Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why are you living down here?”

Mauve Ashley stepped forward. “It’s our home.”

“But you can’t live here. It’s unhealthy. You have to leave.”

“We can’t leave,” Yellow Adam said. “He won’t let us.”

“Who, your dad?”

Yellow Adam pulled her toward the desk. He pointed to a drawing tacked on the wall beside the computer. When her eyes fastened on it, her world tipped and spun out of control.

Her drawing.

The Fog.

The murkiness of her mind lifted—like the sun burning off a morning mist—and she was left with a horrific revelation.

She had found The Fog. And the children he had abducted.

She set the flashlight on the desk and stared at the newspaper clippings that surrounded her drawing. Faded photos of the children stared back at her, each circled in red marker. Their names were all there, in the headlines, next to the anguished faces of their parents.

“Oh, Jesus,” she moaned. “We have to get out of here.”

As she turned away, her eyes latched onto another familiar face. Sam’s. His photo, next to an article covering his death, had also been circled.

“My beautiful boy.”

It was too late for Sam. But not for the others.

She faced Pink Ashley. “Your name is Marina Fisher.”

She turned to the Ashleys wearing aqua and mauve. “And you’re Brittany Atherton and Kimber Levine.”

The girls gave her a blank stare.

“Holland Dawes, Jordan Jaremko and Scotty McIntyre,” Sadie added, indicating the boys in navy blue, yellow and gray. She shook her head, stunned. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Pink Ashley— Marina —stepped forward. “We couldn’t. Father made us swear. He said he’d kill us if we ever said our real names out loud.”

“Or if we ever tried to leave him,” Holland added. “He said he’d hunt us down and cut us up like the other boy.”

Scowling, Kimber folded her arms across her chest. “Father wouldn’t hurt us. He loves us.”

At first the defensive remark seemed strange, especially coming from a girl who had been kept hostage for three years, until Sadie recalled that it wasn’t uncommon for a hostage to bond with his or her captor. There was a name for it. Stockholm syndrome. Like Patty Hearst and Elizabeth Smart.

More pieces of the puzzle slid into place and she kicked herself for not putting it together sooner. The real Adam and Ashley had died in a fire, one that had left their father grotesquely scarred —not pockmarked.

“This man,” she said, tapping the drawing, “took you from your homes. From your parents.” Her eyes were drawn back to the newspaper clippings.

Eight-year-old Kimber and six-year-old Jordan were the first two children abducted by The Fog, back in April 2003. Brittany and Scotty were taken the following April. Last year, Marina and Holland. And this year, Sam and…

“Wait!” she said, grabbing Marina’s arm. “Where’s Cortnie?”

“We don’t know,” the girl said. “She snuck out.”

“When?”

“A couple nights ago. She took Adam with her.”

Sadie shook her head. “What?”

“The other Adam,” Brittany said. “She took him and ran.”

Sadie was completely confused. “What other Adam?”

Holland tapped a photo on the wall. “Him.”

Sadie fainted.

The shadows around her shifted, becoming more distinct. She groaned. When her vision cleared, six worried faces stared down at her.

“What happened?” she asked in a groggy voice.

“You passed out,” Kimber said. “When you saw the picture.”

Sadie grabbed Holland’s hand. “What did you say? Before I fainted.” She moved to the photo of Sam. “You said he was—”

“Cortnie took him away,” Marina cut in.

“The boy in this picture,” Sadie said carefully.

“Yes, that boy. The one who doesn’t talk.”

Sadie’s heart skipped a beat. “And that was a few days ago?”

“Yeah.”

Sam’s dead, her mind argued. She had seen the car explode.

But you never truly believed he was gone.

“Where’s Sarge now, Marina?”

“He’s gone looking for them again.”

Sadie released Holland’s hand. “We have to go back to my cabin and call the police.”

And I have to find Sam.

“Before he does,” Jordan whispered.

Without warning, heavy footsteps echoed down unseen stairs behind the far door. The sound grew more menacing with each step.

“He’s coming!” Holland lisped.

“Come on then,” she urged. “Back up the stairs.”

“We’re right behind you,” Marina said.

Sadie took the steps two at a time, ignoring the drizzle that dripped in from the open trap door.

“Careful!” she warned. “The steps are slippery.”

Halfway up, she realized that she’d forgotten the flashlight. She almost turned back, but the children’s safety edged her onward, toward the fading light.

“We’re almost there.”

Climbing onto the slippery grass, she rolled over, arms outstretched for the first child. “Hurry up!”

The pit was still, silent.

“Marina! Holland! Where are you guys?”

No reply.

She began to shake.

Had The Fog— Sarge —caught them trying to escape? Had she left them behind with a killer?

Her stomach coiled and rumbled. “Think, Sadie!”

If he had them, there was no way she could force him to let them go. She had to leave them behind, get to her cabin and call the police.

“Who’s up there?”

At the sound of a man’s booming voice, Sadie ran for her life. She scurried through the woods, feeling her way, trying to remember the path she had taken with the children. But it all looked the same in the dark.

“You gotta get to the river,” she panted.

She darted around trees and bushes, pausing to listen for the sound of running water. But she couldn’t hear anything over her ragged breath and thumping heart.

“Help me,” she cried softly. “I have to save them.”

A gleam of light drew her out of the trees. When she broke from the woods and skidded onto the rain-drenched rocks of the riverside, she heaved a sigh of relief, then threw a nervous glance over her shoulder, half-expecting Sarge to jump out from the trees. Facing the river, she found on the rock bridge a few yards to her right. But there was one major problem. Kimree River was rising fast. Many of the slabs were submerged and the water that rushed between them moved swiftly.

“Oh God,” she moaned.

Knowing she had no choice, she climbed onto the slick surface of the first slab. With one foot, she prodded the water for the next and cried out when her ankle high winter boot filled with icy water. She found the rock and stepped forward. Feeling for the third slab, she wobbled precariously. “Steady, Sadie.” She hopped to the next slab, arms stretched out for balance.

Four more… somewhere.

She surveyed the water’s surface. “Where are you?”

Her boot hit something solid and she eased forward, the water now up to her calves.

“Two more.”

But she didn’t make it. She miscalculated and her foot slid between two slabs. She plunged into the frigid water. Swept downstream, she flailed her arms to keep her head above the surface. The river pulled at her from all directions and tossed her about, as if she were nothing but a piece of deadwood

Then her head went under.

Panicking, she swallowed a mouthful of grit. She clawed at the water, coughing and spitting, until she finally surfaced and sucked in a lungful of air. Her hair stuck to her face and she swatted it away. Then she began to inch diagonally toward the shore, while allowing the current to take her downriver.