Over two hundred families huddled for shelter within the school hall and surrounding classrooms. South Kent High School hadn't been designated a refuge point by the local authorities, but the parents had broken in. The official guidance was to stay home and wait for everything to blow over. However, these parents had seen the Mist roll over mainland Europe on social media over the past few weeks and felt that there would be safety in numbers. For there were things in the Mist. Dangerous, monstrous things that never quite got caught on camera.

For two weeks now, the news had reported how the Mist had consumed much of the French countryside, rolling up towards the British Isles from the south. The Prime Minister had issued statements, reassured by her top advisers that whatever this strange meteorological phenomenon was, it would dissipate as it reached the English Channel. That body of water between England and France was framed as the Great British barrier. It was not.

"I knew they were full of nonsense," said James Carmichael, voicing his displeasure towards the government to no one in particular. "Look on Twitter, you can see that the Mist has already spread across the sea into Morocco. Why didn't they think it would come here?"

"I bet it came from that CERN place," said Joy Okeke. "Emmanuel showed me on TikTok that someone said they were doin' experiments on God or something."

Her son, Emmanuel, shifted uncomfortably at being brought into the conversation. Although he was eighteen, he could still be embarrassed by his mother.

"The God particle," corrected Mr. Smith, the school's science teacher. "Well, it's actually called the Higgs boson, but all these claims that the research at CERN caused all this are quite illogical."

"Oh!" Joy exclaimed. "Illogical! Well, explain the logic behind this then!" She tore the charging cable out from her phone and fired up a video she had saved off Twitter. The video was taken from the window of a Paris apartment block and showed dozens of police running in terror through the fog-heavy streets. The lambent glow from street lamps flickered as things coalesced in the whiteness, manifesting into monstrous forms that chased the officers and cut them down one by one. Mr. Smith wanted to dismiss the video as misinformation, a trick of video editing that even some of his older students were capable of. However, he did not believe that to be true and so said nothing. He apologized and looked away, casting his eyes up to stare at the roiling haze outside that buffeted the high windows.

The spat among the adults was a symptom of the underlying anxiety that had begun to fracture the group. The cramped school hall, once a haven, now buzzed with the tension of displaced families grappling with fear and uncertainty. James Carmichael watched the scene unfold with a pang of guilt, acutely aware that his own frustration had sparked this latest argument. The sight of anxious parents clashing, their voices rising in frustration, only compounded his feelings. Meanwhile, the children—pale and wide-eyed—sat on the periphery, their innocence a stark contrast to the chaos of the adults’ quarrels. James's heart ached as he observed their confused faces, unable to grasp why their sanctuary had turned into a battleground of grown-up disputes.

"Joy," James said, his tone softening as he approached her. "I saw those catering photos from your sister’s wedding on Facebook. They looked fantastic. If you could get into the school kitchens, could you prepare something for everyone tonight?"

Joy looked up, her expression a mix of surprise and contemplation. She paused, mentally assessing the logistics of preparing meals for so many people with the limited resources at their disposal.

"I'll need some help," she said, her voice steadying as she began to consider the task. "I see a few folks here who owe me favors. But remember, the meals will be simple. We'll have to stretch whatever we have and ration it out. We don’t know how long we’ll be here."

James offered a grateful nod, a faint smile beginning to form despite the grim circumstances. Joy’s determination to contribute was a welcome beacon of hope in their dismal situation. She bustled away, her resolve a small but significant victory against the encroaching dread.

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Turning to Mr. Smith, James sought to redirect the group’s focus from their simmering anxieties. “Mr. Smith, what do we have to keep the children occupied?”

Mr. Smith, momentarily pulled from his thoughts, began to list the available resources. “There are some rainy day games and indoor sports equipment locked away. I can get the keys for those. We could also open up the drama studio for them to play in. And, if needed, the library could be unlocked for those who want some quiet reading time.”

“Sounds like a plan,” James said, a more genuine smile breaking through. He turned to his eldest daughter, who was already stepping up to help. “Jenny here has been a Kids Entertainer at the holiday park down the road. Do you think you could keep the kids entertained for a couple of hours, Jen?”

Jenny’s face lit up with a determined expression. She gave a nod, ready to take on the challenge of easing the children’s fears and helping to restore some semblance of normalcy.

As the adults dispersed to implement their plans, each finding a role to play in the collective effort, the Mist continued its relentless assault against the windows. Its opaque veil pressed against the glass, a constant reminder of the encroaching peril, while the subdued sounds of games and laughter began to filter through the school hall. The makeshift community, though fractured and frightened, rallied together in their shared struggle, determined to endure despite the looming threat.

Sensing the question wasn't really a question, Jennifer Carmichael broke off her conversation with her long-time friend, Emmanuel. She took a moment to get into character as a happy-go-lucky children's entertainer before bounding to her feet and commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

"Alright! Okay!" she yelled, clapping her hands. "Now, when I look around, I see a lot of bored faces, and bored faces make me sad." She exaggerated a pout, acting out her sadness in an over-the-top pantomime.

"And when I am sad, do you know what I do? I stamp my feet and I scream!" Jenny did just that, stomping her feet and letting out a playful scream, which elicited modest giggles from a few of the younger children watching her antics.

"C'mon, your turn. Stamp your feet and scream!" she implored.

Several children and a handful of adults followed her lead.

"Nope, not good enough. Okay, tell you what. If we all do a really good job of stamping our feet and screaming, then Mr. Smith is going to unlock the drama studio and library for all the kids to play in. Doesn't that sound like a great idea? Okay, ready? Three, two, one."

The entire hall of two hundred families stamped their feet and yelled. It was an almighty cacophony of noise that released all the pent-up fear, uncertainty, and tension in the room. Some adults joined in the silliness, stamping in mock tantrums that made the children laugh. Some children cast their heads from side to side in parody of an elaborate, melodramatic scene. The room, for a brief moment, felt lighter, the oppressive weight of the Mist outside momentarily forgotten in the shared uproar.

By the end, everyone was smiling. Jenny led the children, Mr. Smith, and a gaggle of parent chaperones away. Joy had gathered her team too, and was heading towards the cafeteria. James Carmichael took a moment to breathe. He looked up at the Mist beyond the high windows and thought that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

Outside, Warren Orlock ran up the hill towards the school building.

"Oh, bloody hell. No. No. No," he panted through labored breaths. He could see South Kent High School through the fog, glowing bright like a beacon in the darkest of nights. This was not good. They were all going to die. People he knew from the community, his friends and their families, his old teachers, and the people he used to say hello to on the street. The world had changed now, and nothing would ever be the same.

Suddenly, the MetaTEC watch on his left wrist vibrated and chimed. The sound was ear-piercingly loud against the silence of the isolated road. Warren swore as he ran, tapping on the face of his MetaTEC to select a new spell as the smattering of street lamps that guided his path began flickering. Looking down at the display, Warren took brief notice of his statistics screen. He tried to calculate some quick math in his head, the cost of his available spells against his remaining mana. However, Warren was never good at math, and he had already accidentally burned through over a third of his mana reserves back at home.

Selecting a spell, Warren loaded it into his available spell slot. The mechanic was confusing, but he hardly had the time to learn how the MetaTEC actually worked once the world went sideways. Looking up, Warren was almost too late as the blade of a crooked scythe screeched through the mist towards his face. Warren dropped heavily to the ground at the last moment and rolled with the momentum.

"Ignis consumet!" he roared, casting a hand out towards the floating, cloaked shape with the skull-like face that bore the crooked scythe. The thing shrieked with digitized dissonance as it was engulfed by impossible flames before decaporealizing.

"Gheist," the MetaTEC chimed. "Level two apparition..."

"Shut up," Warren commanded, struggling to his feet. The watch obeyed. As he ran, Warren noticed that his experience bar had nudged incrementally closer to the next level, while his mana bar was disproportionately lower.

With the school in sight, he pushed forward, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. He had to warn them. The Mist was more than just a fog; it was a harbinger of things far worse. And they were coming.