The fog rolled in early. It was thick, like a woolen blanket pulled over the sleepy town’s collective heads, and like a woolen blanket in the deadest heat of August, you couldn’t see six inches through it. The town wasn’t ready.
Becky was the first to venture outside her house. She heard a sound like a lead pipe dragged along the street. Skrrrrt. Skrrrrt. Skrrrrt. Or maybe it was screaming Becky heard. She opened her door and stepped into the heady rolls of moisture. Breathed it in. She felt it blacken her lungs and when she coughed, dry ash caked lips wet with blood and thick, woolen fog.
Skrrrrt. Skrrrrt. Sw-thsqwnk.
Over and over, the pipe swooshed through the fog. Sw-sqwnk. Sw-sqwnk. Becky heard a sound like screaming in the distance. It was far away, somewhere in the fog, somewhere in the sleepy town that wasn’t ready for fog in the deadest heat of August. Sw-sqwnk. Sw-kchnk.
Skrrrrt. Skrrrrt. Becky heard a sound like a lead pipe dragged along the street. Or maybe it was screaming.