Letters from a Fog Survivor

9/2/1999

White clouds block out the cooling colors of daylight. No birds caw, not even the crows. No insects fly around as you carefully walk the foggy streets in a residential area. It’s quiet and empty– too silent for your own comfort. The rule is to never drop your guard because if you do, another horde will be after you. You have been alone in the world for the past month, trying to get by robbing vacant homes by people who moved away. The smell of iron invades your nostrils. On a normal day, it would smell like asphalt and fumes from running cars. It’s dead. If it weren’t for the gas mask on your face, you would become one of them– the infected. They are not dead, but still people who became corrupted by this fog. Your clothes covering your body saves you from the fog’s poison. Blisters, burns, and boils are its battle to get inside your body. Power and water have been cut off for over two weeks now. There is no chatter among the locals. A part of you misses it.

The old times of your prior life give you hope that one day everything will be normal again. No yellow fog that looks like sulfur and smells like metal. You were doing your job as a mechanic and were about to get a raise from your boss, Cassandra Jace, before everything started. She used to be a companion who assisted you in your survival until she was killed two weeks ago by them. It is still fresh in your memory and now you need to survive on your own. Things won’t be the same if it goes back to normal. The lack of communication with someone alive is actually getting to you. Loneliness drives a hole in your soul, making you want to cry and do anything for attention. You loved to talk, but you feel yourself becoming lost in thought.

You study the fog. It reaches your neck and is dense enough to limit your vision down to only a few yards. A flashlight doesn’t help, and the night makes it worse. Day gives you time to loot before finding shelter. The fog at neck height and its opacity doesn't assure you to remove your mask to inhale the fresh air. If it is lower and less intense, you will remove the mask without the worry of further exposure.

It is always changing. It can be so high or as thin as an inch. It can be faint enough to be a translucent killer or be so noticeable as a dang roadblock. Can it just remain the same? You thought while investigating the cars parked and the trash on the ground. The asphalt is the loudest thing you've heard today. There's no need to worry about getting hit. They are parked and abandoned. The owners already left. Perhaps, cars can be useful to get to your destination, but there is no dream place set in mind. The risk is not worth it. They can still hear and see you.

A groan can be heard from the east of you. It makes you wince towards it. A haze figure is there. It's one of them. Because of the large and oozing boils on his skin, he has been like this for a long time. His brown shirt and jean shorts look dirty, but still in okay condition. They all vary. The groans from this man indicate he is in a lot of pain from the infection and can't control his own body. He is still in there for now. You feel sorry for him, but you can't help him. His body will go berserk if you get too close to him. Cries and groans are the only things that he can do. How long do they have to endure it until they succumb to their own fate?

Since you don't know how many are out there, you go inside a small condo from the unlocked door. Maybe they forgot to lock it? The area here is for the working class. The condos look like they were built in the 1960s. It's only two stories and can fit two households. They are not attached to another building or close together like a town from the 1800s. The furniture looks new and clean, yet dusty. No one is here. It is a bad idea to call out for any other survivors. It’s safer to hear the sound of talking before you say a word. A yell can get you a spot on the radar.

You knock on every door, checking for the infected. Most of the time, people turned when they were outside in the fog. You hear nothing; there is no crying, growling, groaning, or raspy breathing. You snatch food that lasts for a long time, such as soup and room-temperature snacks. Anything in the fridge has already gone bad, and you don’t want to risk falling ill. Luckily, the fog doesn’t breach inside homes…for now.

You check the rooms for any other loot that can benefit survival– weapons, tools, hunting equipment. It is only a matter of time before you need to settle down somewhere on your own. You need to find an ideal place with little to no infection, self-sufficiency, and little to no fog.

There is a desk in the second-story room with a note on it, probably from the previous occupant. The room is decorated with military awards, encouraging quotes, and athletic awards as well. There is a picture of a woman with her family. Whoever was here must have been a soldier from the NAVY by the woman wearing their black uniform. Your eyes are set on the paper on the desk.

Must be a shopping list, homework, or a note to someone, you thought as you pick it up to examine it. When you were a child, classmates hated you for snitching on them for passing notes in class. You also get caught reading notes that weren't for you. If it weren’t for the strict discipline in your school, they probably would’ve kicked your butt. The bullying stopped once you became a middle schooler. You kept your eyes on your classwork and let the teachers catch them. This time, no one is going to yell at you for reading their notes, and this letter seems to be towards you.

Dear Anyone Else Alive,

If you happen to stumble upon this letter, I am either dead, moved on, or turned. I’m just like you, hoping to get out of this. On July 16 around seven in the morning, the meteorologists warned us about the fog. It was already here for a week. They said to be careful. It was once white, but turned into a nasty yellow. It smells like metal. It was so strong that we tasted blood.

Sounds like what Centerville did, you thought. Your town did the same thing even though it was a hundred miles away. The fog got you moving. You continue to read.

It didn’t let up. It was thought to be smog, so we were ordered to wear a mask. Eventually, people experienced irritation, burning, and blisters. We were ordered to stay inside. My brother, Riel, still had to go to freaking work because his boss doesn’t want his dang company to go bankrupt. He only cared about money. He was getting a profit; why did he risk his employees for his own greed? Riel had to get medical treatment for his skin. That didn’t end. Within two weeks, he became… incoherent and crazy. The fog messes with the head too. He became aggressive. It turned out he wasn’t the only one. Many people who were exposed to the fog experienced this as well. Were they outside long enough for it to take effect? It was impossible to treat him because he was on a lethal rampage. He turned against us. He was crying between outbursts, but couldn't beg for mercy from his own body. We never cried so hard when we had to set him free from his pain. He has been free since August 18, 1999.

We are taking care of his son, Kaden. Kaden was supposed to go into third grade. It doesn't matter anymore... He is not going to school anytime soon. Thank goodness that he didn't witness his father's death. He was asleep. When he was told, Kaden didn't bawl his eyes out. He was in quiet tears of disbelief and grief. We could hear him whimpering in his room from time to time. It feels horrible...

You might also be asking about me. Who am I? I was in the NAVY. I have been there for a decade. I was on vacation to spend time with my family before I had to go back to work. I stayed with my mom, sister (Felicity), Riel, Kaden, and my younger sister (Elaine). The fog was just turning yellow before I set home to Cassville, Missouri. As time passed, the military faced the issues as well. Our uniforms prevented most of our skin from getting breached, but not our minds though. They collapsed in the middle of August. I was ordered to not return to work. The fog is freaking everywhere. Is it just the United States or the world? Where did it come from?

You wondered the same thing as well. It emerged out of the blue. No events link to the culprit. Theories came out. They were Mount Pinatubo’s 1991 eruption when air particles finally landed and brought down damaging material, a maniac scientist deploying their new experiment, a new virus, a new weapon, and so on. Volcanic material in the atmosphere goes away in a few years, nothing was deployed, and the Cold War has ended. You read on.

When will it go away? It’s like it’s alive, increasing and decreasing in height as if the fog is breathing. We get our hopes up once the fog seems to be going away, but it comes back heavy. It’s toying with us. I don’t know how many people are trapped inside their houses. Is it a new specimen? No one knows! Not even the scientists! Riel had to be put down like a sick dog. We can’t resume our normal lives. Elaine was in nursing school, Felicity was becoming a math teacher, and my mom was a supervisor at a business. All gone! All gone!

The final broadcasts said they are going to relocate us somewhere. We are packing. In case you didn’t get the message or those who are fighting to live every day, keep going. Cover your face, cover your skin, don’t inhale its poison. Maybe one day we will meet face to face, but this letter is my only voice to you. The quarantine sections are going to be in places with high elevations. They said that the fog is not too bad in those areas. Better knock on wood for that one.

Sincerely, Ember Verason.

8/21/1999

You look up. This letter is more than a week old. She left it here. Is she right? She was. You take your gloves off for a brief moment. The scars on your hands remind you to cover your skin. You are somehow thankful that you didn’t turn yet. Should you take her advice and see how far you can last? Daylight is still present; therefore, you have time to find an elevated area and settle down there.

Are there any tall hills nearby? You thought to yourself. You were never focused on seeking higher ground. Any building can give your comfort from the fog, but the higher the better. You head to the front door and hear no moaning from the infected guy. Better hope he isn’t tricking you. Before you can quietly open the door, you found a blue sticky note on the ground. It was never even noticed until now. You picked it up.

My family was assigned to a quarantine near Leadville, Colorado. Why are they taking us this far? Can’t they assign us homes up a hill or a tall building? I guess they thought the highest elevation is better. My family is already packed and in my truck. It is going to take a long time to get there. The keys to my mom’s car are on the coffee table in the living room. How much gas is in there is unknown, but it can give you a head start. Don’t wreck it.

–Ember Verason

8/24/1999

Your eyes look into the living room, but your gut is telling you to grab a knife from the kitchen. The gut is warning you to defend yourself, avoiding confrontation may not be an option. She may not be the enemy, but someone else is. You got a long travel to do to find a safe place. You withdraw the sharpest one from the drawer. Then, you went into the living room and found a pair of keys on the coffee table just like Ember said. You take a deep breath with reluctance, yet hope. You stare at them for a while.

"Fine," you whisper as you grab the keys.