Stan Morris - Surviving the Fog

They drift through space in their own orbit unrelated to the orbits of the planets, the stars, or the galaxies. Their colonies stretch for thousands of light years, and have no shape; they may be elongated, or they may be circular. They may even be cubed; or their shape may be a combination of shapes like a dry but wadded paper towel.

They can be detected, but only by using the most sophisticated of instruments, and then only by the most advanced space faring societies. Otherwise, they are invisible and undetectable.

They can be killed. Sometimes they drift into the path of a star and they burn. Sometimes they drift in the void for too many eons and they dissolve. Sometimes they drift into the path of a spear of gamma rays from an exploding star and they are sterilized. If they are detected by a space faring society that understands what they are and has the capability to do so, they are usually sterilized.

They cannot procreate on their own. They must have a host. A star with an unfortunate oxygen and water bearing planet must spin its way into their web. Even when they are fortunate to infect such a planet, it takes years for them to coalesce in the atmosphere. While they coalesce, they must disguise themselves as a pollutant. But once they have coalesced they can become semi solid in a very short time; as short a time as twenty four hours.

“Something’s wrong,” Mike said.

“No, shit, dude,” John answered.

The two teenagers were sitting on a ledge just inside a large depression carved into the side of a granite rock that was part of the southern Sierra Nevada mountain range. It would have been called a cave, but it was open to the air except for a large alcove room tucked back on the east side. The ledge extended for several feet out from under the rock. The late May sun was trying to cast its rays inside the depression, but the boys were far enough back so that the heat could only reached their feet.

“Do you think they’re coming back?” Mike asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” his friend answered.

Before them was a long gentle, green grassy slope that slanted down to a small river which entered the valley from the east. The swift cold river flowed west through the valley until it vanished into the tall green fir trees where it continued many miles until it fell down into the Southern California central valley. It was a large stream really, but the water was rushing too quickly to wade through, and it was much too wide to jump.

“Maybe their jeep crashed,” Mike hazarded a guess.

“Maybe Jackie is right?” John answered. “Maybe, they can’t get back.”

On this side of the river, stood the five cabins of the boys’ camping area plus the corrugated metal roof dining hall, and the Administrator’s A-frame cabin. A narrow wooden bridge spanned the river. On the other side of the river were the five cabins of the girls’ camp, the parking lot with the large yellow bus, and the beginning of the gravel road which led southeast over a small hill and then southward through the mountains until it reached a paved road leading southwest towards Bakersfield.

“Maybe their jeep fell into a canyon. Maybe they’re all dead,” Mike suggested.

John frowned. “I wish you would quit saying stuff like that, dude,” he groused. “When they come back, we’re going to have to listen to those lectures. And they’re going to force us to have fun. Can’t you just kick back and enjoy the day? Hell, check out the view from here, Mike. Look, Desi is coming from the showers. Wow!”

Sometimes, the boys felt like they were in a long oblong bowl running east to west with the camp on the east side. On the west side was a long meadow through which the river rushed. Most of the meadow was on the girls’ side of the river. Violets, marigolds and chickweed dotted the meadow. All around the bowl, the mountains of the Sierra Nevada stood watch. The bare peaks of the chiseled mountains were covered with pristine white snow. Lower down, the slopes were forested by groves of southern foxtail pine. Closer to the camp grew stands of bristle cones and white bark.

“When do you think they’re coming back?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” John muttered, as the well proportioned girl he was watching disappeared into her cabin.

The trouble had started a week ago. The first indication that something was wrong came when the ancient post office jeep had not made its daily delivery of mail that the boys and girls usually received from their anxious parents. That same morning the camp radio and their cell phones seemed to be having a problem. For some reason, they would not connect with the world outside of the valley.

After a few more days of the same, the Camp Administrator had decided to travel the thirty miles to the nearest post office, pick up a backup radio, and collect the late mail. Three of the four counselors had elected to go with her, and take a well deserved break from their rambunctious charges. They had expected the trip there and back to take a little more than two hours due to the narrow winding road. They had left the last counselor, twenty year old Jackie, in charge of the forty eight boys and girls. That had been six days ago. There had been no sign of the adults since then, and again today the mail jeep had not arrived.

The first night after the Administrator and the other counselors had not returned, Jackie had insisted that they were late, and that everyone should go to bed as usual. The next evening, Jackie had suggested that the road was probably blocked by a landslide, and that the adults would be back as soon as the road was cleared. Since then, they had waited.

“Something’s wrong,” Mike said again.

“Yeah, but what?”

Mike was thirteen and John was almost sixteen. Mike was fair skinned, sandy haired and a little short for his age. John was a brown Latino with black hair, and he was a foot taller. The two typical California boys had become fast friends the first day of camp in spite of their age difference.

“Eric knows how to work the radio phone. We should ask him to try to call someone,” Mike suggested.

“Yeah, but the radio phone is in the Admin’s cabin,” argued John. “And her cabin is locked.”

Mike looked at John. “It’s been a week,” he replied. “Something’s wrong, John. And Jackie probably won’t care if we go into the Admin’s cabin.”

John looked depressed at that statement. For the first three days, Jackie had frantically tried to keep their minds off the missing adults. Then she had gotten real quiet, and she had stopped trying so hard to pretend that nothing was amiss. Today, she had refused to get out of her bed for a long time, and then after she arose, she had refused to leave the counselor’s cabin.

“Jackie won’t care,” Mike repeated. “Let’s go talk to Eric.”

They found Eric in the dining hall. The cinder block dining hall was one quarter kitchen, and three quarters dining area. The kitchen appliances consisted of a large propane refrigerator, an oven, a stove, and two large freezers. The dining area contained several long white plastic tables and many white plastic chairs.

Eric was sitting on one of the plastic chairs engrossed in a paperback book with his feet up on a cardboard box. He was rocking back and forth on the hind legs of his chair, which was threatening to topple over. Eric was a small African-American boy with short curly hair about Mike’s age. Many of the other campers considered Eric to be a nerd.

Cardboard boxes were stacked along the windowless north wall of the dining area. The boxes contained packets of condoms, diaphragms and birth control pills. These items were there due to the purpose of the camp.