Dense Fog

It was a dark and simple night, in the small town of Rosington. It is a quiet town, where everybody knows everybody, houses are small, the tallest building is the church, and that's only because of its spire, which rises up and can be seen from any part of the town. Rosington is a quaint gentle little town; this is where our story starts and must end. The road lamps create a tepee shape of yellow light around their bases, some houses sport small square windows of light. But mostly it is quiet and dark.

A fog descended onto the gentle streets, the streetlights now only show small stars of light and the windows were nothing more then small blobs of light. This fog, however, is like no other fog. It is a cursed fog, one which came from the smoke of the fires of hell.

Three young adults walked down a path, all have just come from the local pub, one is drunk, two are slightly drunk. Each of them have smiles on their faces and all have had a good time.

"Foggy 'init! exclaimed one of the group, whose voice is slightly slurred. The other two nod in agreement, all three continue on walking down the cobbled misty path.

A single figure slowly faded into view, a darkened shadow of someone, staggering, somewhat drunkenly towards the three friends. The three friends looked up and notice the stranger.

"Good evening, sir! greeted the drunkest of the three, named Roger. The figure carries on staggering towards them, a low groan emanated from the figure and reached the ears of the three friends.

"He's as drunk as you are, Roger, observes Phil to his friend.

"Nobody, began Roger pausing slightly as though he had forgotten what he was going to say, then finally remembering finished off his sentence, "is as drunk as I am!

Another groan slithered through the thick fog. The three friends walked on, the figure growing larger, as it got closer, some details became clearer. The figures clothes were tattered and torn, with dark marks on them. The figure stumbled and fell to the floor, and a crunch can be heard as the figure hit the floor, a crunch of bone braking easily.

"Woopsedaisy, slured Phil.
The figure seemed to be unhurt by its fall and began to get to its feet, but before reaching full height puts its weight onto one leg and falls quickly again to the floor. It then proceeded to drag itself forwards with both hands, it groaned again, only this time louder. The groan causes all of the three friends to stop smiling and stand still, each had a chill running down their spine.

"You alright mate? calls Damian into the fog. Nothing for a moment, then another groan.

"We'd better see if he's alright! said Phil.

"I dunno, I have a bad feeling about this, muttered Roger.

"Oh come on, he must have hurt himself, we have to see if he's alright, argued Phil. Before Roger can argue the other two friends ran towards the figure and they darken slightly as they went deeper into the fog, they become nothing but slight silhouettes in the thick fog. Roger watched the friends and suddenly became aware of slight and slow footsteps coming from the yellowish fog.

Roger watches as the friends go to the figure, they looked at him and appear to engage in a one sided conversation, the figure then reached out and grabbed Phil by the leg. A large triumphant moaning sound shot through the mist.

"OH MY GOD! screamed Damian.

"Let go, cried Phil and tried to shake his leg free from the grip of the figure.

"Lets get out of here! cried Damian. They turn and run back to Roger, but Phil, whose leg still remained in the clutches of the figure, fell to the floor. The figure then moved somewhat swiftly onto Phil. Phil screamed in pain and kicked out and the figure rolled off of him and onto its back. He then scrambled to his feet and ran over to Roger.

"What's going on? asked Roger, quickly as his two friends got closer, both white as sheets.

"His face, it was missing, some of his head was missing, and he had those, Damian gestured with his hand, "maggots or something crawling from one of his eye's, and he smelt real bad, like rotting meat!

Phil joined the other two, with his hand on his neck, blood pulsing steadily from a wound.

"He bit me, he bit me man! panics Phil. Roger looked back towards where the figure was, and another chill ran down his spine. All Roger can see is the fog, getting quickly thicker. The hairs on the back of Rogers's neck jump to attention as Roger became acutely aware of someone behind him.

Roger turned around and was met by many figures staggering towards them. A mass of them, slow and daunting. One passed into the glow of a street lamp and is illuminated; its head is hanging down by the chest of the figure. Two eyes staring directly, unblinking at Roger, the eyes were filled with what seemed to be a deep lust and hunger.

"I don't think that all of these are drunk, said Damian.

"I think they're all dead, finished Roger.

"But that's not possible, the dead don't just get up and begin walking around, argued Phil.

"Explain that then! shouted Roger, pointing to the mass of bodies, which were gradually getting closer. Roger looked at Phil who seemed to be struggling to say something, then gave up and looked at Roger with a fear in his eyes that Roger had never seen before.

Suddenly out of the darkness jumped a figure, wearing a smart suit, which had decayed over the years and whose face was more bone then skin. The figure landed on top of Damian and began to tear hungrily at his flesh. The third friend was screaming in pain, Roger moved to help but the mass of figures, huddled around them. Hands and arms groped at Roger and he could smell rotting carcass, in a last ditched attempt to fight for his life, Roger kicked out and found that his foot connected with the knee of Phil, whose face housed a gaunt expression similar to the ones of the dead.

Roger panicked and thrashed wildly at the mass, but to no avail. Teeth sink into his skin, blood gushes wildly from the wounds and pain overpowered Roger. In the last moments of life Roger released a scream, to be carried through the mist and heard by only one other, who would share a similar fate.

***

Ben looked out of the window and watched the fog creep towards him. The lights dimmed in the thick grey mass, Ben in his 45 years had never seen a fog creep up on a village like that. It seemed more thought out then a natural phenomenon, as though some cunning intelligence had planned to bath the village in the fog like water flooding a village.

Ben turned around and walked to the back of the room. The morgue in which he worked was silent and uninviting, but in 30 years of working there, he had got used to it.

At the beginning he had dreams about the dead coming alive, after 4 months of work he had seen that everyone of the dead will remain that way, forever. But with instinct and fear he had nailed twice the usual amount of nails into the coffin lid, just in case.

Ben looked out of the window and watches the fog sweep over the small garden and cover the gardens of near by houses. A scream then jabbed at him like a knife into his heart, shooting through the night sky, causing a cold shiver to run down his spine.

There was a thud of fist against wood and Ben swirled around, the room was silent, the coffins remained motionless.

Must be someone at the door, thought Ben and he walked over to the door. He opened it onto a foggy porch where no one could be seen.

The thud came again, and then again.

It's coming from inside the building, Thought Ben.

The sound was louder that time, and then came again, only it was followed by the sound of breaking wood. Then more sounds of hands hitting wood echoed through the building. Ben ran into the room to see that each and every coffin was moving and shaking with every thud. One had a hole in it and a hand was extended out of it. Another hand slowly rose from the gaping hole. The hands then proceeded to tear away at the wood.

Mr Johnson had died from a heart attack.

How can it be possible for his body to be forcing itself out of its coffin, thought Ben.
Ben wanted to move away but his body wouldn't follow his minds control. It was as if his feet were glued to the floor and his body was in a state of paralysis.

The coffin containing a living Mr Johnson shook and then slid off its pedestal, it landed lid down on the floor and shook ever more.

Ben finally got control of his legs and turned to run, but came face to face with a body bag, standing upright and hopping towards him. Ben lashed out and the bag fell over. Ben then swung open the door and jumped over the threshold¦

¦Into a mass of moving figures, whose hands and arms and teeth began to move over Bens body, getting at anything they could reach.

Two weeks later

The once quiet little village of Rosington, is now nothing more then a mass of burnt houses. In the first week, a villager seemed to have tried to set fire to houses containing the living dead. Which had spread quicker then the fog through the houses, consuming everything in its path.

After one-week, the screams and howls coming from the burning village ceased, and the village sat silent; Burning in what seemed like a peace and relief.

The fog still remains around this small village, the only building still remaining is the Church, with its ever high spire protruding high above the smoke. The dead seemed to be unable to enter the old building.

Whether there was anybody still alive in there remains a mystery, and everyone who has ventured into the fog has been welcomed by bloody hands and never seen again.

So when a fog descends on your house, be ready, for the dead may rise. Don't fight; for how can you kill something that is already dead?