The Haze

The paper seems to glare up at me from the bottom of the box. I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot and my scalp seems to tingle. A burst of sudden anger drives me back to the door and I rip it open to glare out into the street. Empty. Just as it was ten minutes when I heard that strange buzzing sound outside and opened my door to find that stupid little brown package sitting on my stoop.

I pick up the box to inspect it again. Perfectly square and the size of a hardcover book, with not a single stain or scratch. It shows no sign of having been kicked in a warehouse or knocked around in the back of a box truck. It’s pristine. Someone had to have carried it here. But who? There’s no return address, hell, my address isn’t even on the thing.

With a frustrated grunt, I snatch the little white slip of paper off the bottom of the box. “Outside. Turn left.” Nothing else. No hints as to who might have sent it. Such a large box for such a tiny piece of paper and I’d almost missed it when I'd opened it in the first place. It had slid down into the crack, stuck to the tape holding the bottom of the box together.

I open my phone to look at my Amazon app. Maybe I ordered something and just forgot. The app comes up, then freezes, and I frown. No bars and no Wi-Fi. That’s weird. I was just playing Call of Duty with an unusually amazing ping rate. The router looks fine, blinking happy green lights up at me from behind my television.

A little tendril of dread breathes along the back of my neck. I rub at it, my calloused hand scratching my skin. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s the middle of the day. It’s not like armed intruders are going to burst through my door in broad daylight. And it’s not as if I have anything else going on. Maybe I have time to go outside, turn left.

I hurry upstairs to change out of my workout clothes. Yoga pants get exchanged for black leggings, my tank top gets replaced by a loose grey sweater. It’s mid-October, after all. It’ll be chilly out there. I trade my house slippers for my old Danner boots sitting beside the door, then take a step out of the room before something makes me pause.

I got back to the dresser. It looks familiar, the same crooked piece of crap I'd bought off some website. I pull open the top drawer, only to find it empty. Next drawer, same thing, and the next, and the next, until all six drawers hang open. All empty. The only clothes in them had been the clothes I’m wearing now. Where are the rest of my stuff? There’s a knife sitting on top of the dresser, a sleek black K-bar in its sheathe. A rush of fear makes me grab it and shove it into the waistband of my leggings.

I make my way around the room in a frenzy. Closet, empty. Nightstand, empty. No pictures, no clothes, no spare shoes. I hurry back downstairs and pull open every single drawer in the kitchen. Empty. The fridge has one bottle of beer and an opened can of beans full of mold. I go out into the living room, turn on my Xbox. Call of Duty isn’t even downloaded. So what was I doing? Staring at a blank T.V., imagining myself playing video games?

Panic swells up, choking my throat. I push it down and pull open the front door. A row of brownstone townhouses greets me. They line the grey asphalt street, interspersed with the occasional wilted little sapling. A light fog covers the ground and drifts along the surface of the buildings. Some sort of nasty weather event. The fog has been here for days, seeping in through the windows and doors. It gives the street an eerie, ethereal look.

This entire street has been abandoned. Loss of jobs and a rising cost of living. Wars and rumors of wars from across the world. Iran threatening to execute fifteen thousand protestors, Russia carrying out war crimes in Ukraine, China’s long running genocide of the Uyghurs. The fall of Kabul months ago, the ever-widening gap between red and blue here at home. All of it fast approaching a boiling point.

And here I am standing in this stupid street in the middle of the afternoon. In front of an empty house where I’ve apparently been hallucinating my every move. I step down off my stoop and turn left. My mind wanders as I walk, my chin tucked against the chilly wind. Now that I think about it, why would I be living here? I hate the city, hate the traffic, hate the people. A nice cabin in the woods next to a lake, now that’s the dream. All alone with some cats and my books, a nice window seat to curl up in and listen to music.

I follow the street for a mile. I’m starting to get annoyed with this. Nothing has happened, I’ve seen nothing that could be tied to that little slip of paper. Only trash blowing down the side of the street, boarded up windows from abandoned homes, and the constant fog. It looks like they evacuated for a natural disaster, though this place is pretty safe in that regard. North enough to avoid hurricanes and east enough to avoid wildfires. I think. I am on the east coast, right?

Something brings me to a crashing halt as the fog ahead of me shifts. Another box sitting in the middle of the road, the same size and shape as the one I found outside my door. I look around and see nothing, no movement. It’s just sitting there. As clean as though it’s never been touched by human hands and unaffected by the damp, chilly wind.

I stomp forward. I pull the knife from the back of my leggings and yank off the sheathe to cut the box open. Tape tears, the flaps pop open, and I’m staring down at a picture. Three kids lined up on what looks like a slide, their faces pressed together with wide grins. A blonde in front, two brunettes in the back.

I take the picture with shaking hands. That’s me, the one in the very back. But I don’t recognize the other two children. I flip the picture over to see neat handwriting on the back. “Ripley, Leah, and Logan, ages ten, eight, and six.” Old friends of mine? Faces of schoolyard friends long forgotten? That can’t be right. We all look so alike, so very similar. The same eyes, same smile, same facial structure.

I look around again then look back down into the box, only to find another slip of paper. “Turn right and go straight. Watch the windows. Go fast.” I glance up to see an alleyway to my right. Lined with dumpsters and black bags likely filled with personal belongings that didn’t fit in the moving trucks. I fold the picture in half, tuck it into the loose strap of my bralette and replace the knife in its sheathe before moving off.

The alleyway is narrow. I squeeze through, careful not to brush against the trash bags. Who knows what kind of creepy stuff people left behind? Needles, broken glass, all sorts of sharp stuff just waiting to slice my legs open. At least it doesn’t smell too bad. A light stench of decay from the dumpsters, rotting food and musty cardboard. The smell of the city. When it's not smog, it’s trash.

The alleyway dead ends into a chain link fence. I look around then shrug and clamber up the fence. My fingers sting from the links as I haul myself up and over, drop down onto the ground. This street looks a little less abandoned. Though from the look of that crowd of people milling around, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. There’s a stench here, like trash left out in the sun to rot. No, not trash. Something worse. The fog is thicker here, too, coiling up my legs and tickling my nose.

The box said to go straight. It also said to go fast. I look back the way I came but something keeps me from turning around. It’s become very clear to me that something was wrong back there. My memory seems untrustworthy, my thoughts a bit slow and sluggish. I could go back to that empty place or I could keep going, see if the boxes can lead me to some sort of revelation.

I pick up my pace as I head toward the crowd. My first thought upon seeing them had been, of course, zombies. But they’re not. Only unwashed people, covered in filth with blank eyes and drooling mouths. They look as empty as my home and another shiver of dread crawls up my spine. I have to take a deep breath for courage as I hit their outer ranks, press forward into the heart of the crowd.

They don’t seem to notice me. They’re wandering in circles, bumping into one another with breathless moans. No words or cries of annoyance. I haven’t seen a single one of them blink. One runs straight into me and I catch her by her shoulders before she can fall. An older woman, hair shot through with grey. She looks through me before moving on her meandering way.

A flash of light from above catches my eye. I glare upward into a nearby brownstone on my right to see something reflecting off a piece of glass in the third story. There’s someone up there, though I can barely see them in their black clothes against the shadowy room. Is this why the box told me to watch the windows, to move fast? Is that a piece of glass or a weapon scope?

I move forward. There’s a rush of wind, a distinctive snap and then a whine. A bullet. Ricocheting off the ground and burying itself in some poor old man across the street. I turn to watch as the man falls to the ground, his eyes staring blankly up into the sky. Blood leaks out from a hole in his lower abdomen, staining the ground in an ever widening circle. The fog swallows him up and he seems to vanish.

Sniper. Some sort of nest up there in that window, watching the crowd for anyone who doesn’t wander or moan. I take off, sprinting as fast as I can through the crowd. Another snap and this time a whizz as another round cracks through the air. Blood sprays my face from a woman standing just to my right, blooming out from a wound in her right shoulder. She staggers but doesn’t go down, only keeps shuffling in circles as blood spreads across her beige sweater.

I push through the crowd and head for the right side of the street. Get close to that building and the shooter will have to move to adjust fire. My arms and legs are pumping, my heart is pounding in my chest. Another round chases me as I move to the side, skittering along the street in front of me and slamming into the sidewalk.

There’s nothing but open street in front of me. I careen down it, doing my best to zig zag. Not exactly ideal but there’s no cover, nowhere for me to hide. The brownstones are pressed tightly together with no alleys, not even so much as a slight depression to tuck myself away. My stomach churns with abrupt hunger and anxiety, the back of my throat burns with terror that tastes like copper.

Revving engines pull my head to the left as I hit the end of the street. Yet more terror shoots through me as three blocky black trucks race toward me, each one of them with a mounted heavy weapon in their turrets. I turn on my heel and run the opposite way, down the street to the right. More brownstones, even less cover than the last street. My pounding feet jostle my already upset stomach and my dry throat makes it hard for me to breathe.

Tires screech around me. Two trucks pull in front of me with their noses almost touching. The third slides in behind me and I turn in a circle. There’s no exit. They’ve closed their net, trapping me behind steel walls. I pull my knife and set my feet. They won’t take me, not without a fight. Maybe I don’t know what's going on but I still know how to put up a struggle.

Dismounts pour out of the trucks. Six of them, covered head to toe in black tactical gear and wearing gas masks. One moves toward me and I meet them halfway, swiping my knife at their arm as they reach out to grab me. They leap back with a yelp and I turn around, lash out at the next person. I keep moving, turning in a tight circle, my knife a little flashing light in the waning afternoon sun.

They move on me all at once. Arms wrap around me in a half-nelson from behind, holding my arms up above my head. Another hand wraps around my wrist and pulls hard. The pain forces my fingers open and they scoop the knife from my hand. I kick out, pull hard against their arms, and two more people grab hold of my legs. My left boot lands a good hit to one’s gas mask and they fall away, hands going to their face. Another quickly grabs hold of my leg and I’m wrangled back toward a vehicle, shoved into the back seat.

“God’s sake, Ripley,” a person grits out as they pull the seatbelt over my chest. “We’re trying to help you.”

“Who are you?” I snap. “What’s happening?”

“No time,” another person tells me in a low voice. “We need to move now.”

I crane my head around to watch as the dismounts race back into their vehicles. We lurch forward, take off down the street. A heavy weapon opens up behind me and I turn around in my seat to look through the tinted back window. Just past our rear vehicle, I can see more trucks, gleaming silver and red. They’re chasing us as we careen through the street, our tires screaming around turns.

I rip the seatbelt off me and lean up past the gunner’s legs toward the driver. “What’s happening?” I shout over the chest rattling thump of the guns. “Who’s chasing us?”

The driver points at the person in the passenger seat. “Talk to her, would ya? I’m a little busy!”

I turn to the woman in the passenger seat. She pulls off her gas mask and turns to look at me. Vertigo hits at the sight of her face, at the familiarity. I know her, though I can’t for the life of me remember her name. She’s the blonde child from the picture, I’m sure of it. Logan or Leah, one of the two.

“Do you remember me?” she asks. I can only shake my head and she lets out a long sigh. “I’m Logan. I’m your sister. We sent you in here two weeks ago to gather intelligence but something went wrong. You must have lost your mask, gotten caught up in the Haze.”

“The Haze?”

She points out the window at the fog. “The Haze. Some sort of chemical warfare that wipes the mind. We used drones to leave the boxes, little notes to help you get out.”

“Why?”

“You were too deep in the city. We had to lead you to the RV point without leading them to you.” She lets out another sigh and gives my shoulder a light push. “Sit back, will you? Everything will make sense once we get back to the FOB.”

I lean back against my seat. We’re heading toward a gate, a brutish metal beast set in a high wall. More heavy weapons open up from the wall and I hear a resounding crash from behind us as they bring down one of our pursuers. The rest fall back, race away, and the gate grinds open. We follow a tight street through dirty buildings and come to a rocking halt in what looks like a motor pool.

My door opens. I step out to find a platoon’s worth of people staring at me. Logan takes my shoulder and launches me into motion. “Come on,” she says, leading me through the group. “We need to get you to the medical tent.”

I’m back on my feet an hour later. It wasn’t pleasant having the Haze purged from my system. I puked for at least thirty minutes but every retch seemed to bring back more memories. Logan, poor dead Leah. My days as a soldier then as a mercenary. The brownstone Logan and I had moved to so she could finish her PHD, enduring the city for the promise of a better tomorrow.

That tomorrow had never come. The boiling point had hit and we’d packed up, sent our belongings and cats off with our mother to safety then made new plans. We’re part of the resistance of this city, guerillas and saboteurs. And I now remember everything. The answer to the Haze, enemy troop locations, where their leadership make their lair. Enough to level the playing field at last.

“You broken?” Logan asks with a teasing grin as I come out of the medical tent.

“A little,” I reply with an answering smile. “But I know what we need to do. Are they ready?"

"Armed and armored, ready and waiting." She hands over my rifle and claps my shoulder. "Let's get to it."