Fog

They are less than a half hour from home when their car slows down to a crawl.
What happened? asks the boy, suspending momentarily the bip bip from his Game Boy.
We slowed down, says his sister. Can’t you see?
Of course I can see, says the boy.
Well, that would be amazing if you could see, says his sister. We can’t see because of the fog.
Ha, ha, says the boy. You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.
You’d forget to breathe if it weren’t…
OK, quiet back there, says their father. I’m trying to navigate through this fog and you two arguing doesn’t help.
See what you did? says the sister. You’re always causing trouble.
I’m not. You’re the one causing trouble, says the boy.
Dad said to be quiet, says the sister. He has to navigate through the fog and your voice annoys him.
I didn’t say anything, says the boy. And it’s your voice that’s annoying.
It’s your voice that’s annoying, his sister mimics with a nasal voice.
Bip bip, the boy goes back to his Game Boy.
You better stop that, says his sister. Your Game Boy is annoying too.
No it’s not, says the boy. You’re annoying.
That’s all you can say? says his sister. You don’t even know what annoying means.
Yes, I do, says the boy. You’re annoying, that’s what it means.
Please, be a little quieter back there, says their mother. Your father is trying to get us home and it’s hard to concentrate with you two arguing.
It’s him, mom, says the sister. He’s calling me names.
No, I’m not, says the boy. She started it.
I didn’t, says the sister. You started it.
OK, I don’t care who started it, says their mother. Just try and be quiet.
Bip bip bip.
The boy suddenly looks up from his game. Mom, what time is it?
Six thirty five, says their mother.
Oh great! says the boy. Now I’m gonna miss my shows.
We’re risking our lives navigating through this fog and all you care about are your dumb shows, says the sister.
They’re not dumb, you’re dumb, says the boy. Bip bip.
Mom, he called me dumb, says the sister. See? I told you he was calling me names.
Don’t call your sister names, says their mother without bothering to look back. Her hand rests lightly on her husband’s shoulder as he drives with his fingers clamped on the steering wheel.
You heard what mom said, says the sister. And quit playing your stupid game, it bothers Dad to drive.
No it doesn’t, says the boy. Mom, does my game bother Dad to drive?
No, it doesn’t, says their mother. You can play your game but please, be quiet.
The boy gives his sister a crooked glance. Bip bip bip.

Theirs seems to be the only car on the road. No oncoming headlights to clue them to where the road turns or back lights to follow. Their only guide is a fraction of middle yellow lane instantly swallowed by the headlights.

In the back it’s quiet but for the bip bip bip.
Mom said to be quiet, says the sister
Mom, what time do we get home? asks the boy, ignoring his sister.
I don’t know, honey, says their mother. Whenever we get there. We can’t drive very fast, so it’s going to be a while.
But I’m gonna miss my shows, says the boy.
But I’m gonna miss my shows, mimics his sister in her nasal voice.
The boy slaps her on the thigh.
Ouch! Don’t hit me, stupid. Slapping back in turn.
The boy slaps her again followed by an exchange of arms flailing back and forth in the dark back seat of the car.
Don’t hit me, retard!
No! Don’t you hit me and you’re the retard!
That’s enough! Roars their father, turning his head back momentarily. Not one more word out of you two! And quit fighting!
Silence.
Then, a sniffle and a ruffle in the back.
Keep your hands off me, says the sister. Dad said to stop fighting
I’m looking for my Game Boy. You made me drop it.
I didn’t make you do anything and your stupid Game Boy is not on my side.
It’s on the floor, over there, says the boy pointing under his sister’s feet.
She kicks the mini console under her mother’s seat.
What’d you do that for? Gimme my game.
I don’t have it and quit bothering me, says the sister.
The boy unbuckles his seat belt and climbs under to reach for the game. His sister kicks him as he crouches in front of her.
Don’t kick me, stupid. I hate you!
I didn’t kick you, you hit my feet. Mom, he took his seat belt off and is crawling under my feet.
Get back in your seat and buckle your belt right now, says their father. This is the last time I tell you two to be quiet.
The boy makes a last attempt to reach under the seat with his sister’s feet aimed at him when the car bucks like a wild bronco.
The father steps on the brakes bringing the car to a sudden stop causing the boy to roll on the floor of the car and hit his head on something hard. Something metal and unyielding.
He is too afraid being caught without his seat belt to cry or say anything except scramble back to his seat with a lump lodged in his throat. The Game Boy lays wedged somewhere deep under his mother’s seat. An elusive green light glowing in the dark.
What was that? says the mother.
I don’t know, says the father. We hit something, I think.
Oh, my God! says the mother. I hope it’s not a person.
Me too. I have to go look, says the father. Unbuckling his seat belt, starting to pull on the door handle.
Be careful, says the mother, holding his arm, pulling him back in. There’ve been sightings of bears around here.
What if it’s someone, what if I hit someone? We have to make sure, says the father without trying too hard to extricate himself from his wife’s grip.
Don’t go, Dad, says the sister. It could be a bear.
The father slips his arm out of his wife’s grasp and pulls on the door handle. I’ll be all right, he says, I’ll just take a quick look.
But the door doesn’t yield. The safety lock is on. He unlocks it and tries the handle again.
Then, something bumps their car from behind. Hard, jolting everyone inside.
Daddy!! Cries the sister.
Oh my god!! Says the mother.
The boy starts crying.
Something bumps the car one more time, harder, shoving it forward.
The father steps on the gas and speeds forward. The headlights dissolve in the vacuum ahead of them. His wife realizes she is digging her nails in his shoulder and lets go.
We can’t see where we’re going, she cries. Be careful, please.
They drive maybe a hundred yards and the tires slip off the edge of the road. The father muscles the steering wheel forcing the car back on the road another two or three hundred yards but the wheels catch the bank again. The car leans sideways and comes to a sudden stop.
The father steps on the gas spinning the wheels. The smell of burned rubber fills the car.
He switches to reverse and steps on the gas. Then switches to drive, then reverse, then drive, reverse, drive…
Gravel rattles the fenders. The wheel is probably burying itself down into the soft ground. He lets up.
They wait, silent. Then, the boy starts crying again. Then the sister.
I’m afraid, says the boy.
It’ll be OK, says the mother. We’ll be OK, but she too, is crying.
The father is silent, trying to decide what to do.
They could sit in the car until daylight. But it’s turning cold outside and they’ll run out of gas if they keep the engine running all night.
Gradually, the crying subsides. They listen for noises, maybe for bears. But it’s quiet outside. Just the sound of the engine and their sniffles and their breathing.
They wait longer. Then, the father makes a decision.
I’m going to check on the situation out there. See if I can get the car unstuck.
But we don’t know what’s out there, says the mother. We don’t know what hit the car.
Whatever did, it’s gone. We’ve been here quite a while. I’ll take the flashlight. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.
Daddy, I’m afraid, says the boy.
Me too, says the sister. Don’t go, Dad.
I’ll be just a minute, says the father. I’ll be right outside.
He takes the flashlight out of the glove compartment and switches it on. The light glows on faint and fades away.
He turns it off, puts it in his pocket and squeezes the door handle and waits. Waits for whatever is out there to give a sign. Maybe also waiting for his wife to stop him.
But it’s dead quiet outside and his wife doesn’t stop him. He opens the door and peeks out. There is nothing to see. The fog and the darkness are solid. He turns the dome light on inside the car, steps out and shuts the door behind him. He stands in nothingness. He keeps one hand pressed against the side of the car as he walks to the back of the car and around, towards the ditch. If he as much as steps one or two feet away from the car he can no longer see the glow of the dome light framing the windows. He approaches the rear wheel and bends down. He runs his fingers along the rough tread of the tire and follows the curvature all the way down to where the tire is buried deep in damp gravel.
Damn, he mutters.
He pats the ground around him for a slat of wood, a stick, a rock, something to wedge under the tire but all there is, is grass, prickly weeds, gravel. He widens his search a bit farther, then a bit farther until he loses sight of the dome light. He approaches the car again and sets out to scooping the dirt around the tire with his fingers. The ground is wet and soft but it is thick with gravel, coarse and sharp edged. He digs his fingers in the ground as deep as he can, scooping and shoveling gravel out of the way. If he can widen the trench enough he might be able to drive out of this damn hole.
He starts coughing, choking on the exhaust fumes blowing in his direction. Where else would the fumes blow? Of course they’d have to blow in his direction. Isn’t that how it always works? Then the door in the back opens and hits him in the head.
What’re you doing? You hit me in the head!
I’m sorry, Daddy, says the daughter, are you all right?
I asked her to open the door to give you some light, says the mother, I’m sorry it hit you.
The girl starts coughing. There’s fumes coming in here, she says.
Shut the door, says the father, that bit of light doesn’t help anyway.
I’m sorry, Daddy, that I hit you in the head, says the daughter and shuts the door.
That’s OK, just be more careful, says the father. But the door is already closed. He is talking to the fog, the weeds, the gravel, the night around him.
He goes back to work. Digging and scooping dirt and gravel. His fingers ache, a deep, sharp pain, and his lungs are thick with smoke. He stands up every few minutes to gasp for air. Then he hears panting. He stops and listens. Nothing. He listens intently, his ears surveying the emptiness. Nothing. Probably his own breathing. Back to digging. Furiously, oblivious to the pain, he goes back to scraping and digging and then the panting again, closer. He stops and stands up. He swings his head around, a radar scanning the night. Who’s there, he says under his breath. Then a rustle, something running, coming at him. He searches around the side of the car for the door handle, up and down the side of the car, runs his hand in a circle, back and forth. Where is the damned handle? He walks alongside the car keeping his hand pressed against it, where did the handle go? And loses his footing. He slides down the ditch, scratching his face, his arms. He can hear someone or something breathing very close and lays still for a moment. A mouthful of warm breath sprays his face. He raises in a panic and starts to climb on hands and knees up the side of the ditch, pulling himself up on the prickly weeds. His fingers feel wet and stick to each other. He climbs back up to where the car is, or should be, or should have been. When he reaches the road there is no car. At this moment it occurs to him that it would have been basic, good thinking to leave the headlights on. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He wants to scream but is afraid to give away his position to whatever is now growling out there. He walks aimlessly in the fog and the dark hoping to bump against the car. He tries a zigzag pattern, first this way then the other, his hands pushing ahead of him like a blindfolded child trying to pin the tail on the donkey. Only there is no donkey to pin the tail on. He is crying, tears and mucus flooding his lungs, choking him. He steps up the pace and is now running and crying and coughing and stumbling. He trips and falls on his knees and gets up and trips again. Then the sound of something coming his way. Trotting, breathing heavy.

He runs pushing against the darkness with the panting and trotting following close behind, gaining on him, his head spinning, the ground tilting and coming at him, meeting him flat on the face and then there is nothing.

The morning finds the family shivering and crowded around each other inside the car, the engine long dead. The air inside is heavy with breathing and crying and coughing. The fog lingers outside. Everything is a blur. Men in uniform are tapping at the windows and moving their lips, steam framing their breath, and waving at the terrified family. Lights flash all around them, blue and red and yellow lights flashing in the fog like in a dream. The mother doesn’t know if she should unlock the doors or just sit there and cry.

Where’s my husband? she asks, lowering the window just a crack.
Daddy, where’s Daddy? cries the sister.
The boy is stunned, clinging to his mother and crying.
He’s in the ambulance, says a man in uniform, stocky, graying goatee, penetrating stare and dry and crusted lips from being out in the cold all night. He speaks with a hoarse voice that makes every word sound like an order.
Is he OK? Is my husband all right? Can I see him? I want to see my husband!
You need to calm down, ma’m, says the man with the goatee. His uniform surely had once been pressed and neat but this particular morning his pants look like having been pulled off the bottom of a drawer and his shirt is half way off his pants and blood stained. Other men in uniform come to help the family out of the car when the boy sees his father. He is the first one to spot him, lying in the pavement, face down, his legs and arms splayed out, a broken windmill. A few people stand around him. Daddy, Daddy. Look, there’s Daddy!
Elliot, goddammit, didn’t I tell you to throw a blanket on him? yells the man with the goatee.
I’m on it, Lieutenant, I’m on it. The paramedic wanted to take another look, you know, says Elliot.

The wife is screaming and trying to pull away as two men lead her to an ambulance with the children crying and holding on to her dress. The boy takes a last look back at the car leaning on the edge of the ditch with the Game Boy still wedged somewhere under his mother’s seat, waiting for the next move, its light glowing fainter.


EPILOGUE

So, what do you think, lieutenant? says Elliot once the ambulance takes off with a blare and a flashing of lights. The paramedic says he couldn’t find anything wrong with him.
Besides that he’s dead? snaps the lieutenant.
Well, I mean, no signs of injury or nothing. Couldn’t find nothing obvious to be the cause of death. You know what I mean.
How about the dog? Whose dog is it anyway?
Don’t know, maybe a match to the other dog up the road that got run over. Didn’t have as much luck that one, mangled pretty bad. This one happened to be just a big puppy, trying to play with everyone when we got here. They found him nudging the body like trying to have him get up. He didn’t do him no harm. The body had no scratches or bites or nothing… I was thinking, lieutenant. If you’ll bear with me. I noticed their car has a busted backlight. I think they must’ve been at the front of the pileup back up the road and in the fog got hit from behind, then made it this far and got stuck. Over here, by the car, see? It looks like the guy was trying to dig the car out of the ditch. A pretty mess he made of his hands. It’s the only visible injury, tore the skin right off his fingers. And I think the dog must’ve surprised him in the dark and scared the hell out of him. Now, if you allow me, do you see all this mud in the pavement, like he dragged it in his shoes all over the road? I think the dog was trying to play with him and he was trying to run away from the dog. I bet he had a heart attack trying to run away and, not realizing it was just a dog he…
You know what I think, Elliot? I think you watch too much TV. Let the damn coroner figure out what the guy died of. That’s his job.
Sorry, lieutenant, just trying to put the pieces together.
What, you some kind of Colombo? There’s no pieces to put anywhere, Elliot, this is just another case of people driving too fast and reckless for the conditions of the road and we always end up picking up after them. C’mon, now we have to go back up the road and finish clean that other mess. Damn people, never learn!