The Mists

Chapter One; The Dark Horse

Jameson and his father rushed for the gun safe as the enormous serpent crushed bones on the cobblestone just outside their once peaceful and welcoming middle class home. It slithered down the smooth, rock path, deeper into the village. 

"James!" his mother shrieked as she flew to her eldest boy. "Find your brother-find August!" Tears streaked down her cheeks in black lines. 

Just minutes ago, she had looked so beautiful. She had been in her iron-pressed work suit of slacks, a blouse, a blazer, and heels, but now the clothes were wrinkled. Her blouse was half untucked, and she wore no shoes. 

While his father handed his mother a shotgun, Jameson darted around the house in search of his younger brother. 

"August! August! August!" he cried, tearing cushions from the couch and chairs. He ducked under the beds and tables, and lifted the sofa. He jerked open doors, and shoved supplies out of the way  to check under sinks. "August! August!" 

Jameson hastily hunted in the living room, the kitchen, and the tiny guest room before racing upstairs. He checked August's room. Nothing. The next room was his own room. He flipped over the mattress, ripped the sheets off, and looked under his desk.

Panting, he yanked open his closet door. He pushed aside his shirts as the sound of weeping reached his ears. 

"August!" This time, when the name flowed out, his voice was full of relief. 

The young boy reached out for his older brother. "James!" 

James seized up August in his arms, holding him tightly. "Ssh, August. I have you now. You'll be okay." 

"Mom!" August cried and squirmed, but James held fast in a desperate act for comfort. 

James heard feet pounding against their wood flooring before their father appeared in Jameson's bedroom doorway. 

"Boys!" he said urgently. "Come-you have to go into the cellar. You and your mom will be safe there." 

Jameson carried August out of the room in the direction of the stairs. "Dad-what about you? You have to come with us. You-you can't just-" 

"I'll come as soon as I can, but first I have to help others," he asserted as they stormed down the steps and into the kitchen. 

"I'm coming too," Jameson said in attempt to be as firm and brave as his father. 

"No, no, your job is to protect your mother and your brother." The older man shook his head as he bent over, brushed aside the rug, and pulled open the cellar door. "James, give your brother to your mother."

James did as he was told. August was handed over to their mother, who kissed her husband afterwards. Then she rushed down into the darkness. James turned to the man he'd admired all his life. 

"Keep them safe, okay?" His father demanded. 

James nodded, and promised, "Yeah, okay, Dad. I will." 

His father put his hand on the side of James' neck before handing over a Remington Model 597. James clutched the gun so tightly his knuckles turned white. He watched his father race out of the house, and he knew that would be last time he saw him. 

Jameson whipped his eyes with his sleeves. He had to be strong for his mother and brother, strong like his father. The teenager entered the darkness of the cellar and slammed the door behind him. He was the man of the house now. 

* * * 

It was hours later when Jameson opened the cellar door, motioning for his mother and brother to stay put in the safety of the darkness. When he entered the light, he felt ages older. Lips pursed, he studied the damage of the house. In the kitchen, there wasn't too much. The window was shattered, the chairs on their side, and the table a few feet off from its usual sitting point.