After The Mist

Author's Note: Last year, I wrote a story inspired by the works of Stephen King, for a contest. The Mist is one of my favorite stories. Still haven't heard back from the powers that be so hopefully you all enjoy!

The Emergency Room wasn’t a total shit show, for a change. While I caught up on charts, nurses gossiped: who was fucking who, weekend plans (most revolving around alcohol), and the nasty thunderstorms up north.

“Knocked all the power out. My family’s out in Bridgton. Haven’t heard from them. They’re in the boonies, so I doubt the power is up for ‘em,” Nancy said, sipping hospital-grade sludge from a Styrofoam cup.

Sam nodded. “I heard there’s an outfit out there—Army or somethin’—dabbling with weather changing crap. You know, send out a plane, seed the low clouds and BAM! Rain.”

The charge nurse, Amanda, rolled her eyes. “You believe anything you read online, don’t you, Sam? How much money did you send to the ‘Nigerian Prince’ again?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Listen, I told you that in conf—"

The EMS radio crackled, inciting groans from everyone, including me.

“Mercy Hospital, this is Medic 19, inbound with a patient. We have a 35-year-old male with psychosis. Drugs likely involved. Vitals are stable. We’ve given him 10 mg of Versed with minimal effect. And Mercy?” A scream tore through the speakers, followed by a choked cry. The medic spoke through the unseen ruckus, “He ain’t right. Get the big room ready.”

“Copy, Mercy out.”

“Medic 19, out.”

“Welp! You heard what he said. There’s a whack-a-doodle inbound. Let’s go!” Amanda said, scuttling off to the resuscitation room we used when shit was hitting the fan—which happened frequently because of a combination of poorly treated mental illnesses and meth brewed in remarkably flammable shacks.

We readied the room, hoping he’d roll in, calm as a kitten.

The chances of that happening were slim.

Almost nonexistent.

No, we prepared like we’d soon face a raging Minotaur hopped up on PCP. IV supplies, tubes of differing colors, and saline flushes lined the counters like dutiful soldiers. Just in case—four restraints in each corner. Two wrists, two ankles… mostly.

Plenty of lost limbs in farm accidents and poorly controlled diabetes fueled by Krispy Kreme.

A siren whooped and died, cutting out like the electricity during a thunderstorm. Red and blue lights splashed the walls. The rig parked and the taillights briefly flared. I turned to Amanda and my voice lilted obnoxiously. “Remember that line from Poltergeist? Like the little girl said, ‘they’re here!’.”

She rolled her eyes and suppressed a laugh. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

The double glass doors whooshed open, letting in crisp air leftover from the passing storms. Goosebumps prickled up my arms—not that I was complaining. I hated humidity. Medics outfitted in bright yellow polos pushed the stretcher. I’d expected maybe one cop or two, as is the custom for patients under arrest that suddenly developed chest pain and demanded to go to the hospital.

This guy is the real deal.

Probably went crazy, showed up at his ex-wife’s house with a smile and a Remington. Definitely shot her at close range based on the blood spatter.

This guy warranted six cops!

Huge brutes whose blue uniforms clung to gratuitous gym muscles.

And—

Whoa.

Two men sauntered in, wearing Army fatigues and twin grim expressions. Stiff-billed hats hid either military issue flat-tops or bald domes.

Oh, shit… if the military was involved, this guy did something… bad! Like… show-up-with an-assault-rifle-to-a-public-place-kind-of-bad.

Amanda and I glanced at each other, sharing a what-in-the-actual-fuck?expression exclusive to those in healthcare.

“Hey, Doc. Patient’s name is David Drayton. 35-year-old male, no significant past medical history. Denies drugs, but…” The medic let the statement hang in the air. Fill in the blank. His drug screen would definitely light up like Clark Griswold’s Christmas tree. Gore adorned his forearms: dried blood (probably not his own) and streaked dirt, as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks.

Yikes.

“And doc?” The medic waved me outside the room, and I looked behind me.

David—for the moment, appeared agreeable and followed the nurses’ instructions. Tiny blood vessels threaded through the whites of his eyes like lightning coursing through a black storm. Dark circles. Stubble—3 or 4 days old.

A muscle tightened in his jaw.

Loosened.

I wasn’t too worried… there were eight guns in the room.

And scarier than that?

My damn charge nurse.

I joined the medic. He hung his head, stared at his scuffed boots. “Wanted you to know. The cops said he shot all the folks with him. Dead.” The medic swallowed, his throat hitching. “He killed four people and one of them was his… his son. Said that he had no choice.”

“Jesus Christ. Did he say why?”

Killed his son?

Wow!

He shook his head. “He’s totally off his rocker. Keeps talking about ‘The Mist’—talks about it like it’s capitalized, like it’s the Pope or Madonna—and a bunch of creepy crawly monsters,” the medic said, startling when his radio toned. “Ugh, we got another call. Fuck!”

His partner pushed the now empty stretcher back to their rig and, after safely stowing it, hopped in. Off to save lives or—at the very least—bring in a patient with foot pain for ten years.

Back in the room, David had an IV, and a nurse filled a rainbow of tubes with blood. He’d need a toxicology workup: acetaminophen and salicylate levels, ethanol, urine drug screen.

And I saw some Haldol in his future.

“David, I’m Dr. G. I’ll be taking care of you today. Is… anything hurting on you?” Figured I’d start there instead of, “do you sometimes hear voices?” A sour stench hung around him with rotten undertones… a mix of sulfur and wet pennies.

He shot a look at the cops and G.I. Joes. Their heads were bent, and they murmured amongst themselves, reminding me of middle schoolers gossiping. I’d prefer if they focused their attention on the crazy guy who looked as if he could easily shotput me into the ceiling.

Brown eyes leered; his stare absolutely reeked of sociopathy.

I fidgeted.

He’d given me a horrible case of The Creeps.

Most patients didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. I’d taken care of prisoners that I’d quite liked, folks who were kind and didn’t fuss over small shit. People who said, ‘Thanks’ once in a while instead of ‘where’s my turkey sandwich, NURSE BITCH?’.

Enjoyable convicted killers!

If that didn’t show you how horrible the public acted, what would?

“Dr. G, listen to me.” His eyes darted around the room as if searching for covertly planted listening bugs. “They’re trying to cover up what they did and make it look like I’m fucking crazy! The Arrowhead project… something… I don’t know what happened. Not exactly. But they did something. Beamed in creatures from another dimension? Ripped a hole straight into Hell? But these… things… they… they came from the mist.” His jaw clenched and his voice filled with grit. “It’s true. I killed the people with me. Even… my son.” He closed his eyes and massaged them with blood-streaked hands, then he raked dirt-crusted fingernails through greasy, dirty hair. “But I had to protect them. From the monsters in the mist. I—”

“Well, Doc, what do you think? Can you give him medicine to make him less nuts so we can take him and book him?” One cop called out, a shit-eating grin on his face. His stomach sloped over his leather belt—a souvenir of too many fried treats and beers after work. He’d keel over from a coronary soon.

“Go fuck yourself, you sorry sack of shit!” David yelled.

“With all due respect, Doctor, I think you should medically clear him and let us take him… now.” One of the camo dudes—the one with the thick mustache—waltzed into my personal bubble. Way too close. He smelled of Juicy Fruit gum and Zest soap. “We wouldn’t have bothered you, but we couldn’t take him to the base hospital. Their power is still out. Nasty storms up north.”

Metal streaked across the room and something smashed into the wall, gouging the drywall inward.

The mayo stand… now twisted.

Plastic tubes of blood plonked on the floor and discarded packaging floated to the tile.

Everybody was still, staring at David. The officers had their hands on their guns, and both grunts pointed muzzles at David.

My breath caught in my throat.

Oh, shit… guns.

Drawing a gun in my ER, that was different.

That was not good!

David Drayton bore a placid expression. I had the impression of a calm lake with a starving alligator floating just beneath the waterline. At any moment, the surface would break, and sharp teeth would flash. He’d closed his eyes, which offered me some relief—that haunted look in his eyes made my skin feel too tight for my body. Uncomfortable. “There was a storm—a bad one. Then… this… mist rolled in. Thick like soup, without a hint of reflected light. Eerie. My boy—” his voice cracked. “My… boy and I got trapped in a supermarket. There were monsters in the mist, things with tentacles, massive spiders who shot webs made of acid, and prehistoric looking beasts with leathery wings. They killed people; we escaped and drove until the gas ran out.”

His eyes opened.

Tears brimmed in the corners and his eyes reddened further. His stare sharpened as he returned to the present. “It’s fucking true! Yes! I shot ‘em. Sparing them from a world worse than any Hell dreamt up by man.” He shook his head and let out a rueful laugh. “Not a bullet left, or else I’d have blown my own brains out. Gladly. Then the mist cleared, and these stupid fuckers rolled up in their Humvees holding flamethrowers.”

“What did you say?!” the mustached camo dude yelled, his face flushing.

“You heard me. STUPID. FUCKERS.” David answered with a voice serene as a clear day.

G.I. Joe stepped forward; fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched white.

David screamed. Spittle flew. Tendons stood out on his neck and his face reddened. “They’re lying! They unleashed something they had no right fucking with in the first place! There were monsters in the mist! I saw ‘em with my own eyes, fought some. And these assholes want you to think I’m fucking nuts!” Quick as a summer thunderstorm, he leaped from the bed with outstretched hands, intent on throttling someone to death. He let out a guttural yell and spit flecked from his lips. “GO FUCK YOURSELVES!”

As if his words were a cue, the police tackled him, thrusting his body backwards. He landed with a sickening thud that made me think of solid organ injuries. The State Troopers held him down, baring their teeth with the effort required.

Still, he shrieked his delusions, “They came out of the mist! If they did it once, it’ll happen again. It could happen to you too!” He broke the grip of the men and seized my shirt collar, wrenching me forward. Fetid breath assaulted me, spreading over my skin like pestilence. “It could happen here.” His eyes flashed, taking on a hungry intensity.

Oh, I did NOT like that!

“Uh… GUYS?!” I said and, to my relief, saw a flurry of movement in my periphery. Nurses wrested him off me and I tumbled heavily to the ground.

Amanda quickly attached a syringe filled with clear fluid to David’s IV and while depressing the plunger, tipped me a wink. “Didn’t think you’d mind a ‘nursing dose’, boss.”

“WHAT?! No, listen! I—” David protested. The cops piled on, holding him until the Ketamine took effect.

His eyes jittered in his skull, and his face slackened.

Then… they took him.

After that?

I don’t know what happened.

I still think he was nuttier than a fruitcake.

But…

I’ve heard rumblings about what happened up north.

Whispers of military experiments and leaked footage of creatures with glittering red eyes slithering through a thick white fog.

People missing.

More questions than answers.

I think of David Drayton.

And…

I wonder.