon and well into the evening. Time lost all meaning as a pillow of cool, clinging whiteness enveloped her. It embraced her motionless body like a comforting hug that removed all discomfort, and even her empty stomach seemed filled by it. She felt no hunger pangs or thirst. She was one with the fog. It had become her.

And it showed her so many amazing things. Hour after hour, Garden sat in awe watching newscasts from the time of the Fall. The scenes were reflected on billions of water droplets all around her so that she felt she was part of the story. There were newscasts from San Francisco, other American cities, and even places in foreign lands where, although the reporters spoke languages Garden could not understand, the message was always the same and perfectly clear: it had snowed for three days all around the world, and then the freezing fog had appeared and everything was lost.

The newscasts carried on, moving through a timeline spanning the days, weeks, and months following the Fall. They showed the governments’ flailing efforts to maintain civilization in the face of crumbling infrastructure and transportation networks. Then came the rise of the Tech Lords, who used their incredible assets and influence to rapidly establish autonomous bases in the mountain ranges across California and elsewhere. At the same time, other pockets of survivors established their own communities independent from any semblance of American government, such as the NBAZ where Garden and her family live.

She also watched numerous scientific documentaries wherein researchers tried to explain what had gone wrong. Every scientist agreed that the SkyWeb malfunction had caused all of the world's atmospheric weather-controlling nanobots to fail simultaneously. In fact, the "snow" was actually formed of the nanobots themselves, and it spread much like volcanic ash spewed into the atmosphere after a great eruption, transported by the wind around the world as a fine white powder.

But what had happened next was much worse. The nanobots, which everybody originally thought were broken and useless, had suddenly risen up into the air with new life. They created a dense fog that blanketed the Earth two hundred feet deep and dropped the global temperature to cryogenic levels, flash freezing every single living creature who had luck bad enough to be outside at the time. Within hours, temperatures had quickly risen to just below freezing, and have remained so ever since for these past thirty years, maintained by a persistent "living" fog that flows across the earth, forming itself into horrors made of ice and cold.

After a very long time, Garden finally comes back to her senses with an incredible urge to pee. There's hardly any light filtering down from the sky overhead, and the fog outside the blasted wall in the third floor office where Garden sits is now a dim, murky gray. With a start, she begins shivering uncontrollably, and runs out of the room hugging herself as tightly as her thin, tired arms can squeeze.

She finds the washroom and relieves herself—no working plumbing, of course, but holding it any longer's completely out of the question. Her business taken care of, she stumbles out of the washroom and finds one of the small, rectangular office rooms that still has a working door. The tiny room is pitch black, but when she shuts the door behind her it muffles all outside noise. It feels safe, and is several degrees warmer. In a moment of blind surrender, Garden slumps against the nearest wall and collapses to the floor, her mind a confused mess of amazement, anguish, and fear.

What could she do? The fog gifted her with amazing insights about the Fall, deeper understanding than even the few remaining old-timers could hope to match. Yet, how could she ever explain to anybody how she knows all this stuff? She can't just say the fog told her. Everyone would think she's a freak. Worse, they might think she's in league with the fog somehow. They might think she's a traitor!

This thought sends her into a state of panic. Why did the fog show her these things? Why did it trap her down here, unable to move or barely even think for hours on end? Why her? What the hell is going on? What's happening to her?!

Garden begins to cry with long, tortuous sobs that rack her body with surprising violence, as if the very essence of her anxiety and fear are being pulled ever so slowly from the deepest pit of her belly in long ribbons of pure, unadulterated emotion. They rise up through her in ragged waves, ripping at her heartstrings before they finally bellow from her hoarse throat in wordless, anguished wails.

She cries and cries into the evening, all alone in a dark little room on the empty third floor.

###

"Life before the Fall was good," Elvis says, his voice warm and nostalgic. "We all complained about everything all the time, of course, but that's just human nature, innit?"

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Soda drops his spoon in his bowl with a satisfied sigh. He'd spent the last half hour eating a hearty dinner—a delicious carrot and onion stew—in a large shared mess hall with the other residents of Elvis’ commune. A small fire blazes in the center of the room, its smoke rising through a hole in the center of the yurt. The light reflects the tired, worn-out faces of fifteen other diners, who've all been listening quietly as Elvis spun tales about the good old days before society ground to a halt. The old man's a master storyteller with a clear memory and a knack for intuitively painting his tales with the perfect level of detail.

"What do you know about the Fall?" Soda asks.

Elvis shrugs. "We paid the price of thinking we could solve a problem that we had no business creating in the first place. But I don't know any more on the subject than any other old guy can tell ya."

Dead Boy swallows his last bite and lays his fork down, looking Elvis in the eye as he changes the subject. "We came here looking for Jamar. He went out on a run two weeks ago and hasn't returned. Have you seen him?"

Elvis frowns, rubbing his shaven chin and leaning back in his chair. "I figured this wasn't just a social call," he says with an air of trepidation, and then remains silent for several long moments.

"Have you seen Jamar?" Dead Boy repeats, his voice taking on an anxious edge that surprises Soda.

"A little over a week and a half ago," Elvis replies. "He stayed the night, then headed off to the southwest. Said he was gonna run deeper than usual, so he could bring back some good loot."

Dead Boy and Soda exchange looks. Nothing they don't already know.

"I don't have any recent news of his whereabouts,” Elvis continues, “I thought he’d already made it back safely. I'm sorry he didn't."

The old man goes on speaking, his voice grave. "But I do have some other news that may be more concerning, and it's fresh information at that. Follow me."

Elvis rises and ushers the two boys out the door. He motions for them to follow, and within a couple of minutes all three are standing atop the largest of the field's two gray granite boulders. He points to the south, where the setting sun is painting the top layer of the fog in patchy orange hues. Multiple salad-green hilltops rise out of the sunset-lit mists like verdant islands in a sea of autumn leaves.

"These past few days, I've heard reports from my southern neighbors of a new type of threat," Elvis says. His eyes sadden as he speaks, and Soda understands he's implying that Jamar may have fallen victim to this new danger. "Raiders hit up a settlement on Mt. Davidson. Raiders who walk the fog without fear of Frozen or wraiths."

Dead Boy stares hard at the old man. "We walk among the Frozen too," he says slowly.

Elvis shakes his head. "This is different. These guys don’t run. They don’t need to. Some folks followed the gang and witnessed them strolling down the street, bashing Frozen left, right and center like they was bustin’ Halloween pumpkins."

Soda gasps. "We saw shattered Frozen on the streets all the way down here!”

Elvis stares hard at Soda. “That far north, too? They could be making a move.”

"The NBAZ can stand against a gang of raiders," Dead Boy says sternly. "We're organized, and we’ve built up our defenses. No outfit that operates in the fog can match that."

"Perhaps, but there's more," Elvis replies in a shaky voice. "Dead Boy, the wraiths don’t even touch these guys."

The two young runners stare at the old man and then at each other, their faces pale and terrified. Elvis slowly nods his head. "This new gang rules the streets.”

###

"So that's that, then," Soda says as he shoulders his rucksack once again.

Dead Boy nods. "That's that."

“You sure you won’t come back with me? The NBAZ really needs this intel…” Soda tries his best to act nonchalant, but he isn’t feeling it.

“Our people will be fine,” Dead Boy replies curtly, his dark eyes hiding any semblance of emotion. “Jamar could still be out there. I don’t wanna lose any more time. At least for a few more days.”

Soda gazes down the path at the thick fog waiting for him and shivers. It feels like an ominous malice is weighing heavily on his shoulders. He knows he's not ready to head out into the fog on his own—not ready to be a solo runner—and desperately wishes he had time for more training. But Dead Boy won't hear of it, and Soda's insistent on doing the only honorable thing by delivering information about this mysterious gang to their community. Elvis' warning struck a resonant chord within him, one he can't easily shake. Their home could be in peril, and everybody in it.

"Don't head back the way we came," Dead Boy cautions. "The wraiths might still be hanging around that old church and the ice wall. Better to cut up Market Street to the Civic Center Crypts entrance. It's a bit of a longer topside run, but it's also a pretty straight route, so you won't get lost."

"Yeah, I got it." Soda shifts the weight of his rucksack from one shoulder, then back to the other. He wishes they could just skip the goodbyes and get a move on. He doesn't like the way this evening's turning out, not one bit.

"Would that I could help," Elvis says, his white hair now taking on a silvery sheen in the growing shadows of the evening. "But I'm afraid having an old guy like me around would only slow you down. I do have something that might be of assistance, though."

They wait silently as Elvis hustles into the shadowed doorway of a nearby yurt, soon returning with a large, bulky tire iron—one of the four-way cross-shaped lug-nut kinds that look like a heavy metal crucifix.

He proffers the tire iron to Soda as a gift. "I happened to notice you didn't arrive with much in the way of weaponry," he says with a wink. "This thing's got a pretty good heft. Might come in handy."

Soda smiles wryly with a sidelong look at Dead Boy. "Thanks. I only have one bullet left in my gun."

"Save it," Elvis advises sagely, then steps back. "You're welcome to stay the night, of course. But since I know neither of you will agree to such wisdom, you'd both better be off without delay. Farewell!"

Dead Boy nods, points at Soda and proclaims, "See you in three days!" then promptly turns and runs straight into the fog.

Well, at least we skipped the goodbyes, Soda thinks. And with that, he trots down the trail on the north side of the hill and enters the fog himself, a real runner now, despite all of his misgivings.

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