|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The cold, heavy dampness of the fog can do strange things to men's minds. Images often materializeof things that aren't there. Ghosts appear and just as suddenly are gone, leaving us to deal with the question of their return. Fog always catapults me back to the reality of those long and lonely nights. Then there was the reality of the bitter, mind-numbing Cold. Now it was a clinging dampness, summoning up a chill that permeated to the very marrow of the bone. Fog, I have often thought, makes us question the existence of our tomorrows. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
When my foot made contact with something solid, I prayed it was the step up to the sidewalk in front of the units. Good old number eight was my sanctuary. It was all too easy to remember that somewhere out there in the fog, someone or something was lurking that killed for no apparent reason. When I turned around, Jake was now completely lost from sight. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I took out my lighter, felt along the wall until I found a door and then traced across the surface until my fingers found the raised plastic numeral; it was a six. A still shivering Brenda was little more than an ill-defined image shuffling along in the grayhess in front of me. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
By the time we got to good old number eight and I managed to get the door open, Brenda had completely given up. She |
|
|
|
|
|