Lost in the Fog: Free Story for October

This is the Shoemaker.Space free story for October 2026. You can also purchase it for Kindle.

---

“Fog rolling in, Marla.”

I sighed. Did Kevin always have to make this difficult? “Fog, Kevin? Or The Fog?”

“We have three new radar contacts, all without ARCID, all coming in with The Fog.”

“Damn.” I hadn’t started the pot of coffee yet, but I turned off the coffee maker. I could really use fresh coffee to deal with The Fog, but we had too much work to do before it engulfed the airport. I sat back down at my scope and confirmed Kevin’s report. Not that I really needed to: Kevin was a slob outside the Tower, but an absolute professional once he took his station.

I looked out through the big window to the west. Yeah, I could just see The Fog off on the horizon. “OK, time to get to work. Kevin, contact ARTCC and give them the new excuse. What was it again?”

Kevin brushed crumbs off a notepad and opened it to a middle page. The Tower was very high tech, with recently upgraded scopes and comm consoles. The notepad stood out as an anachronism amid all that technology; but we never made electronic notes about Fog Traffic Control. “Fuel truck broke down on the main runway.”

“That’s good. We’ve used instrument failure too many times this year. We might get an FAA audit team.” I picked up the phone to the Director’s office. “Beth, it’s Marla. The Fog’s coming.”

“I expected that,” Beth answered. “That corporate jet this morning brought in some VIPs, and they’ve been hanging in the café all day. Dawn says they’re a couple of cheap bastards. We’ve got a couple of other groups as well. How many in The Fog?”

“Just three contacts confirmed. We’ll let you know if we see more.”

“Any standard traffic in sight? My board looks clear.”

Our passenger traffic was never very heavy, eight or ten flights a day from Seattle or Portland. “Confirmed, clear. We’re monitoring some flights for handoff to SEA-TAC, but they’re all heavy. Couldn’t land here except in an emergency.”

“Then let’s hope they don’t have any.”

Beth hung up, and then almost immediately came through on the PA system. “Attention, travelers, please pay attention for an important announcement. Burns Mountain Regional Airport is experiencing difficulties in our electrical systems in the baggage and boarding areas. For your safety, we will be shutting down the concourse in ten minutes. We’ll have to ask you to exit through security. We hope to clear this up in an hour or so. We appreciate your cooperation, and we thank you for flying Burns.”

Grace from TSA would be herding passengers out of the concourse already, down around the bend where they couldn’t see anything. We wanted the concourse cleared (except for VIPs, of course) before the new contacts landed, just in case our Fog travelers chose to come inside.

Speaking of the new contacts – No, Kevin was ahead of me there as usual, already on the radio. He leaned forward to his scope and his mike, slouching as he usually did but otherwise all business. “Unidentified vessel bearing three-oh-three degrees Burns Mountain, you are Squawk Three Foxtrot Oh Niner. Please confirm.” Per our unofficial code, that marked our third Fog Traffic arrival in September.

A voice came across the channel. “Confirmed, Burns Mountain, Three Foxtrot Oh Niner.” I looked at my scope, and Kevin had added an annotation: 3F09.

Kevin continued. “Unidentified vessel bearing two-six-niner degrees, Squawk Four Foxtrot Oh Niner. Please confirm.” The confirmation for the second contact was in no language I recognized, some sort of high-pitched hissing; but “Four Foxtrot Oh Niner” was clear. That contact was coming in fast. A language barrier wouldn’t help with that!

“Unidentified vessel bearing two-two-seven degrees, Squawk Five Foxtrot Oh Niner. Please confirm.” The voiced that confirmed this had a mechanical tone. I guessed it was a translator.

We had squawk codes for our three incoming, and so we could commence control. Kevin and I went to work. “Kevin, Four Foxtrot is farthest out, but she’s moving fast. She’s gonna cut right in front of Five. I’ll take her first.”

“I’ll spin Five.” Kevin brushed his hair out of his eyes (the unkempt curls always seemed to fall in his eyes when he leaned forward), pushed his glasses back up on his nose, and clicked the radio. “Five Foxtrot Oh Niner, we’re spinning you out once around. We need an immediate course change.” He read out a beacon path that would cycle 5F09 in a large loop but still well within our airspace. It wouldn’t do for Fog Traffic to get picked up by another airport. Then he turned his attention to Three Foxtrot.

As Kevin spun Five, I called directions to Four. “Four Foxtrot Oh Niner, need you to raise your glide path eight degrees, confirm.”

More incomprehensible hissing. I began to doubt the pilot was human (not that that was unusual for Fog Traffic). Was that how they said, “Roger?” I couldn’t tell, but they must’ve copied, as they raised their glide path. For normal aircraft, that would separate Four and Five enough to prevent any problems with wake turbulence. With Fog Traffic, though, we could never be sure. We never knew quite what surprises to expect from these contacts.

And it sounded like this would be a day for surprises. The mechanical voice came on the speakers. “Burns Mountain, we are experiencing unacceptable turbulence. You have another vessel too close.”

“Got it!” Kevin clicked back over to Five. “Five Foxtrot Oh Niner, understood. Drop elevation by two five zero feet and you should be fine, confirm.”

“Descend by two five zero feet, Roger.”

Kevin’s plot must have worked: Five stopped complaining, and they didn’t fall from the sky. Meanwhile I brought 4F09 in for an easy landing on the east-west strip. Even though they never spoke English, they seemed to follow control just fine. That was pretty common for Fog Traffic, and that was just another one of those anomalies we’ve learned not to question. Once they were taxiing to the gate, I picked up 5F09. Kevin was having some difficulties with Three Foxtrot, some problem with crosswinds, so I put Five into another spin before finally bringing them in. The aircraft complied, but not without some surprisingly fluent cursing from the mechanical voice. The FAA would not have approved of that chatter; but like the rest of the government, the FAA took no official notice of Fog Traffic. We tried hard to keep it that way.

I walked past the tower elevator and over to the stairwell. I’d probably be in better shape if I took the stairs both up and down, but at least I had talked myself into walking down. Small steps, Marla, small steps. They add up. Besides, it was aerobics night, so I would get a workout in class.

The stairwell was all in shades of gray: not dark or depressing, but gray steps and gray walls with gray handrails. It always reminded me of the thick gray mist outside, though the color scheme was chosen long before The Fog ever came to Burns Mountain. I passed Father Frank at the viewing deck halfway down the Tower, a striking bit of black garb (white at the collar, of course) amid the gray. There were benches where you could sit and look out the windows in all directions, but Frank didn’t use them. As usual, he stood ramrod straight as if he were still in the Air Force, though he had been out nearly thirty years. He stared out at The Fog with that big grin he had when he saw something he had never seen before. That happened a lot at Burns Mountain.

I smiled back at him. “OK, Father, they’ve landed.”

“That they have, child.” He pulled out a notebook and leafed through it. “I don’t recognize these craft.” That explained his grin. Among his many careers before the priesthood, Father Frank was trained as a scientist. He had nowhere to publish his research, but he made thorough notes of every aircraft that came from The Fog. And their passengers and crew and all their strange species, of course.

I continued down the stairs, exiting the tower just inside the secure zone. I could see a small crowd milling around on the other side of screening, around the corner where they couldn’t see up the concourse. They would be wondering how long the delay would be. There were puzzled looks on most of their faces.

Most of their faces, but not all. One caught my eye, which wasn’t hard to do since he was a good head taller than anyone else in the crowd. If it weren’t for his height, I might have mistaken him for Father Frank, because he also was all in black; but no, his good-fitting black suit really didn’t resemble a clerical shirt on closer inspection. His square, strong face was topped with hair almost exactly the color of his jacket. He didn’t look puzzled, he looked – at ease, somehow, like he had everything under control.

And then I realized I was staring; and worse, he was staring back, eyes meeting mine. I looked away. Gracious, gawking at strange men… Not like me at all. He was too young for me, and I was in no mood for a new man in my life. I looked away, embarrassed. When I looked back, he was gone. I don’t know how someone that large could disappear that thoroughly, but he had.

I walked over to Dawn’s counter. She ran our small café and gift shop. The café had a grill and a microwave and a selection of premade sandwiches and fresh fruit, but no one who knew better ate those. Dawn Taylor was a far better cook than you’d expect in a tiny airport in the middle of nowhere, and her meals had cost me many extra hours in aerobics classes. I saw no one at the cash register, but I glimpsed a bob of auburn hair. The café was empty, so Dawn was already seated at our usual little table over by the window, sipping on some coffee. I poured some and joined her, taking a cautious sip. Dawn makes very good coffee, but she keeps it hot.

Dawn put down her cup. Her freckled hands reached for a cigarette that wasn’t there. Even after all her years in the non-smoking environs of an airport, she still had the habit. She covered by starting the conversation. “So Kevin didn’t want a break?”

I snickered over my coffee. “I asked Mr. Personality if he wanted first break, and he just grunted at me. As soon as no flights were in the air, he propped up his feet, pushed up his glasses, pulled out his tablet, and started reading. With the airport in Fog, we should have no incoming traffic for a couple of hours at least, so one of us can handle the Tower. I’ll be back in an hour and see if he wants a break then.”

I looked out the window. The Fog had come in thick and clung close to the ground, and the runways were thoroughly lost in the mist. The aircraft were barely visible shapes in the gray haze, but at least they were clearly airplanes. Some days The Fog brought in some pretty unusual craft: VTOL ships, hovercrafts, some things I never did figure out, once even a small blimp. But that day we had 3F09 that looked like a small corporate jet; 5F09 that looked like a freighter but with all sorts of strange bumps and pods; and 4F09, an odd triple-hulled craft that was still taxiing in.  The cargo handlers were offloading crates and cases from 5F09, the closest aircraft to the terminal.

Early on, when The Fog had first appeared, Grace had tried to fulfill her duties as a TSA agent. She had reported the Fog Traffic to her superiors, multiple times; but after several failed attempts, she gave up, as she confided in the rest of us in the airport’s little kaffeeklatsch. Though she wouldn’t provide details, she said her boss made it clear that the higher-ups didn’t want any reports to anyone on Fog Traffic. The unofficial but firm TSA policy was that Fog Traffic doesn’t exist, and woe to the TSA officer who says otherwise. From this it was clear that somebody in power knew about Fog Traffic and wanted it to continue; but who it was and what they wanted was secret and would stay that way.

So naturally the number one topic of gossip at the kaffeeklatsch was Fog Traffic. What was The Fog? Was it natural or manufactured? Did it roll in randomly, or was there a plan? Who were the mysterious VIPs that came to meet the Fog Traffic, and what was their business? And most significant, where did these aircraft come from and go to, and who were their passengers and crew? Sometimes they remained on the tarmac, and sometimes they held meetings in the concourse or in one of our secure meeting rooms. Always they were polite and respectful to the airport staff – from a polite and respectful distance of fifty feet or more away. Except around the cargo haulers, they never got close enough for us to listen in on their discussions nor to ask the questions that gnawed at us. We had pretty much given up on learning the answers, but that didn’t stop us from speculating.

Just then, Grace joined us at the table. As usual, she looked smart and proper in her uniform, all that blue and black and silver set off against her dark cocoa skin. With the concourse officially shut down and the security gate armed and locked, there was nothing for Grace to guard. She could keep an eye on the entry point from the table. The only people who went into the concourse were the VIPs who had waited in the café, and Grace had learned not to interfere with them. After the Fog Traffic departed, she would clear the concourse again, sweep it for suspicious packages, and then declare the airport once more open for business.

Grace looked out at the three strange aircraft. “The markings on that one…” she said, then paused, peering at 5F09 through the mist. How she could make out any markings in all that gray was beyond me. Younger eyes, I guess. “They could be Russian…” Grace was convinced that The Fog was a government plot, more specifically a secret plot of the New World Order. Yeah, it struck me a little odd at first: a government security officer who bought into suspicious government conspiracies. But heck, I figure it takes all kinds to make a world. Grace was good at her job, more than good enough for a backwater like Burns Mountain. Why should I care how she occupied her spare time? Besides, once you’ve seen something as inexplicable as Fog Traffic, dark conspiracies don’t seem quite so outlandish.

And Grace was hardly the only one with an odd theory on The Fog. Dawn looked outside and shook her head. “Nah, look at the crew inspecting it, and the passengers getting off. Do they look human to you? They look like robots to me, some sorta cyborgs or something.” Dawn was sure that The Fog was brought by aliens visiting the Earth. I had to admit, a lot of the travelers in Fog Traffic looked like aliens to me; but then again, they might be mutants or something. They might even be illusions. These travelers had two arms, two legs, and one head each; but their bodies or perhaps their clothes were masses of metal and cables and tubes. I could see the resemblance to robots.

Beth joined us as well, and Ben sat down just after her. The two of them looked like a couple of blonde California surfers transplanted to this wet country, and that’s more or less what they had been when they came to Burns Mountain a decade or so ago. They showed their age a little, but not nearly as much as the rest of us did. I had learned not to hate Beth for that. Ben was Beth’s husband, a quiet guy who never said much among our hen party because we seldom gave him a chance. When we got to chattering, we could go on ‘til The Fog lifted without him getting space for three words. So he just sipped his tea and listened.

“Could be cyborgs,” Beth agreed, “but they could also be environment suits. Maybe even life support suits. Maybe they come from an Earth where the ecosystem has collapsed, or where life breathes a different atmosphere mix than we have here.” Beth thought that The Fog was an interface zone where parallel worlds came together. You might guess that Beth read a lot of science fiction, and you would be right. Her theory was much more elaborately worked out than Grace’s or Dawn’s, and a lot harder to disprove.

Me? I didn’t know; and to a degree, I didn’t really care. The Fog simply was, an element of my job that I had to accept and manage. I’ve always been something of a pragmatist, and more so since Henry walked out on me. I just kinda dealt with life and work and traffic and Fog Traffic as it happened, one thing at a time, not trying to look too far ahead or think about too many possibilities. Possibilities could be bad, and get me depressed and worried; or they could be good, and then disappoint me if they didn’t work out. So I tried to stick with the actual, not the possible. I tried to treat The Fog as just part of the routine. But when the ladies pressed, I had to say that it seemed to me like it could be all of the above. It certainly was part of some government cover-up, Grace had proven that; and the travelers certainly could be from other Earths or other worlds. In that way, I managed to agree with all of my friends without really disagreeing with any of them. They accepted that, which was good enough for me.

Naturally I hadn’t been nearly so blasé the first time The Fog had rolled in. That still stood as one of the worst, thickest banks of The Fog that we have seen. It was thick enough that somehow it cut off outside communications. We’re used to that now, even if we don’t understand it. It happens once or twice a year. But that day eight years back, it was new, everything about The Fog was new, and I was in a panic. My panic only grew worse when two new contacts showed up on the scope with no Aircraft IDs. We had the old scopes back then, and they weren’t nearly as clear and didn’t provide nearly as much info as our new scopes. I knew there was something out there, but the details were hazy. Fortunately I was working the Tower with old Nick Haney that day, God rest his soul, and Nick was unflappable. Before he died, Nick taught me everything I knew about my job; and that night he taught me to keep my cool even in the face of the impossible. On the spot he improvised the core Fog Traffic protocols, calmly assigning a Squawk code to each contact and bringing them in by ILR. Over the next few months we worked together to refine the system and our unwritten rules; and the rest of the airport staff slowly built up an elaborate system of procedures and excuses to separate the regular travelers from those who came in with The Fog.

By the time the cancer finally got Nick, and Kevin came in to replace him, I had the complete Fog Traffic protocols down pat, and I taught them to Kevin as Nick had taught me. Kevin, for his part, accepted The Fog almost casually. At first he smirked as if I were telling a joke, or perhaps as if he thought I was crazy; but the first time he encountered Fog Traffic, he straightened from his slouch, something he almost never did. Aside from that one reaction, he just settled into the routine as if he had always known it, and we brought the aircraft in safely. Only when it was over did he turn to me and say just one thing: “I thought you were shitting me.” Then he turned to reading his tablet, and he slouched back in his chair; and he never again showed the slightest surprise at Fog Traffic.

And that made Kevin just like the rest of us: we couldn’t explain Fog Traffic, but we worked with it. Sometimes they brought cargo and left it in Warehouse 3, where it would be claimed later by anonymous crews with the proper paperwork. Sometimes they picked up cargo. And often they showed up to trade, amongst themselves or with the VIPs.

4F09 rolled up to a stop at Gate 2. It had a wide lower hull under a broad wing, and two smaller hulls one on either side above the wing. The Gate 2 jetway was motionless, so I knew the passengers wouldn’t be entering the concourse today. 5F09 blocked the view, and between that and The Fog I couldn’t see exactly what was going on at 2; but I saw some sort of ramp descend. Then I saw movement down the ramp and out onto the tarmac. Through all the bodies and obstacles and mist, I couldn’t make anything out at first; but suddenly the mist parted enough to show –

“Ewwww!!!” I couldn’t help myself. I usually prided myself on tolerance for the strange travelers we got; but I’ve got a bit of a… problem when it comes to insects. And the figure that appeared looked a lot like some sort of… well, mantis is the best way I could describe it. I tried to calm myself; but instead, I shuddered and turned away.

That was when I realized Father Frank had come up behind me. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, Marla.” His voice was low and soothing. “They’re just God’s children in a different shape. You probably look as strange to them.” I don’t think I had ever told the Father about my insect phobia; but he had a gift for reading people and knowing what troubled them. That had helped a lot during my divorce: even though I wasn’t a member of his faith, and even though officially he couldn’t approve of divorce, he had listened to me through many bad nights. What we said is between him and me, but he helped me see that I was blaming myself for a lot of things I couldn’t control. I didn’t see the world the way he did, but I had deep respect for the man.

So for Father Frank’s sake, I looked at the visitors again. Now there were multiple big green praying mantises, about five and a half to six feet tall, and several smaller brown-green mantises that were hauling cargo and scurrying around servicing the craft. The green ones and the brown ones both crouched low, only occasionally rising up to their full height and looking around. Father Frank moved up to the window. I felt a need to show him I wasn’t afraid, so I joined him.

“Fascinating,” he said softly. He took notes as he looked, and I admired his ability to write without looking down. “They’re not really mantises, of course. The thorax is wrong, too many segments. Look at their middle legs – or midclaws, really. Sometimes they walk on them like a mantis, but sometimes they rise up on their hind legs and use those like another pair of grasping claws. And their wings are larger, almost like a shell. But still, they’re very reminiscent of mantises. That’s intriguing, like they’re following some Cosmic Plan. But the square-cube law… How do they breathe?”

I swallowed, then managed to speak. “Maybe… they come from somewhere where the square-cube law doesn’t apply?” I was no engineer, but he had discussed this law before. Something about you couldn’t make a mouse the size of an elephant without giving it elephant legs. I wasn’t sure what that had to do with mantises.

“Now that would be fascinating,” he said. “The space topology would very different. But they’re here, in our world, where our physics apply; and they’re breathing and getting around. I think they come from someplace similar to here. But maybe less windy.” He pointed at the visitors. “See how they hunch low to the ground? Insects breathe through spiracles in their exoskeletons and then tracheae that take the air to the tissues in their bodies. With bodies that large, they’ll need a lot more air and a lot more tracheae. Their bodies are mostly hollow, I’ll bet. That would explain how their legs can support their weight. And they stay low because they might blow away in a strong enough wind.”

I relaxed. A six-foot praying mantis gave me the creepy crawlies; but a six-foot praying mantis who could blow away in a stiff breeze wasn’t so intimidating.

Then one of them flared its wings suddenly, and I jerked back; but Father Frank leaned forward. “Look! The wings have evolved into airfoils! Like on sprint cars: the airfoils help to push them down onto the ground in the face of the wind. Amazing adaptation!”

I tried, I really did; but when a bunch of them started flaring their wings, I turned away and went back to the table. We talked some more; and I was finally able to relax when the mantises got back in their aircraft.

Meanwhile the cargo handlers unloaded some crates from 5F09 while the “cyborg” crew continued their inspection. A set of car headlights suddenly pierced the air of the tarmac, and a pair of VIPs emerged and crossed the tarmac, quickly engaging in what looked like a tense conversation with the cyborgs. Both VIPs wore impeccable gray suits which probably cost more than my car. One of the VIPs was a large man with a clear “don’t mess with me” bearing. The bodyguard, no doubt. He didn’t appear to be saying anything, and he didn’t appear to be missing anything. The shorter man, likely the real VIP of the pair, maintained an even smile and a calm manner. Everything about him said, “I have the upper hand, and I can afford to walk away.”

The travelers, by contrast, were agitated. Well, that’s how I interpreted their body language, at least. I couldn’t see faces or expressions under all that hardware, but they paced and waved their arms and pointed shaking fingers at the VIP. Each time they did so, the bodyguard’s hand casually roamed near his tie. Surely there was a holster inside his suit jacket. I hoped things would remain calm – we had never had a major conflict with the Fog Traffic – but I was ready to dive from my chair. Grace had noticed as well: one hand hovered near her own holster, the other near her radio.

Finally the tension passed. The travelers and the VIP reached some sort of deal, or so it seemed. The travelers opened a large case that one of them held, and they showed the contents to the VIP. From our angle, we couldn’t see the inside of the case. If this had been some cheesy TV show, I’m sure the case would’ve glowed to show the viewers that the contents were mysterious and exotic; but Fog Traffic notwithstanding, life at Burns Mountain is seldom as exciting as a TV show. There was no glow, except maybe in the eyes of the VIP. He was happy with this deal. He raised a hand, and a cargo truck emerged from the mist bearing two large crates. The visitors set their case down and then backed away under the eye of the bodyguard, while the cargo crew hoisted the crates into the cargo hold of 5F09.

And so another Fog transaction was completed; and as always, it was as cloaked and mysterious as The Fog itself. Grace and Dawn speculated on what was in the crate, but I didn’t see the point. They didn’t know, they never knew, and the speculation didn’t interest me that day. Besides, it looked like the cyber crew were prepping for takeoff, and Kevin was in the Tower alone. He could handle a single takeoff as long as nothing went wrong, but it wouldn’t be proper Fog Traffic protocol. Kevin deserved a backup. “Excuse me ladies, Ben, gotta get back to the Tower. Kevin’s turn for a break.”

I almost talked myself into climbing the stairs. I could use the exercise, that’s for sure. But then I told myself the elevator would get me there faster, which wasn’t a lie (even if it was an excuse). So I rode the elevator up and entered the Tower with plenty of time to watch Kevin direct the cyber flight. He had a departure path plotted already, and he had cleared the aircraft to the taxiway.

I watched my scope through the takeoff and departure. The craft was lost in the gray mist before it reached the field, so the takeoff was entirely via ILR. Kevin handled it without a hitch, and soon enough it was off our scopes. “Nice job, Kevin. I think our other Fog Traffic will be a while yet. Take a break, I’ve got this.”

“Sure. I’ll be downstairs, reading.” Kevin bounded down the stairs, not puffing at all. Dawn was right, he kept in shape. I bit back an envious comment.

It was well over an hour later when I got a call from Beth. She sounded anxious. “Marla, we’ve had a bit of an… incident on the tarmac. I’m not clear on the details, but 4F09 says we’re holding them up from a very important appointment. Everybody’s anxious, and they all want to leave now, including the VIPs. Most of them have boarded already. How fast can you get these folks airborne?”

I glanced over at Kevin’s empty chair and then out at the gray world beyond the windows. “Faster if I had Kevin’s help. You see him?”

“He’s in the café, just finishing lunch. You need him right away?”

Two Fog craft, three corporate jets, Fog everywhere… “Not immediately, but pretty soon. I’ll get the first bird in the air in five, if they’re boarded. Once Kevin’s done, we can move ‘em faster.”

I had 4F09 on a departure path – breathing a sigh when I knew the mantises were on their way home – and 3F09 starting its taxi when Kevin joined me at his scope. He started planning the VIP jets. We generally didn’t launch normal traffic while The Fog was in. After all, since we didn’t know where it came from, we couldn’t be sure where an aircraft would go if it entered The Fog.

But as usual, The Fog rolled out soon after the Fog Traffic left the scopes. We could never tell if that was coincidence or cause and effect; but it made our jobs easier when we could actually see the field and the sky to the east. Within thirty-five minutes we had the VIP jets launched, and I called downstairs. “Beth, we’re all clear. Tell Grace she can reopen the concourse.”

And just like that, Burns Mountain was again a sleepy little regional airport. In a sense, we in the airport staff were lost in The Fog ourselves. We knew there were strange things out there, but we glimpsed them only dimly, at a distance. We guided and serviced the Fog Traffic, but we were oddly uninvolved in what happened around us.

But that was the day we learned: you can’t stay uninvolved forever. Our quiet routine was broken late that afternoon when the “marshals” arrived.

For a small regional airport, we get far more than our share of air marshals – or at least that’s what their badges say. They were some kind of Feds, probably, but I doubt they were marshals. For one thing, air marshals are usually pretty discreet – kinda necessary if your job is to blend in and guard against dangerous travelers – whereas these didn’t mind flashing their badges and throwing their weight around. Grace had admitted once that she knew they weren’t marshals, though she had clammed up when I had pressed her for details.

But usually the “marshals” at least tried to pass as ordinary passengers. Not this crew. Nearly a dozen men and women, all in sharp black suits, arrived at the security gate just as I was heading off shift. And leading the bunch, flashing his badge for Grace, was the tall black-haired stranger who had disappeared so effortlessly into the crowd. He caught my eye again; and this time, he nodded. I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I was in no mood to find out.

Something told me that if I wanted to make my aerobics class, I’d better get going before the marshals got down to business. Grace was being her usual efficient-but-thorough self, checking each marshal badge and ID in detail. While she held them up, I skipped out the exit gate. As I rounded the corner, I glanced back and saw the marshals fan out, searching for something. I couldn’t guess what, and I doubted we would ever know. I saw the tall marshal, head above the rest, scanning the crowd; and while he was tied up with Grace, I hurried away before he could spy me again.

I worked up more sweat than usual at aerobics that night. Even at a small airport like Burns Mountain, air traffic can bring a pile of stress; and Fog Traffic always added a second pile. Add in the mantises, the incident (whatever that was), and the marshals, and I was more keyed up than I could remember, and I was ready to burn off some energy. So for once I kept up with the girls in class, most of whom were half my age.

After a quick shower, I was ready for supper. Burns Mountain isn’t famous for its restaurant choices – Burns Mountain isn’t famous for anything, truth to tell – but I wasn’t in the mood to go home and fry up some trout from my freezer. On another night I might have tried to break out of my rut; but that night habit ruled, and I headed across our narrow Main Street to the Two Moon Tavern. It was nothing special, just a small town bar like a million others; but the Two Moon had been my home away from home when I was a kid, and I still spent too much time there. Inside was the familiar long bar with a bunch of regional beer bottles on the wall behind it, the familiar face of Pat the bartender, and the familiar brick walls, hanging lights, and beat-up tables and booths.

Unfortunately, when you go to the same old place, you get the same old smell of stale cigarette smoke, the same old beer selection, the same old menu… and the same old people. The crowd that night was thin, and I was hoping for a quiet dinner alone; but I should’ve known better. I had settled at a small table in the back and was just savoring the smell of a big bowl of corn chowder – better than I could make, but not even close to Dawn’s – when an overweight, middle-aged, stubble-faced loser in torn jeans and a faded gray Trail Blazers shirt sat down across from me. My ex, Henry, who only ever showed up to make trouble.

“Hey, darlin’,” Henry said with that distracting grin of his, “how’s my favorite girl?”

I ignored the grin. “I don’t know, Henry. Who is she this week? Is this one old enough to drink? I’m sure she’s not smart enough to see through your crap.”

I reached for my soup spoon, but Henry took my hand. “It’s not like that, Marla. You know you’re the only woman for me.” He leaned in, and I could smell that he had been drinking already.

I tried to pull away, but Henry’s grip was as strong as ever. “Let go of my hand.” I kept my voice steady, even though I was steaming. “Just tell me what you want so I can tell you no.”

“Who says I want anything?” Henry smiled at me. Damn that smile! He had smiled me into more trouble and out of more panties than I wanted to remember; but now it only pissed me off. It was just another tool he used to get his way.

“You always want something. And I’m too broke, too tired, and too smart for whatever your game is. Now let. Go. Of my. Hand.” But Henry just kept smiling, and I wondered if I was going to have to call Pat over with his baseball bat.

Before I had to call for help, though, help arrived and blocked out the lights from the ceiling fan. “The lady said to let go of her hand. I suggest you do so.”

I looked up. And up. And… Standing next to the table was the tall marshal from that afternoon. He had a stern, no-nonsense look on that square face, and it was focused straight down on Henry.

But even after he looked up at the marshal, Henry wasn’t impressed. “Take a hike, buddy. This is between me and my wife.”

The marshal shook his head. “That’s ex-wife, Mr. Tucker. The lady doesn’t want you here.”

That caught Henry’s attention. “Who are you, and what business is that of yours?”

I could see trouble looming. Henry’s favorite pastimes were sex, drinking, and fighting. He’d already been drinking, and sex wasn’t gonna happen. The gleam in his eye told me he was working his way up to a fight. He let go of my hand and flexed his fingers: fists then flex, fists then flex.

I had to get things under control. “Guys, let’s calm down.”

But the marshal was calm. He was perfectly in control as he ignored me. “I tried to be polite, Mr. Tucker. Now it’s time for you to leave.”

“Yeah, OK. Just, ya know, talking.” Henry half rose; but I had seen enough of his fights to know he was rounding about for a dirty punch, aimed a little below the marshal’s belt buckle. The marshal might be big, but Henry never fought clean. I started to call out a warning.

But the marshal had faster eyes and faster moves than I had given him credit for. By the time Henry’s punch flew, there was no place for it to land. The marshal had stepped lightly aside; and he grabbed Henry’s arm and pulled forward, increasing Henry’s momentum. At the same time, the marshal blocked Henry’s shin with one shiny black shoe; and suddenly Henry was plunging forward with his props swept out from under him. He flew forward and down, crashing into the metal leg of a table across the aisle.

Henry was still moving, so I knew he would be mad as hell. Sure enough, when he half-rose and turned I caught the glint of steel in his hand. But before I could catch any details, the marshal’s foot swept up and snapped down, cutting into Henry’s hand and knocking the blade flying. When the foot hit the floor, the marshal pivoted on it, swinging the other foot around in a back kick that caught Henry square in the jaw. The hard sole cracked against Henry’s chin, or maybe that was Henry’s teeth snapping together; but whichever it was, Henry dropped to the floor again.

I’ll give my ex credit for stubbornness, if not the good sense to know when to quit. He planted his hands to lift himself up again; but the marshal’s foot swept one arm away, and Henry fell again.

This time the marshal planted one size 12 shoe on the side of Henry’s head, pressing it down to the floor. Then he leaned over and spoke in a low voice. “We’re done, Mr. Tucker. Don’t make me get rough. Apologize to the lady.” Henry snarled at me, and the marshal leaned a bit on the foot. “I said, apologize.”

Wincing, Henry said, “Sorry, Marla. Just… ya know…” He trailed off.

The whole fight had lasted less than five seconds. Pat had barely had time to realize anything was going on; but now he was gingerly approaching, his bat held loose but ready. The marshal shouldn’t even have seen Pat from that angle; but he held out a badge straight at the bartender. Pat took a quick look, and then backed away.

Meanwhile the marshal kept his attention on Henry. “Now I want you to listen closely, Mr. Tucker. I know you’re drunk, so I went easy on you. And I’ll speak slowly so you’ll remember this in the morning. I’m a Federal agent. Ms. Tucker is a Federal employee. That means her safety is a primary concern for me – on or off the job. If I have to injure you to protect her, I will. If I have to put you through an IRS audit to protect her, I can do that. If I have to dispose of a body… Well, it won’t be the first time. Do you understand me?” Henry grunted assent, and the marshal continued. “Now I’m going to take my foot off your head, and you’re going to stand slowly, walk to the door, and leave. And I hope we never have to meet again in less pleasant circumstances. Understood?”

Henry grunted again, and the marshal lifted the foot off his head and planted it in an easy stance. Henry slowly rose, his eyes never leaving the marshal. He backed away one step, two, three, four… When he backed into a table, he jumped. Then he looked back, saw what had blocked him, and slid around it. When he was safely on the far side of the table, he turned toward the door. With many looks back at the marshal – but never once meeting my eyes, or Pat’s or anyone else’s in the bar – he slunk to the door and out. He tried to slam the door behind him, but the door only slid slowly shut on its pneumatic closer. From the sounds, though, he did manage to slam his truck door. I heard the engine roar to life, and then I heard tires spinning and gravel flying as he drove away.

I opened my mouth to speak to the marshal – not sure yet what I would say, exactly – but he held up a hand for silence. With the other hand he pulled out a cell phone and pushed a button as he brought it to his face. The phone looked ridiculously small next to that massive jaw as he spoke into it. “Sheriff Alexander? Yes, I’d like to report a drunk driver. Yes, Henry Tucker. Uh-huh. He just left the Two Moon Tavern and he’s heading out of town at high speed. No thanks needed, I’m just a concerned citizen.”

And with that he palmed the phone and dropped it into a pocket. Then he sat down, putting us closer to eye-to-eye. Well, eye-to-chest. Even seated, he towered over me. “I trust the deputies will stop him before he hurts someone,” he said.

The whole incident, from Henry sitting down to Henry squealing away with his dignity between his legs, had taken less than two minutes. My heart was still racing to catch up, but I tried to act calm, downing a big spoonful of chowder before I spoke. The warm, salty broth and the sweet corn kernels seemed so… normal after the brief burst of violence.

Finally I found my voice. “I suppose I should thank you, marshal.”

“Marshal?” He looked puzzled, eyebrows raised upon that massive forehead. And then he smiled. “Oh, yes, air marshal. I forgot.”

“You forgot you were an air marshal?”

He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Ms. Tucker, you’re not stupid, so I won’t try to fool you. An air marshal badge is just a convenient credential for my work.”

I lowered my voice as well. After years of The Fog, secret-keeping was a natural habit. “And that work is…?”

He shook his head. “I’m not allowed to say. Sorry. But rest assured, I am a Federal agent.”

“For what agency?”

He looked over his shoulder and saw that no one was near. And then again the head shake. “I’m not allowed to say. It’s not on the books anywhere.”

I almost laughed. This was unbelievable, straight out of a bad TV show. But then I stopped myself. Years of Fog Traffic had made me really good at believing the unbelievable. “So you’re some kind of… some kind of spook.”

He winced. “I wouldn’t exactly use that term.”

“Are you going to give me a better term?” He shook his head, something that seemed like a habit for him. “A name?” He stared blankly. “All right then, Spook’ll do until something better comes along. So tell me: why did you follow me here?”

“Ms. Tucker…” He hesitated. The assurance he had shown with Henry had slipped away. Then he leaned closer yet. “Ms. Tucker, this has to do with the… incidents at your airport.”

I blinked my eyes in an exaggerated show of curiosity. “Incidents? Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Come, now, Ms. Tucker. There’s no need to play innocent. We both know you get certain unusual travelers from time to time.”

I leaned in closer as well. “And somehow I suspect you know a good deal about those travelers. Something maybe you should tell me.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I can’t, Ms. Tucker. I don’t know much; and what I do know, I’m not authorized to divulge. Not unless there’s an emergency.”

“Not authorized, huh?” I leaned back and raised my voice – not enough to be heard by the other customers, but getting close. “Maybe we’ve all got too many secrets. Maybe if I can’t be trusted with your secrets, I should just spill mine. Maybe we need some reporters here investigating all the secrets.”

The Spook just stared into my eyes. “You won’t do that.” It didn’t sound like a threat, just – confidence.

I couldn’t take that stare. I looked away. “How do you know that?”

“Because you haven’t already. Even though you’ve had plenty of time to tell the world about your travelers, no one at Burns Mountain has. Why is that?”

I still refused to meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.” We had discussed it, at first. After Grace had failed to get her superiors to listen to her reports, Beth had called a big meeting: all the airport staff, everyone who had seen The Fog. Her first question: had any of us called reporters about it? None of us had. Had we told our families? A few had, but they’d passed it off as a joke. Finally Nick had spoken up, and he said it was maybe a good idea that we kept it to ourselves. We all knew The Fog was something… special, even though we had no idea what it was. And we all had the same feeling, more or less: if too many people found out, if too much attention was drawn, it might go away. Father Frank summed it up for most of us: “When you’re experiencing a miracle, you don’t step away to issue a press release. You just stay in the miracle, and you learn.” And so we kept The Fog to ourselves. No doubt there were rumors here and there; and the VIPs knew things about The Fog that we didn’t, and it seemed these “marshals” did too. But still, it was our mystery, and we liked it that way.

The Spook nodded as if he understood at some level. “You’re not going to say anything. Eight years you’ve kept this secret. I can’t tell you names, but you’ve earned the gratitude of some very influential individuals. That still doesn’t allow me to tell you things you shouldn’t know; but it does mean I’m supposed to watch out for you.”

I smiled at that. “You mean you really would give Henry an IRS audit?”

The Spook almost grinned. “I don’t know, I’ve never really tried. Would you like me to?”

His almost-grin relaxed me, and I laughed a little in return. “No, it would probably turn up new bills for me. But can you answer any questions?”

He half nodded. “Try me.”

“Whatever these incidents are… Why Burns Mountain? Why did you pick this little corner of nowhere?”

The Spook frowned for several seconds before finally answering. “I can say this much: we didn’t pick it. Someone else controls these incidents.” I started to speak, but again he held up a hand. “I can’t say who, and I don’t understand how, so don’t ask. And I don’t know their reasons, though I do have a guess.”

“Oh?”

“Did you ever see ‘Casablanca’?” I nodded, glimpsing his point. “A neutral zone. A place where the rules are a little relaxed and visitors from different places can meet on even ground without a lot of interference from the authorities.”

“As I recall, Casablanca was flooded with war refugees. And it ended rather badly. Are you telling me there’s a war out… out there, wherever?”

“Not that we know of.” I sighed in relief. Wherever these travelers came from, I didn’t want to think of what sort of war they might bring with them. “These aren’t refugees, they’re merchants and travelers and… diplomats, we hope.”

“You hope?”

“Well, I’m –”

“– not allowed to say,” I cut him off, “but your diplomatic efforts haven’t turned out well so far. So you’re treading very carefully, hoping relations will build over time.”

“I never said that. Any of it.” But he nodded as he denied. “But you’re very shrewd, Ms. Tucker, and very wise. And that is why I followed you here.”

“Huh?” For just half an instant I had felt in control, like I knew what was going on. Then just as he had with Henry, the Spook had swept my props out from under me. “What do you mean?”

“My investigations tell me you’re a natural leader at Burns Mountain. You pretty much run the place.”

I shook my head vehemently. “Uh-uh, Spook. You want Beth. She’s the Director.”

But he was insistent. “Ms. Miller may have the title, but you have the real authority. Everyone there turns to you for the tough questions, even her. You’ve been there longer than anyone. Nick Haney was everyone’s favorite uncle or best friend there; but with him gone, you’ve stepped into that role.”

I supposed he meant it as some sort of compliment, but I really didn’t buy it. “And so you want…?”

The Spook leaned in and stared at me again; and this time I couldn’t look away, his stare was so intense. “Whatever happens at Burns Mountain, you’re aware of it. And so what I want to know, Ms. Tucker, is: where is the missing traveler?”

He asked the question so casually, it took me a moment to realize what he meant. But then… “You lost –” In my surprise, my voice had risen; but I caught myself before anyone could notice. I leaned in and started again, with the same intensity if not the same volume. “You lost one of them? And you think I know where it is?”

The Spook’s gaze never wavered from my face. “Nope. I thought you might, but I can see you don’t. Damn. You’re more tuned into the happenings at the airport than anyone else. I figured if you didn’t know, no one would.”

I shivered as a thought occurred to me. “It’s not one of them… one of them bugs, is it?”

The Spook’s face was normally bland, even when he had been subduing Henry; but suddenly his eyes narrowed, disapproving, and I realized he could be intimidating when he chose. “The Mantises, Ms. Tucker, are a technologically advanced, sophisticated, philosophical race with a longer history than ours. They have a formal etiquette of ritual and obligation reminiscent of Japanese giri, but at an even deeper, more instinctive level. ‘Bugs’ is hardly an appropriate term for them. The missing Mantis is expected to participate in a ritual, but he disappeared somewhere at Burns Mountain while they were here. Finally they had to leave in order to make their return window; but before they left, they got a message to our agency. As part of their little ritual ‘dance’ with us, we’re expected to deliver him back to them, and time is running out.”

“I’m sorry, Spook, they just… give me the creeps. I can’t help it.” I tried to think of how Father Frank had calmed me down earlier in the day. And then I thought of what else he had said. “Hey, maybe he just flew away?”

“What?”

And so I explained Father Frank’s theory about the Mantises being all hollow inside. I didn’t get all the words right – I wasn’t a scientist like him – but I got the basic idea across. For the second time I saw a new reaction on the Spook’s face: dismay. “Father Callahan is pretty smart. No one in our team even considered that. Damn. That means I need a much larger search party, enough to cover the whole Mountain and the surrounding country. He could be anywhere in the county by now.” I shivered again despite myself. The idea that a giant Mantis could be overhead as I crossed the street… Brrrrr!!!!! “Anywhere, but not your airport. We searched there very thoroughly.”

I took a little relief in that: at least the airport was a safe harbor. I was very sincere when I said, “Well, Spook, I hope you find him real soon and get him back to his people and out of Burns Mountain.”

The Spook nodded. “I hope so, too, Ms. Tucker. And here –” He pulled out his phone and pushed a button, and suddenly my own phone chirped in my purse. I pulled it out, and I saw that somehow he had pushed his phone number into it by remote control. “This is really important to a lot of people that again I can’t name. If you learn anything about where this Mantis is, please call my number right away. I’ll answer wherever I’m at and whatever I’m doing. Don’t hesitate, day or night.”

“All right, but I hope I never see him and never have a reason to call.”

And with that, the Spook rose. “Well, I have to organize a search party. Thank you for your time, Ms. Tucker –”

I interrupted him. “Look, you may not have a name, but I do. If you’re going to ask for my help, you’re going to have to call me Marla.”

He looked uncomfortable, but he nodded. “All right, Marla. I’ll be seeing you. Maybe you’ll even be seeing me.” And just like that, he was gone. He didn’t actually disappear, but he was out the door in record time. The Spook really did move fast and quietly for someone so big. Suddenly I was alone with my lukewarm chowder.

I drove home that night in Babe the Blue Truck, my beat-up old blue cab-and-a-half. Babe could practically drive these mountain roads on her own, we had driven them so many times. She had seen better days, but so had I. We were growing old together, maybe not gracefully but together at least. Throughout the whole drive home through the woods, I kept watching the skies and the mirrors for fluttering wings. Despite Father Frank, despite the Spook’s assurances, I just couldn’t get comfortable with the idea of giant bugs. The deeper we got into the woods, the more I saw shadows where a Mantis might hide.

But Babe and I made it home without incident. I pulled her off the gravel of Maple Road and down the long curvy drive to my cabin. As I rounded the last curve, I could see the moonlight reflecting off the lake. I had the next day off. Maybe a day of fishing on the boat would help to settle my nerves.

I pulled Babe up onto the concrete apron, turned her off, and listened to the engine cough and sputter a few times before she stopped. I sighed. I would have to get that looked at, just one more thing to worry about.

I pulled my cell phone out of my purse to see if I had any messages. Sure enough, there was one call listed. I recognized that number: the county sheriff. No doubt Henry had called to beg for bail money, as he had done many times before. Sometimes I had actually felt sorry enough for him to bail him out; but that night he had pissed me off but good, and I had no sympathy. I pushed the button and started listening to the message. Yep, it was Henry. He started clear enough, but soon he got weepy and belligerent. And loud… loud enough that I almost didn’t hear the hissing and the rustling sound from the half-cab behind me. When I finally heard it, I glanced in my mirror and –

“Aaaaaiiiihhhh!!!!” I don’t remember opening the truck door or tumbling out on the ground. I barely remember diving behind the big maple tree. What I had seen in the mirror was the Moon reflected in a thousand little tiny dots within two giant bug eyes! The Mantis had been hiding in my half-cab! I had to call the Spook! And…

And I had… dropped my cell phone in Babe’s cab. Could I sneak back –

“Aaiiiiihhh!!!!!” I screamed again. The Mantis was now standing on the driver’s seat just inside my open truck door, rear legs hunched so he could fit his body between my seat and the roof. When I screamed, he wrapped both of his midclaws around his middle, and he sort of trembled, his head wobbling downward. But in his big, spiky foreclaws… One of them held my cell phone, curled up in spikes that grasped almost like fingers. The other held some sort of tablet computer thingy. At least it looked a little like a tablet, an extremely thin screen rimmed with glowing lights. It didn’t look like a weapon; but then, what would a Mantis weapon look like? I couldn’t guess.

I wondered if my screams would draw any attention, but probably not. My nearest neighbors were over half a mile away. When the echoes of the last scream stopped, the Mantis stopped trembling. Interesting. He didn’t seem to like loud sounds. Maybe I could use that as a weapon against him, just scream and scream to hold him off until I could find something to hit him with?

I breathed in deep for a really long, loud scream; but then despite my nerves, I let it out in a big, tension-draining laugh. The Mantis was holding his tablet out, screen facing towards me; and there in a big bright yellow screen were two large black dots over a big black arc: an unmistakable smiley face. I laughed again.

Oh, it might have meant “You look like lunch” in Mantis-speak, but I didn’t think so. I was sure that he had learned enough about us to know that a smile was a way to show friendly intentions; and since he didn’t have the right muscles for a smile, he drew one.

I smiled back, and the Mantis started bobbing his head side-to-side. He made a strange, soft hissing sound like he had when he was in the half-cab. With one midclaw, he pointed at the smiley face; with the other, he pointed at himself. Yes, that was his way of smiling back at me: I don’t have lips to smile, but I’m friendly!

And then he extended his other foreclaw, my cell phone still clasped in the spikes, and he pointed at the phone with one midclaw. Smiley face or no, my gut instinct said: No way! I’m not getting any closer! But I thought of what the Spook had said. I thought what Father Frank would say. I didn’t want either one to be ashamed of me. I slid out from behind the maple trunk, held out my hand, and took very small steps closer to Babe and the Mantis.

When I was within reach, the Mantis dropped the phone, and I caught it. If I’d had an ounce of sense, I would’ve called the Spook right then; but somehow this encounter was becoming like The Fog itself, like Father Frank had said. As creepy as this was for me, this was my personal little secret encounter – my miracle, he would say – and now that I was over my immediate fright, I wasn’t ready to share it with anyone. Yet.

The Mantis was one of the shorter ones, not even four feet tall if he had risen up on his hind legs. Really he didn’t look that threatening when I thought of him as a mostly hollow shell. And since we couldn’t sit out here in the driveway all night… “All right, come on, out of the truck. Let’s go in the cabin, where we can sit and… well, talk, or something.”

But as I stepped forward, the Mantis backed away, trembling. He really did seem more afraid of me than I was of him, hard as that was to believe. So I backed away, gave him lots of room; and he hopped down out of Babe’s cab.

Then he did the strangest thing: he turned sort of sideways to me, and looked away into the woods – though with those big, wide-set eyes, I suspected he could still see me. And then he sort of hopped sideways, four times in my direction. I started to back away, and he fled back to the cab, though he didn’t climb back inside. “Skittish” was the best word to describe him. The more nervous I could see he was, the less nervous I became, and the more I sympathized.

So I stood still, and he did it again: hop, hop, hop, hop. This time I held my ground, and he got almost within my reach. Then he dropped down onto all six limbs, bobbed his head almost to the ground, and scuttled sideways back over to Babe. Once he got there, he rose up, and he repeated the entire little dance three times.

I was sure this was some significant ritual for him, but I couldn’t guess what my steps were in it. Finally, since he seemed to understand smiles, I gave him the biggest one I could; and again his head bobbed from side to side. I took that as a Mantis smile.

“Is that it?” I asked, though gently so as not to upset him again. “Are we friends now?” He tapped the smiley face. I was getting the feeling he understood a lot more English than I understood Mantis. “Shall we go in the cabin?” He bobbed side to side, hissing softly. “Go on.”

I waited for him to go ahead of me, but he didn’t seem to understand what I wanted. So I started walking forward, figuring he would walk beside me; but no, he hung back behind me and a little to my right. That gave me the creeps again, even though I told myself to be calm. I didn’t like him being where I couldn’t see him; but when I turned towards him, he hopped back away and started trembling again. Only when I turned forwards again did he follow. I could turn back and look, and he always kept pace with his little hopping, skipping gait; but if I stopped and turned, he backed away as if I might strike him.

When I got to the door and opened it, I decided to force the issue. “Come on,” I said, “get inside.” Something about this was different. Something about entering the cabin meant something more to him, and he closed the gap between us. The Mantis hopped forward, hissing and clapping his foreclaws together with a hollow clacking sound. When he reached the door, he stood on the step, head bobbing side to side. He looked at me, bobbing more than ever, and he pointed inside.

I laughed, partly nervous, partly amused. “Boy, you sure are one earnest little Mantis, aren’t you? Hmmm… Maybe that’s what I should call you: Ernest. Or just Ernie. How’s that sound, Ernie?” I said it with a big smile, and he bobbed so much I thought he might hurt himself. “OK, go on in, Ernie. I’ve gotta get myself a beer to calm my nerves. This day has been just a bit much for me. And maybe you’re hungry after hiding out all day?”

With that invitation, Ernie hopped over the threshold and into the little lake cabin that was all I had salvaged in the divorce. While I tossed my aerobics bag into the laundry alcove, he skipped excitedly around the main room, poking his claws at things and staring at them with those big bug eyes. He poked at the couch and chairs, he poked at the old coffee table, he poked at my lamp… He even poked very carefully at my piano keys. When the piano made a noise in response, he jumped back; but then he cautiously stepped forward and poked at the same key. When it made the same sound, he tried another key. For almost a minute, he was delighted to poke out notes, though he had no sense of melody at all. Then suddenly he lost interest, and he moved on.

When Ernie reached the red brick fireplace mantle, he hopped up, stood on his hind legs as proud as could be, and started preening with his foreclaws, first rubbing them against each other and then rubbing one against his face and the other against his wings. He had found his favorite perch. That was fine with me. Human guests often occupied my favorite lounge chair; and though I was polite enough to let them, it always made me feel like a guest in my own cabin. It looked like that wouldn’t be a problem with Ernie.

In fact, I was ready to collapse in my lounge chair as soon as I grabbed a beer; but when I got to the refrigerator, I remembered that I had promised Ernie some supper. “Hey, Ernie, are you hungry?” He definitely was picking up on English, or at least on tone and body language. He came scurrying across the cabin and into my little kitchen, and he peered into the fridge with me. I managed not to shiver too much. That was the closest we had been… practically touching…

“Let’s see… You know, I have no idea what you eat. Hmmm… Eggs?” I pulled out a bowl with two hard-boiled eggs, but he pulled away, waving his foreclaws in a crisscross fashion.. “Milk?” I pulled out the carton; he took a sniff – I think he smelled it, anyway – and pulled back with a soft hissing sound and more crisscrossing. “OK, not big on dairy. Ummm… Carrots?” I reached for a carrot from the crisper; but he started waving his foreclaws before I even got it open. OK, no carrots.

Then I saw the bowl with last night’s leftover spaghetti, and I pulled that out; and at first he did his little side-to-side head bob. I thought spaghetti was a strange thing for an alien insect to eat, but who was I to judge? So I held the bowl out to him; but he leaned over it, stared at it, and then looked up at me out of one eye. “Go ahead,” I said, “you can have it.” But Ernie stuck one foreclaw into the bowl and poked at it. Then he poked at it again, as if he expected it to do something. When the spaghetti insisted on doing nothing, Ernie pulled back and did the crisscross motion.

I despaired of finding anything he could eat; but suddenly Ernie pointed excitedly at a plastic tub full of dirt on the bottom shelf. “This?” I pointed to it, and he bobbed side-to-side. “You want my nightcrawlers?” He weaved more, and started bouncing slightly on his hind legs as well. “Ah, what the hell? Somehow I doubt I’m going fishing tomorrow. OK, Ernie, they’re yours.” I pulled out the tub and handed it to him, and then I grabbed my beer and settled into my chair.

But no sooner had I sat than Ernie hopped into the main room; and with one swift motion, he flung the box of nightcrawlers around the room. Nothing landed on me; but dirt and worms landed everywhere.

“Ernie!” I shouted, before I could control myself. Ernie immediately hopped straight backwards and tried to hide between the fridge and the stove, trembling, his foreclaws crossed over his belly; and I realized that I would have to be very careful how I reacted around this strange little guy. I lowered my voice. “It’s OK, Ernie, I’m not mad. But now we’ve got to clean up all these worms.”

But I didn’t have to worry about the worms. As soon as Ernie realized I wasn’t angry, he hopped back into the room; and immediately he started snatching up worms and stuffing them in his mouth. He stalked carefully around the room, looking under tables and inside nooks and crannies. He looked in the fireplace, in an old pair of boots… He even looked in the piano keys. I thought he was just looking for an excuse to play more “music”; but sure enough, he found a worm nestled between two black keys where I hadn’t even noticed it. He was quite the natural hunter; and it appeared that he only liked to eat when he hunted.

And as for the dirt… As soon as Ernie had hunted down the last worm, he picked up the plastic tub and started cleaning up the clods and specks of dirt. It turned out those spikes on his foreclaws worked pretty well at sweeping; and before long, he held out to me a full tub of dirt. “That’s pretty good,” I said, nodding. He took the tub back to the fridge, put it back where it had come from, and closed the door. Then he returned to the fireplace mantle and started preening again.

I had been so fascinated, I hadn’t touched my beer; but with Ernie’s hunt over, I popped the cap off a bottle of Foggy Mountain Stout and I took a long pull. “Ernie, Ernie, Ernie… What am I going to do with you?” I looked at the blinking light sticking out of the top of my purse: my cell phone. “Maybe I had better call the Spook after all.”

In a flash, Ernie was off the hearth and in my face – or as close as he could get while being so timid. He waved his foreclaws in a frantic crisscross and made his loudest hissing sound yet. “No, don’t call? I really think I should. Your people are worried about you. They want you to come home.”

Ernie lifted his tablet computer and swiped one midclaw across it, and the smiley face disappeared. With a quick flash of his other midclaw, he drew two more dots; but this time the arc beneath them was turned down in a frown. He pointed at the frown, and he trembled. “You don’t want to go home?”

He bobbed side to side. Did that still mean smiling? Or did it just mean yes? “But Ernie, what could be so horrible at home?”

So Ernie proceeded to explain, in the only way he could: by drawing pictures. I was impressed by how fast he could draw using four claws; and though he wasn’t a great artist by human terms, really not much better than stick figures, they were very elaborate stick figures. They told a story.

First he drew a large collection of stick Mantises, some tall, some short. Then he drew a stick person next to one of the taller Mantises, and he added a blue shirt, dark blue pants, boots, medium-length blondish hair…

“Hey, it’s me!” Ernie bobbed assent. Then he drew other stick people near the tall Mantises, each similar to me.

I was confused. “Lots of me?” But Ernie did the crisscross, so I waited for more detail. Then he drew some smaller stick people near the shorter Mantises. These stick people all wore coveralls like our cargo crew, except for one who wore a black suit. With its black hair and square face, it might have been the Spook, except it was so much shorter than the Marla figure. That made no sense, as big as the Spook was.

Unless… “I think I get it. The tall Mantises, they’re females like me, right? And the short Mantises, you’re all males?”

Ernie bobbed vigorously, happy that he was getting through to me. Then he cleared the screen and drew a new scene of just two Mantises, a tall female and a short male. The female he decorated with sparkling bits of color. “She glows?” He crisscrossed. “She… she’s wearing jewelry?” He bobbed. I guess jewelry might be something we have in common with the Mantises. “The others don’t have jewelry like her. Is she powerful?” Another bob. “Some sort of queen?” A half-bob. Maybe “queen” wasn’t the right word, but the Mantis in that picture was someone important.

Then Ernie added one more bit of jewelry: a long, sparkling chain running from the female’s foreclaw to wrap around the male’s neck. I frowned at that. “She owns him?” Ernie bobbed, and he also pointed one midclaw at himself and another at the male figure. “This is you? She owns you?” He bobbed again. “Oh, Ernie, I understand now. You’re a slave, and you’re on the run.” This would be a problem. No matter what the Spook said, I couldn’t turn Ernie over to slavers.

But Ernie crisscrossed. “Not a slave?” He quickly added in a number of riches: piles of worms, jewelry on the male figure, an elaborate hunting spear, a jeweled perch. “She gave you a lot. Were you… some sort of pet?” Crisscross. “A… a family member? Maybe her son, and she controlled you through her wealth?” Ernie did a strange combination of bobbing and crisscrossing. I was close to the right answer, but maybe the relationship didn’t translate precisely in human terms.

Finally Ernie settled on bobbing. A “kept Mantis”, then, in one way or another. Suddenly I understood why Ernie was so skittish around me. He came from a matriarchal society. What was it the Spook had said? “A formal etiquette of ritual and obligation.” He had been raised to see women as his rulers; and apparently that included me as well.

Ernie did something to shrink the image slightly, giving him room to add another female Mantis. This one had even more jewelry than the first. “Someone more important?” Bob. “Is she a queen?” Another half-bob. I still didn’t understand their society.

Then Ernie did something, and his “mother” figure extended her claw out. The other Mantis extended her claw as well, and they passed the jeweled chain from one female to the other. I gasped. “So she’s going to give you away, like… like property?”

Crisscross. Ernie shrunk the image again, this time giving him room to draw a large room decorated in jewels. Then he populated the room with a big crowd of stick Mantises, virtually all tall females. The few males seemed to be carrying trays and burdens, obviously servants. This wasn’t a simple exchange, this was a ceremony of some sort. This was…

“A wedding?” Ernie bobbed, but not eagerly. “She’s going to marry you off, some sort of diplomatic wedding?” Bob. “And you don’t want to get married? You don’t like the bride?”

Ernie crisscrossed vigorously. There was something I was still missing. Ernie tapped the screen and pulled the first female away, into the crowd. Then he moved the male Mantis – him – behind the new female. And then – Well, I can tell you that a Mantis marriage ceremony isn’t exactly something you see around Burns Mountain, or anyplace else I’ve ever been (though one does hear rumors sometimes). In all my life, I’ve never seen a marriage where the bride and groom consummated the marriage right up at the altar! I didn’t, couldn’t know what to say. For Ernie this was normal, no matter how uncomfortable it made me.

Then Ernie changed the scene rapidly twice in succession; and suddenly I knew exactly why he was running away from his wedding. First he showed the bride, twisting sideways and reaching back with both long, lethal foreclaws; and then he showed the bride turned back to the crowd, holding “Ernie’s” decapitated head in both foreclaws as she devoured it.

“Ewwwww!!!!!” I had to look away; and when I looked back, Ernie had added one more gruesome touch: every Mantis in the crowd had a smiley face. Not that they really could smile, but it showed me that for that audience, this was a joyous celebration, no matter what Ernie might think of it. Ritual and obligation.

But obligation or no, the “Ernie” head had a frowning face. Ernie didn’t want to play his part; and how could I blame him? If he went home, he would be just a human… well, just a Mantis sacrifice in some diplomatic affair. Even though it was hard to look at him, I couldn’t send him back to… that. “It’s OK, Ernie. You don’t have to go home. We’ll keep you safe. Somehow.”

Sudden emotion overcame Ernie, more powerful even than his fear of females. He rushed forward, leaned over my chair, and wrapped his foreclaws around me in an awkward hug. Cringing on the inside, I managed to stay calm and mostly keep my voice steady as I gingerly wrapped my arms around him and said, “There, there, Ernie. It’ll be all right.”

I had nightmares about that embrace for half the night; but I’ve never let Ernie know that.

Not that I slept much that night, even after three bottles of Old Foggy. When I wasn’t tossed by nightmares of eyes and claws, I was tossing in bed as I tried to think of answers. I was sure of two things: I couldn’t let Ernie go home to his death; and the Spook was counting on me to do exactly that.

The Spook… Did he know what fate awaited Ernie? I couldn’t believe that. The Spook was as creepy as Ernie, in his own way, but he struck me as a straight arrow. He could’ve messed Henry up bad, but he hadn’t. Yeah, calling the sheriff didn’t make Henry happy, but it probably saved his life and maybe kept him from killing someone else in a crash. Even though the Spook was infuriatingly vague, I think he was doing the right thing as he saw it.

But at the same time, the Spook struck me as not very imaginative. If his orders were to return Ernie, my bet was he would do exactly that, even if he knew what would follow. So even though I felt a little uneasy, like I was betraying the trust of the Spook and the unnamed people he worked for, I just didn’t think I could call him.

But I needed to talk to somebody about this! And Ernie – don’t shudder, Marla – Ernie wasn’t big on conversation. I needed someone who knew about The Fog, and someone understanding, someone I could trust. I needed… Oh, hell, I needed old Nick, like I hadn’t needed him in years. I often missed my old mentor, but I had honestly almost forgotten just how much until that night.

Well, if Nick wasn’t around, there was one other option: the man who had seen me through Nick’s death and after, a man I could trust. I fumbled for my purse beside my bed, and I dug out my cell phone. 4:37 a.m. Awfully early, but I knew he often got up early and worked out. Plus in his business he was used to night time crises of faith. So I dialed the number.

He answered on the first ring. “Father Callahan, how can I help you?”

I spoke softly so as not to wake Ernie. “Father Frank, it’s Marla. I really need some help.”

There aren’t many people that I could call at 4:37 a.m., beg for help with no questions asked, and have them knock on my door at 5:15. But only Father Frank would show up with sourdough biscuits, Canadian bacon, and eggs. I laughed at his bag of groceries, and he just smiled. “I was a Boy Scout, Marla. Be Prepared!”

I smiled back as I ushered him in. “Boy, I hope you are prepared! Come on in. I want you to meet… Ernie.”

To Father Frank’s credit, he never missed a beat: he walked up to the hearth, crouched down, and held out his hand. “It’s very good to meet you, sir. Welcome to Burns Mountain.” Ernie extended a foreclaw and grasped the Father’s hand in his spikes, and they shook hands, man and Mantis.

So I explained about the Spook, and how he had told me a visitor was missing. Then I explained how I had found Ernie, and how we had started communicating through gestures and pictures; but before I could explain what we had communicated, Father Frank shushed me. “Wait a minute, Marla. Meaning no offense, child, but you just had first contact with an alien race. It’s safe to say that there can be many misunderstandings in a situation like this. So I don’t want you to tell me what you think Ernie said; I want him to tell me what he’s saying, and then you and I can compare notes. That way, if we both agree in our interpretations, we’ll have high confidence that we’ve got it right.”

I thought through what he said, and I nodded. “That makes sense. I’ll just cook up these eggs –”

“No, I’ll cook while Ernie and I talk. I need you completely out of the cabin so your reactions don’t influence mine.”

And so I found myself locked out of my own cabin in the pre-dawn darkness, scanning the damp grass with my flashlight as I searched for breakfast for Ernie. It was nearly thirty minutes later, and a faint glow was visible behind the eastern range, when my porch light came on. That was Father Frank’s signal that he was ready to compare notes. So I took the tub of crawlers, trudged back up the slope to the cabin, and went in. I handed the tub to Ernie, and he flung them around the room and delightedly started into his hunt. Father Frank handed me a platter of hot eggs and bacon and a cup of fresh coffee, and he watched in fascination as Ernie ate.

Finally I couldn’t take the suspense any more. “So, Father, what’s your take on his message?”

He took a sip of his own coffee. “We can’t send this poor soul back home to be… mated and eaten.”

I sighed. “That’s what I saw, too. It’s really a hard message to miss.”

“Yes, but the important thing wasn’t what you saw. I had to get a feeling for how Ernie really felt about it. Did he feel obligated to go back despite his fears? Or was he determined not to go? You know that hissing sound he makes… If you listen carefully, there are words in there. That’s a spoken language. Or, well, a breathed language. I managed to pick up a couple of words, and I did a pretty good job of confirming them. No, fear, hide, safe, and one more word: please.”

“Please?”

“Yes. He used that word more often than any of them.”

“So what do you think?”

“You’ll have to decide for yourself, child. I can advise you, but I can’t tell you what to do. But as for myself, I have never seen a more clear cut plea for sanctuary in all my years in the priesthood. I can’t turn this poor lost soul over to his doom.”

That was a relief. At least we saw it the same way. “So what are we going to do? Federal agents are out searching the county for Ernie.”

Father Frank didn’t seem surprised at that, but he turned a piercing stare on me. “Agents? From where?”

I was just trying to figure out how to explain, when my cell phone rang. No caller ID, no number, but I knew who I would hear when I clicked the button. “Marla, it’s me.” No name, of course, but the deep voice was unmistakable.

“Don’t you ever sleep, Spook?”

“Marla, this is important. I’m sending you a picture. Don’t say anything, just look at it.” I didn’t even know my phone could get pictures while I was talking on it; but sure enough, slowly a picture formed of Ernie crawling into Babe’s cab. “After you suggested the Mantis could fly, I started checking the exterior cameras, and I found this. Marla, is he there with you?”

“No,” I answered, but maybe too quickly.

The Spook was not convinced. “Marla, you’re a terrible liar. I could tell you were telling the truth last night, and I can tell you’re lying now. Don’t… If he’s holding you against your will, if you’re in danger, tell me it’s going to rain later.”

“I’m not in any danger, Spook. You don’t understand, this is complicated.”

“Then he is there! All right, Marla, hold onto him. We’ll have a team there in ten minutes. Maybe eight.”

He hung up. If the Spook said eight minutes, I was betting on six. I slipped the phone into my purse and watched Ernie put the tub of dirt back in the fridge. “Ernie! Father! We’ve gotta go!”

“What?”

“The agents are coming for Ernie. There’s no time to figure out a plan, we’ve got to be gone before they get here.”

“Agents? How many are there?”

I unlocked the door and held it open as Father Frank ushered Ernie out. Ernie didn’t seem to mind having a male that close, gently pushing him forward. “They’re all over the county, Father. They’re on a serious manhunt. Well, Mantis hunt. Before we can explain, they’ll grab Ernie and take him back to…” I trailed off, I couldn’t say it.

I closed the door behind them, locked it, and headed for Babe. “Come on, Ernie. In!” I held her door open, and he jumped up inside.

Father Frank hesitated. “Maybe my Hyundai? It’s faster.”

“Not where we’ll be going, Father. I grew up on these roads and trails. There’s no way these agents can find me if I want to get lost. Now time’s a-wasting!”

He stopped arguing, climbed in, and buckled his belt as I started up Babe. She coughed a bit, and for a second I wondered if I had made a mistake; but then she caught, I slammed her into reverse, and I wheeled her around and headed up the drive. When we pulled out of the glow of the porch light, the gloom swallowed us.

I turned west onto Maple, deeper into the mountain range. I figured the agents would be coming from town or from the airport, both of which were to the east. But I was barely even a mile up the road, heading uphill, when I saw the glow of headlights over the rise. Was it the agents? I couldn’t tell; but Miller Hollow Road was coming up fast. I didn’t have time to think, I just jerked the wheel to the right.

I had just made the turn onto Miller Hollow when we heard the sirens approaching. I switched off my lights, pulled Babe over to the shadows on the side of the road, and hoped they hadn’t noticed our lights as well and wouldn’t look too closely at every little side road.

Suddenly a big black sedan with flashing lights zoomed by, heading east for my cabin. They never slowed. We were safe for the moment, but I heard more sirens in the distance. I pulled Babe back onto the road, but I kept the lights off, hoping the slight morning glow would be enough to guide our way.

But the glow didn’t reach far down into the hollow, and soon I needed the headlights again. Miller Hollow was an old, poorly maintained road, with a couple of dangerous switchbacks; and it was lined with trees that crowded the road. It was also prone to rock falls, so I had to be watchful on some of the blind curves.

Luck was with us that much, at least: there were no rock falls that morning, no trees in the road. Soon we were at the bottom of the hollow, where Miller Creek rushed down from the Mountain. The bridge had been out for years; but I barely even slowed, driving Babe straight into the water. I knew this stretch had a rock bottom. We used to ford it this way when we were kids. This time of the year the water might be up to Babe’s undercarriage, maybe a little deeper, but I had driven her through it before.

The spray crashed against Babe’s side, and I had to hold her wheel at an angle as the creek pushed her sideways. I grinned at Father Frank and shouted over the pounding sound, “Still think we should be in your Hyundai?”

Father Frank just laughed back, and he shook his head. I glanced back to the half-cab for just an instant. I had been almost having fun; but then I saw Ernie curled up, all four claws curled over his middle. “What’s wrong with Ernie?” I shouted. “Why’s he grabbing his stomach?”

Father Frank looked back. “He’s all right,” he yelled. “It’s just the noise.”

“Noise?” I shouted.

“His ear is in his abdomen! He’ll be fine when we’re clear.”

But then I wondered if any of us would be fine. A swell smacked against Babe’s side, and it lifted us right off the rocks and dropped us in soft mud on the downstream side. I felt Babe’s wheels start to slip, and I feared she would get stuck; but the four-wheel drive dug in, I gave her steady gas, and we pulled back toward the rocks. I had to gun her a bit to get her back onto the rocks; but then we leaped forward again, and soon we were out of the creek.

Sure enough, as soon as we pulled out on the other side, Ernie perked right up and bobbed side to side. I worked our way back up the switchback on the far side of the hollow. On the ridge behind us, I imagined flashers and sirens converging on my cabin. I imagined the Spook showing up and wondering where we were. I wondered if he was angry, but I didn’t think so: he seemed the type who never lost control. But I didn’t imagine the helicopter I saw sweep overhead and soar toward my cabin.

As we crested the next ridge, my cell signal must’ve returned, since my phone rang immediately. I grabbed it (despite Father Frank’s disapproving stare) and pushed the button.

“Marla!” The Spook wasted no time on hellos. “What’s up? You left!”

I tried one more bluff. “No, we’re out on the lake, Spook.”

“Don’t jerk me around, Marla, I’m not in the mood. People here are very anxious. People upstairs are getting concerned. Do you know how much trouble you’re causing?”

“Spook, do you know how much trouble Ernie’s in?”

“Ernie?”

“The Mantis, Spook. Do you know what’s gonna happen when he gets home? They’re going to marry him off in some sort of diplomatic affair, and then he’s going to get eaten before a live audience!” I left out the whole consummation part. No sense in complicating the discussion.

The Spook was exasperated. “Marla, that’s a myth. Scientists saw that in the lab because they didn’t feed the mantises enough. It never happens in the wild. Well, almost never.”

“Almost never for our mantises, maybe; but for Ernie’s Mantises, it’s part of that ritual you admire so much. And I won’t let that happen to Ernie! Are you seriously telling me you would turn an innocent person over to be sacrificed?”

The Spook paused. “Marla… I didn’t know, you have to believe me. I wish there was something I could do. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, but I don’t have a choice in this. I have orders. I have duties, just like… ‘Ernie’ does. Obligations.”

“Yeah, well, you have ‘obligations’ to your people upstairs, but I have obligations to this Mantis who turned to me for help.”

“Marla, this is not your problem. You can’t feel responsible for this, you’re not involved.”

“Damn it, Spook, that’s not gonna fly! You can’t play your Casablanca secret agent games in our airport, leave us in the dark, and expect us to stay uninvolved. I am involved this time.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. “I need to get Ernie back to his people. They’re flying in this morning, and we’re expected. I’ll work something out if I can, but I have orders. We know you’re on the ridge on the other side of the hollow. Just stay there. I’ll be over in a helicopter –”

He knew we were on the ridge. Damn! Of course he could track my cell phone! I rolled down my window, tossed the phone out, and kicked Babe into high gear.

Father Frank looked at me. He had only heard my side of the conversation, but he was very perceptive. “So where do we go now?”

I rolled the window back up against the morning chill. “If they think they can find me up here, they don’t know a Burns Mountain woman. We’ll get even more lost on the mountain, and we’ll stay lost until the Mantises leave. That will buy us time until we can come up with a plan.”

Father Frank looked like he was about to say something more, but I interrupted. “Look, it won’t be long now.” The growing light showed The Fog coming in. “Yeeehaaa!!!” I yelled.

Father Frank grinned. “Of course! They can’t bring Ernie home without The Fog.”

“Yep! And The Fog will cover the whole damn county – sorry, Father.”

“You’re forgiven, child.”

“I figured that would give us cover to hide up here on trails they won’t even see. Now let a bunch of outsiders try to find me on this mountain! It could take days, maybe weeks for them to find us.”

“And we only need hours. Smart plan, Marla.” I smiled and felt warm inside. Praise from Father Frank mattered.

But sauce for the goose, as they say. I knew those trails very well; but in The Fog, even I had to slow down and squint to pick out landmarks that were usually familiar. And I had to be doubly careful for rock falls and trees. And somehow the only trails I could find all led up the mountain, not down. That confined us to a smaller and smaller area as we climbed; but at least the helicopters wouldn’t spot us until The Fog cleared.

It got harder and harder to navigate, and soon even I wasn’t sure where we were. And worse: that tune-up Babe needed made her extra vulnerable to the thin air up there. Maybe our little swim hadn’t helped, either. She started catching and hiccupping.

Finally I found a trail I recognized, the road leading to Chelsea Gorge. If we could just get across the bridge to the other side of the gorge, I knew an old mining road that no one but romantic kids had used in a decade. We could hide there among the boulders, and no one would find us.

But the arch of Chelsea Bridge had a mighty steep slope and a very high midpoint; and the air was already too thin for Babe. She started coughing and choking before we even left the bridge approach. I coaxed her as best I could, hoping to reach the top and then coast down the other side; but two-thirds of the way up the arch, she just… stopped.

I opened my door. “Come on. We’ve gotta run!”

But Father Frank grabbed my arm. “No, child. There are too many of them. We can’t possibly escape on foot.”

“But we have to! For Ernie! We –” He just shook his head. “You mean, we’re going to let them take Ernie back, and…”

Ernie looked at me. I don’t know if bug eyes can cry, but I swear his looked moist around the edges.

But Father Frank seemed almost calm. “It’s all right, Marla. We do have a plan. Ernie and I worked it out this morning. It was Ernie’s idea, really, I just added in the details and convinced myself it will work. It’ll get him out of this – with his head still attached to his body – and it will all be proper according to Mantis rules.”

“Well, then, why have we been running away? Why didn’t we take care of things at my cabin?”

Father Frank looked away. “Because it’s a plan I didn’t think you could help me with. I wanted to get Ernie to the airport, where Grace or maybe Dawn could help. Since they don’t have your phobia.”

I felt my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. “I… can’t help that. But really, I’m trying.”

He looked back and he patted my arm. “I know you are, child.”

“So if there’s anything I can do to help Ernie, just tell me. I’ll do it, whatever it takes! Just… help me be strong, Father.”

“I’ll help you, and the Lord will. But you have to really mean it.”

“Anything, Father.”

A helicopter passed overhead, and a light splashed past us. Father Frank watched it pass. “All right, but I’ll have to abbreviate. Ernie, climb up here.” He got out of the cab as Ernie scrambled over the seat. The scratching noises of Ernie’s claws on vinyl made my skin crawl, but I was determined not to react.

Father Frank pulled out his good book and turned to a passage marked with an elaborate red ribbon. He leaned in the open passenger window, mumbled to himself as he scanned, and then said, “Here’s the important part. Repeat after me: ‘I, Marla, take thee, Ernest, to be my lawful wedded husband.’”

I shuddered as soon as I realized what was happening. I don’t apologize for that, I couldn’t help myself. But then I repeated the words.

The helicopter landed on the bridge approach. It looked large enough to carry a dozen passengers, but only a single figure emerged. Even at that distance, the Spook looked large and imposing. He walked slowly up the slope, alone. I guess he was trying to reassure us that we were in no danger.

Ernie and I waited in Babe’s cab. Father Frank stood by the door, waiting patiently with a piece of paper in his hand. The Spook got close and nodded. “Father Callahan?”

Father Frank nodded back. “Spook?”

I was surprised to see that the Spook was flustered. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I apologize for the circumstances. You understand, I have my orders.”

The priest shook his head. “Son, are you really going to hide behind ‘I was just following orders’?”

The Spook actually flinched at that. “Father, you have my word: if I – if we have any influence on the Mantis ambassador, we’ll try to intercede for Ernie. I won’t lie, it probably won’t work. But I’ll do what I can.”

Father Frank tapped the paper with a pen. “Can I get you to sign? Will you make your best effort to protect this poor creature?”

The Spook nodded, and he took the paper and pen and signed. I doubt he could read the text in The Fog, which was exactly what Father Frank had counted on. He took the paper back from the Spook, turned to the cab, and spoke loud enough to echo in the gorge: “Then by the powers invested in me, and in front of God and this witness, I now pronounce you Mantis and wife. Ernest, you may now kiss the bride.”

And then – ugh – he did. It took all my nerve to hold still and not pull away; but I wanted the Spook to see that everything was official and proper. So I leaned in to kiss Ernie – somewhere around his nose, I think.

You know? The anticipation was worse than the doing. It was like… like kissing a supper plate. Nothing good about it, but nothing bad, either. Maybe I was getting used to Ernie.

The kiss ended, and Father Frank said, “And now, witness, it is my privilege to present to you Ernest A. Mantis and Marla Tucker-Mantis.”

The Spook’s jaw dropped; and when a jaw like that drops, it could hurt someone. Finally he found words. “Father, you deceived me!”

Father Frank looked innocently in the Spook’s eyes. “I never said what you were signing. Oh, I may have implied; but that was at most a small sin of omission in a good cause. I’ll be sure to tell my confessor. But tell me true, son, aren’t you glad you signed that license? Now Ernie can’t marry the intended Mantis because he’s already married, in a rite the Mantises have recognized as coequal to their own rituals. They’ll have to let him out of the other marriage.”

The Spook’s brow furrowed. I could see he wanted this to work. He really didn’t like the idea of giving Ernie over to die. But he needed an airtight excuse to do the right thing. “But they’ll never accept this as official. I didn’t know what I was witnessing.”

Father Frank said, “You don’t have to tell them that, of course. I think the Lord can tolerate another small sin of omission today.”

“But – But this isn’t a church. And that piece of paper, it’s not issued by the county. And Marla… She’s divorced, and you’re Catholic! They’ll never believe this!”

Father Frank just smiled. “I’m a Jesuit, son. Not only can I convince you how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but I can argue those angels into standing still long enough to count them. You just let me talk to those Mantises for a few minutes, and they’ll see the light.”

And then the Spook smiled back – to my surprise, his face didn’t crack – and with that I knew everything was going to be all right. “Come on, Ernie,” I said, “our ride is here.”

We got out of Babe’s cab, and the four of us started walking down the bridge towards the helicopter. We made quite a sight. Ernie, as was his custom, marched behind me and to my right. Father Frank walked beside him, and they passed the time hissing at each other. Father Frank would point at a thing, Ernie would hiss, and Father Frank would try to imitate the hiss. Sometimes Ernie responded with crisscrossed claws, but sometimes he did the side-to-side bob. A few times he made a vigorous forward bob, which I began to think was Mantis laughter.

Meanwhile the Spook walked beside me. Without turning to look at him, I asked, “What do you think, Spook? Will it work?”

The Spook hesitated. Finally he answered. “I think so, Marla. I have a good feeling about this.”

Just then there was a low rumble in the air. I stopped and looked up, and the three-hulled Mantis craft passed low overhead, on an approach vector from beacon four to the east-west strip at Burns Mountain. I rushed to the edge of the bridge and watched the aircraft fly out of sight. I thought maybe I would see the tower lights in the distance, but The Fog was too thick for that.

The Spook joined me at the bridge rail. I sighed. “I sure can pick ’em, can’t I? First a drunken, lazy bum; and now… a bug.” I glanced sideways at the Spook to if he would chide me for “bug”, but he just smiled again.

I looked around at the beautiful mountain view… The big drop into the gorge, with the bottom lost in The Fog… The valley spread out beyond the gorge… The sun now over the eastern range, fighting to bring light through The Fog, but only succeeding in adding shades of gold to the treetops… It all got to me, and suddenly I laughed. “It sure is a more romantic spot for a wedding than my last one.”

“Oh? Where was that?”

“Ralph’s Drive-Thru Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. I can’t seem to stop getting married behind the wheel.”

At that the Spook laughed as well, a deep rumble to rival the passing aircraft; and then we continued down the bridge and to the helicopter. We were at the side of the craft when the Spook attempted a Bogart imitation and said, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

As I helped Ernie up into the helicopter, I looked back over my shoulder. “I’m flattered at your attentions, I really am, Spook. But you’ll have to stop. After all, I’m a married woman.”

The End

You might also like…

• Honor Guard. General Palmer’s troops return her body to Earth, but the war may not be over.

• Blue Collar Space. The future doesn’t just happen. Somebody has to build it.

• Bobo Buttons, Private Eye. Who killed the boss clown, Jock Robin?

Find more stories at http://Shoemaker.Space!

---

Copyright © 2015 Martin L. Shoemaker

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the author’s imagination, fictitious, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or aliens, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

Cover image: The Invasion Begins
ID 128763429 © Grandeduc | Dreamstime.com

Section divider: © 3drenderings | Dreamstime.com – Mantis Photo

All rights reserved, including but not limited to the right to reproduce this book in any form, electronic or otherwise. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this story via the Internet or any other means without the express written permission of the Publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Support and respect the author’s rights. Published by Old Town Press, a sole proprietorship.
http://OldTownPress.com