The Fog by Dennis Etchison Read Free Book Online Page A

nine-thirteen.”
    “Is it always like this?” asked Elizabeth over the mechanical voice of the Coast Guard broadcast.
    “Like what?” At least he had heard her this time.
    “I don’t know. Like glass. I always thought the ocean was supposed to be dangerous looking. At least out here this far.”
    “That’s what worries me,” said Nick, and went to join Ashcroft at the helm.
    Fisherman’s logic, she thought. Whatever it means.
    “. . . Bulletin to all vessels and crafts. Be on the lookout for the Sea Grass, a thirty-foot trawler last seen approximately twenty-five miles east of Spivey Point. As of one fifty-seven today the Sea Grass has not responded to radio communication . . .”
    She hunkered away from the spray and touched up her latest drawing. The paper was damp, but at least she didn’t have to spit to shade in the dark areas. She had the seascape down pat, the waxy skin of the wavelets cutting the page into two halves, which was not the way you were supposed to compose a picture, but what the hell? Nick liked her work.
    She didn’t know what to do about the sky. It was clear now, not a cloud in sight, but she wanted somehow to stick a few wisps in there somewhere, right above the horizon. She could only show white properly if she made it a night scene. Well, why not? A few stars, an old hunk of moon. How do you draw a moon? Incredible, she thought. I never have. Green cheese, she remembered. No, Swiss cheese. No . . .
    “There!”
    Ashcroft handed Nick the binoculars.
    It was a spider on the water. Then an oil well, one of those short pumps like they had in Long Beach, bobbing their prehistoric heads day and night. Then it was a boat. Ship. Which one was it, now?
    She joined Nick.
    “It’s her,” said Ashcroft.
    “I knew it,” she said.
    Nick plunked the glasses against her chest without turning.
    “Ow,” she said. He didn’t mean it. She hefted the binoculars.
    Yep. The paint was peeling in spots, but she could make it out:
    SEA GRASS.
    She offered to help with the ropes, but knew she would only get in the way. When they had tied up securely, she waited until Nick jumped over to the Sea Grass before she tried. She studied the way he did it. Nick gave her a hand, his bad one. He didn’t even wince. The bandage wasn’t that thick, either.
    She followed Nick aft.
    “Al!” he yelled. “Tommy!”
    “You say Dick was with ’em?” said Ashcroft.
    “Yeah.”
    “Cabin and steering house are empty. Maybe somebody picked ’em up.”
    Nick wasn’t convinced, she could tell. She started to say something about sea piracy, dope dealers boarding at gunpoint and forcing everybody overboard, but Nick was kneeling before the generator hold with that angry expression on his face again. The way his lips were set as he lifted it open, she knew he almost didn’t want to know what was there.
    “There’s water in the generator.”
    “Deck’s dry as a bone,” said Ashcroft, stamping his foot.
    She heard a creaking directly behind her, and an icy finger scuttered up her spine.
    It was the sound of the door to the steering house swinging open. Nick was already climbing inside. She saw that the window was ragged with upstanding shards of broken glass.
    “Every single God damned gauge is broken,” said Nick.
    “Remind you of anything?” she said.
    “What?”
    “Last night.”
    “Yeah. The thermometer’s broken. The mercury’s stuck at twenty degrees. Ash, look at this.”
    She trailed her fingertips over the varnished plywood and the carefully-kept shelves. There was a plastic jar of honey in back. It had crystalized.
    “What’s in here?” she asked, tapping on an undersized door.
    “Storage compartment.”
    “No water got in here,” said Ashcroft.
    “Something awfully cold did,” said Nick.
    She tugged at the compartment. It did not want to open. She placed her shoe against the molding and yanked with both hands. The warped wood groaned. Just as she was about to let go, it opened.
    A pole