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The fog sprung up seemingly out of nowhere, obscuring Bryan’s view in an instant. The sunny day turned dim, shadowy gray enveloping the forest floor – and the tree tops as well. He could no longer see the bright blue summer sky, or the green canopy of the deciduous forest, or even, indeed, the tree trunks that had been only about ten feet from him the fog was that think. If it was fog. There’d been no time, no indication of trouble, to prompt him to hold his breath or worry about strange gases.
It felt like fog, looked like fog, and obscured his vision like fog, so fog it was, until Bryan had evidence otherwise. Someone must have found the debris piece they were looking for and accidentally (hopefully) triggered it.
More concerning than the disappearance of the forest around him, though, was the disappearance of his team. They’d been spread out, all eight of them, and most of those hadn’t been visible to him before the fog had rolled in. Finola had been on his left, two hundred feet away, but he’d been the right flank, so the only other man he could see had been Johnson, another three hundred feet beyond Finola.
Of course, it’d only been a few seconds and the debris-induced fog didn’t seem to be causing any health problems. There wasn’t a cause for alarm. Not yet.
Bryan opened his mouth. He made to call Finola’s name – she was close enough, no need to use the radio. His larynx flexed and began to vibrate, Finola on the tip of his tongue, his lips ready, his mind already prepared to listen for her answering call.
The sound never left his voice box. His throat seemed to close up before he could utter even the first syllable, tightening, squeezing, restricting. He let out a wheeze instead of a cry for his partner, hand instantly moving to pull at his collar as though there was something strangling him. There was nothing. Nothing but the lump in his throat. He let out another wheeze, bending over, struggling to breathe and slowly, slowly, the sensation eased up.
Gratefully, his lungs pulled in a deep breath, absorbing all the oxygen they could. The air still tasted normal, the deep breath still relieved his starved lungs. Whatever had happened to him had passed as quickly as it had come. He swallowed, grateful for the normal function of his throat, and straightened again.
That, too, he knew, must have been an effect of the debris. But what effect? What had triggered it? He hadn’t actually said anything. There was a mental component to debris, sometimes – had it known his intent? Or had the fog simply picked up on the vibrations of his larynx?
Or, was it all sound?
That was an easy thing to test, though Bryan started small, worried if the reaction would be proportional and what part of his anatomy the debris might target, if it wasn’t his voice making the sound. Bending over again, by choice this time, he quickly found a small stick. It snapped in his hand easily, but the sound was strangely muffled, as though it had moved through a thick sludge to reach his ears.
More importantly, there were no physical repercussions. He tried something a little riskier next, and cleared his throat. Again, the sound was muffled, but again, his body didn’t react.
Good. Bryan moved for his radio next, intending to send clicks over the line instead of any sort of speech, but it seemed to be dead, or at least temporarily disabled. This debris, whatever it was, seemed to be designed to stop communication and dampen sound, from the limited information he had. It also obscured his view rather handily, but it was difficult to say if that was a side effect or a desired one – they still knew next to nothing about the alien culture that had built the technology.
Okay. His safe parameters were a little clearer now, which meant he could return to his initial mission: get in touch with his team, regroup, and then figure out which of them had found the debris, or if it had merely activated as they’d gotten close.
Finola had been directly to his left. With as intelligent as she was, she’d no doubt run through a similar sequence of events as him, provided the debris wasn’t specifically targeting him. Moving carefully, Bryan began to step that way. He counted his steps as he walk, and watched the trees and bushes he’d barely paid attention to before the fog come into view, then fade away again in the corners of his gaze. Visibility was limited to about ten feet, and shadowy silhouettes of things – trees, mostly – could be seen from about fifteen to twenty feet away, in all directions, even upward. Finola had been about two hundred feet away, so Bryan counted, and walked, ears alert, until a shape came into view that was too short to be a living tree trunk and too fluid to be the shattered stump of a fallen one.
He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and make sure to step on the next stick he saw. Finola, who had been fiddling with her radio, quickly snapped her head up his way, only relaxing her shoulders when he got close enough to be identified. (Despite the muffled sound, a snapped stick at fifteen feet still carried, apparently.)
He opened his mouth again. Shouting hadn’t worked, but that didn’t mean talking was off the table. He was at Finola’s side now, close enough to see that she looked the same as she had before the debris-fog had set in.
“Can we –” he managed to say, hoarse and through a tight throat, before the pressure became too much and he was cut off by an involuntary wheeze. The sensation was less severe than the one he’d felt when he’d tried to shout for his partner, but no less silencing. He’d gotten out a few words, but sentences seemed beyond the realm of possibility.
Finola’s eyes had widened in alarm, gesturing for him to stop, but it was over before she could do much but put a hand on his shoulder, supporting him before the lack of air made him slump.
He sent her a look, one-third apologetic, one-third thanks, and one-third unapologetic, because he’d had to try. From Finola’s look, she understood perfectly well. She raised a hand and sliced at her throat. No talking, then. But the reaction had been less severe.
Whisper? he mouthed, with a raised eyebrow afterward.
Finola frowned thoughtfully, opened her mouth, then stopped when he grabbed her forearm. He quickly pointed at himself. Finola’s jaw clenched as she stared at him, but Bryan was unrepentant. They were moving into science territory, which was always more her field than his. He would take the risks, she would solve the problem; not to mention, he had a slight immunity to some debris effects, thanks to his repeated injections. Not all, of course, but enough that him taking the risk was more practical.
He searched for a valuable question to ask, quick and to the point. Well, he thought, coming to a conclusion, that was certainly short enough. He opened his mouth again. “Johnson?” he whispered. His throat tightened as he finished, but it wasn’t too bad. His breathing hitched for a second, then evened out again, with his lungs barely taking notice.
Watching him closely, Finola waited until his expression had evened out before she looked like she even considered responding. When she did, it was only with a shrug and a gesture to the opposite side of her, where Johnson should have been before the fog rolled in. Bryan nodded, then gestured in turn for her to lead the way.
They found the next three members of their team like that, silently walking in a straight line through the forest, none of them speaking. The fog was dissipating as they did so, slowly but surely. By the third member, it had thinned but not vanished: the distant edge of the forest was a blanket of gray haze, but the area immediately around them was clear enough and easy to see through – easy enough that the fourth team member was already visible.
Visible, but not facing their way. There must have been another effect to the debris, or someone else in the forest with them, because he had his gun out, back to Bryan and the others. And, yes, there are more silhouettes there, more than just the remaining three members of their eight-person team.
Straightening in alarm, Bryan was quick to take the lead and gesture for the others to fall into formation behind him. He pulled out his own firearm.
As they approach the others, it’s clear their team has things well in hand. It’s three on three, but the three unknown individuals have their hands up and Bryan’s team has their guns out. He and the others join them in a semi-circle, where things seem to be at a stalemate, given that questioning isn’t really an option at the moment.
Bryan keeps his head on a swivel, looking for the debris as much as he is looking for additional threats, when he spots movement off to the right. The right of their little group, where Finola is. Finola, keeping an eye on the initial threat like most of the group, who doesn’t see it.
He doesn’t think – his downfall, this time, though it usually serves him well – just acts. He sprints for her, ready to push them both to the ground. He opens his mouth. He shouts her name.
Well. He’d meant to. Instead, his throat seizes up. His breath stops in an instant, no oxygen in, no carbon dioxide out. He stumbles in his sprint, trying to gasp for breath and unable too, his lungs aching in his chest. His finger’s already off the trigger, so there’s no risk of a gunshot there, but he barely has the presence of mind to recover from his stumble, one hand scraping against the dirt to push him back up.
A soft pop echoes in the silent wood. Pain rips through his right arm. He still can’t breathe, and then he can, gasping in pain and relief and fear. He gets his gun up even before his brain starts working properly, and another soft pop echoes.
Ah. That’s a gunshot, muffled by this debris. He blinks, and heaves in a deep breath. His throat’s still tighter than normal, a metaphorical lump still unpleasant and uncomfortable, but he can breathe. He can focus. Finola, having missed his shout (obviously, given he hadn’t been able to give voice to it) had nevertheless reacted to his sprint. So had the new threat.
Quickly, Bryan pieces things together. The approaching threat had seen Bryan react to him. He’d shot Bryan, and missed primarily because of Bryan’s stumble. Finola had seen Bryan too, seen him get shot, and shot the new man in turn. He’s on the ground now. Bryan’s still standing.
His right arm still feels like it’s on fire, though, so he might not be for much longer. He lets himself lower his gun and holster it, reliving himself of the use of his arm for now – it’s still seven to four, even with him out of the picture. Seven to three, if the man Finola shot doesn’t get back up, which seems to be the case. Turning back to the others, Bryan gestures for Johnson and Fowler to restrain their opponents, then turns again, to Finola, and wavers before he can gesture at her too.
His vision… might be a little black around the edges. He swallows, inordinately glad he can do that, and is grateful too to see Finola already striding toward him, having sent Dawson and Kipps after the man on the ground.
She can’t talk to him, can’t tell him how bad the wound is, or her plan to get them all out of here, but Bryan doesn’t need her too. He watches her rip off the bottom of her shirt and press it to his wound and sees the strength and security in her eyes. He asks her a question with his own. She nods, presses harder, then nodes toward the ground.
Right. She’s got this. Bryan never doubted that for a second. Smiling, grateful, he uses his left hand to take the makeshift bandage from her, than sits himself on the ground before he passes out. He focuses on his breathing – on the blessedly clean oxygen flowing into his lungs – and lets Finola take over the op from here. She can handle it.