Blending with The Fog

We immediately bolted out the door.

A dense fog was rapidly engulfing the village, rolling in from the river, nearly upon us.

Humidity clung to my skin.

Following the Old Man, we turned to face the intersection, where a crowd of people ran in panic away from the mist.

The footsteps of the fleeing swarm echoed amid the gasps and cries.

Sharp breaths were drawn the moment their heads peeked through the cloud.

As we turned towards the town square, I glanced back.

I caught a glimpse of something horrific, sending a chill down my spine.

People collapsed to the ground, gripping the soil as they coughed violently.

Blood spilled onto the floor, seeping into the dirt and dust as the fog ate away at them from the inside.

I gagged and, in that brief moment, inhaled a bit.

As the heavy scent of iron and wet dirt hit my throat, an intense burning sensation began to spread, and tears welled in my eyes.

The searing pain forced a violent cough out of me. It felt as if the fog itself devoured me from within.

With each cough, more fog seeped inside, as if pulled by a string. I couldn’t stop its raging flow.

My throat screamed in agony, blood scorching hot as if boiling before reaching my mouth.

Sweat and blood mingled as they dripped to the ground.

My eyes watered from the strain.

When the Old Man noticed my struggle, he pulled me harder towards him and aggressively slapped my back, helping me cough the fog out.

I could finally breathe.

I panted for air.

My hoarse throat ached each time, wheezing as I inhaled.

Terrified of this blood-curdling phenomenon, I quickened my pace.

Struggling to keep up, he pressed both hands firmly against my backpack and shoved me forward, urging me to go on without him.

I wasn’t about to leave someone to die again.

I couldn’t let the Old Man fall behind.

I didn’t want to lose him as well.

This time, I grabbed his arm and pulled, firm but careful not to trip him.

My soaked clothes clung to my skin as we reached the plaza.

Razor-like screams sounded left and right. The villagers ran in every direction, shoving and tripping over each other.

Gesturing for me to wait, he turned right and ran down the side street. The same street that had stirred such sharp repulsion.

The street of Yrish's family shop.

The burning sensation had stopped, but the chaos swallowed me whole. Screams stabbed deep into my head like needles.

There was nothing I could do.

I turned around, watching as the town was steadily being consumed.

My mouth cracked open. A nervous laughter escaped as a tear ran down my cheek.

Alone.

Was I going to die again?

Breaking my promise.

So soon.

Why was I so weak?

Failing her again.

Again.

And again.

“There is nothing I can do…” The words scraped out of me.

My body trembled. My knees weakened as the fog crawled closer. Silence swallowed the screams that flooded this haze before me.

Suddenly, a hand seized my arm.

My head turned slowly to the left, my jaw slack.

Through my half-dazed state, the teary figure of the Old Man carried a sack on his shoulder.

In a hurry, he swiftly unfastened the drawstring, unveiling a pile of loaves of bread, some dense-looking biscuits, and a separate, smaller, half-open bundle of dried berries.

A shaky smile spread across his face as he met my eyes.

He closed the bag and moved behind me to store it in my backpack. He fumbled with the zipper, finally prying it open, then crammed everything inside, barely able to close it back.

Then his hand gripped my arm.

He pulled me through the town square, away from the advancing fog, as the waves of villagers and barrages of cries struck from every side.

When we reached the village’s entrance, where the carriages I had seen days ago waited, the Old Man began frantically waving his left hand above the sea of people.

Crowds pressed around the wagons.

They jostled for their turn to jump in while soldiers, clad in armour with swords at their hips, tied the horse-like creatures to the carts and loaded water and sacks of food.

As soon as the soldiers spotted the Old Man, one of them rushed towards us, dropping what he was carrying onto the carriage.

The brown-haired, muscular soldier addressed the Old Man, his uneven breath masked behind a strained smile.

“Ver sige~ lhantiret gar sige~ po kroxaly?” he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The Old Man shook his head and turned to me, his finger aiming in my direction.

The soldier's brows lowered into a scowl as he glanced over the Old Man’s shoulder, his eyes meeting mine.

“Gar! Art gar jire~ rhotar fus xanture e anarit lhantiret lo dra janare~ to po kroxaly!” the soldier barked at the Old Man in a sharp tone.

Panic flashed across the Old Man’s face.

Carefully, he dropped to his knees, right hand outstretched, left clutching his chest as he quivered.

The soldier cried a trembling “gar” again and again, his gaze darting away from the Old Man.

Even without understanding their language, I could guess he was telling him “no”.

As the Old Man bowed his head, grovelling at the soldier’s feet, the soldier’s face twisted in a mix of anger and sadness. His fist clenched, and he snapped his head towards me.

“Sige~!” he shouted at me, signalling for me to follow. His expression curdled with disgust.

As I approached him, he forcefully grabbed my arm and dragged me through the crowd to one of the carriages.

He pushed me inside and stopped me from moving further to the back. Then he quickly ran off to get more supplies.

Still trembling, I hopelessly waited as the fog engulfed more and more of the town. Almost a third of the square had already been painted in a translucent white.

The heavy scent of blood spread fast, leaving a rotten aftertaste to the screams and fears of the disorderly crowd.

In the distance, the fog had reached the top of the hill.

With nowhere to run to, people plunged to their deaths as more surged on. They clawed at the roots on the edge until their strength gave out, plummeting onto the rocks atop the roofs below.

Corpses lay bare on the roads, blood still seeping out.

I gagged.

I was shoved aside as the carriage quickly filled. People trampled over me in their haste to get as far as possible from death’s mist.

But the Old Man was nowhere to be seen.

“Is he boarding another cart?” I thought shakily.

“Why wouldn’t he come with me?”

Sweat slicked my palms, while my damp clothes clung cold to my skin.

The last soldier climbed aboard and locked the hinged wooden board in place with a metal rod. Twelve people now sat crammed inside.

Their eyes darted away the moment I raised my head.

With the carriages now full, the waves of people thinned out.

But still not everyone had boarded a cart. Either by choice or lack of space, some of the villagers were staying behind, still walking away from the fog.

Dirt crunched and wood shrieked ahead of our wagon.

The arms of those left behind rose high above their heads in a silent farewell as the carriages were starting to move.

A sharp sense of unease swelled over me. I began frantically scanning around.

Then, my breath quickened, jagged.

My body froze.

The Old Man stood still among the others, several metres away.

His hand waved at me, his figure still, framed by the creeping fog.

The same soft smile spread across his face, a subtle glint seeping from his twitchy gaze.

He wasn’t leaving the village.

“No!” I yelled as the carriage rolled forward, my voice raw and rasping.

“Please no! I don’t want to be left alone again… I don’t want to leave you!”

I clung to the locked board, struggling to climb over it. “Please, come with us! I don’t want to let another person die… please!”

The other passengers pulled me back, dragging me inside.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The story repeated itself.

The Old Man’s warm smile faded as the carts sped forward.

Quakes underfoot gradually deepened, and the loud cracking of stone echoed in the distance, even as his figure lost its form, blurred through my tears.

I could no longer see him.