Private James Murphy, British Army Twelfth Company, quietly scribbled in his notebook, trying to drown out Corporal Keegan’s screams that echoed from the Fog above. The shrieks had long seized sounding human, morphing instead into a disjointed cacophony of every pitch the human throat can make.

    No man deserves whatever’s happening out there, James thought to himself. He remembered the poor bugger even showed him an old photo of his wife and two wee kids.

    It was their voices that Keegan heard that consequently prompted him to climb out.

    Stay in the trench. That became the only rule after the Fog had rolled in. Stay in the trench, surrounded by the mud and the disease and decay, because whatever’s out there is a hell of a lot worse than anything in here.

    The Fog had other ways of getting to you, of course, even in the relative safety that the trenches provided. Every couple of hours, some new poor sod would start hearing things; voices of their relatives back home, or the marching of nonexistent feet, or whatever else the Fog could get you with. Murphy saw first hand how the voices wormed their way into his companions’ minds. He recalled poor old Keegan talking about how he could hear his daughters, he could hear his wife calling for help from the fields above.

     The muttering eventually gave way to gibberish, as the victim’s minds would simply give out. Some would fall into a trance, staring dead-eyed up at the pale grey sky, before jolting back to life and making the fatal climb. Some would be more vocal about their condition, falling into deluded hysterics, screaming, crying, kicking, whatever it took to leave the trench; leave at all costs. Keegan heard his family crying for help. Before that, Peters claimed he heard the marching of reinforcements coming their way. Callaghan, in his hysterics, swore he saw his best mate’s dead face rising up from the mud, taunting him, laughing through the jagged hole where the mouth was. They tried tying the latter down, thinking the fits may pass. They woke up that night to find him already gone, having torn his own hands off to escape the makeshift cuffs.

    There were only four men left in that trench. Murphy was a Londoner by heart. Hawkstone’s aristocratic drawl seemed almost like a mockery of their current predicament. Garthwaite, a gruff highlander had a burning hatred for Germans such as their last unwilling companion, the German. The prisoner, whose real name nobody knew nor cared to ask for, was a scrawny lad no older than seventeen, subject to persistent mockery and aggression from Garthwaite, others making only feeble attempts to stop the abuse.

    After the last of Keegan’s screams had finally died out, the deafening silence took hold. These weren’t the usual noises of war. There was no gunfire, no distant mines exploding, no bombers passing overhead. Not even a single drop of rain. The Fog drowned out sound as much as it obscured vision.

    Though the German was their prisoner, the label seemed less and less appropriate. Who were they keeping him from? Would the kid really dare to climb out and try to make it back to his own lines, if given the chance? They might as well have been the only ones left on the battlefield, maybe the only ones left in the world. Not a single bullet flew by in days. Maybe in weeks. Time seemed irrelevant under the Fog, as did this entire godforsaken war.

    “I bet Ol’ Willie’s having a good laugh at our expense back in Berlin,” muttered Garthwaite, his beady eyes fixated on the German. “Whassa matter, Chamberpot? Don’t like the view from the other side?”

    “Leave him be,” Hawkstone said, in that calm yet affirming voice all the well-bred seemed to have. “Had this been a plot by the Germans, don’t you think they’d take advantage and attack us by now?”

    Murphy put his pencil down, having finished writing yet another letter his Lucy would never receive. He never liked Garthwaite. Back home, his kind would always make up the bulk of Scotland Yard’s visitors. Big, angry bullies like him would give Murphy the most trouble on his nightly patrols, starting bar fights or drunkenly harassing unfortunate passersby. Murphy kept this to himself, casually observing the usual debate between his two squadmates.

    “Oh come off it, mate,” Garthwaite toyed with a rusty pan ladle. “Why go anywhere when this damned gas can fight the good fight for them?” He pointed to the now barren trench surrounding the men. “Look at that – everybody’s gone, an’ they didn’t have to fire off a single bullet!”

    “That’s captain to you, Garthwaite. You are a soldier defending the British Crown, and if we ever hope to win this battle, you will carry yourself accordingly-”

   “It doesn’t matter anymore!” Garthwaite suddenly exploded, towering over Hawkstone’s meager frame. “Don’t you two dobbers get it?! It doesn’t bloody matter!”

    He suddenly got up and threw the pan lid at the German’s head. He missed, and the ladle landed a few feet away “Look at that!” the Scot frantically pointed at the barren trench. “Everybody’s gone! Everybody! Becket, Callaghan, Keegan, McNess-” he grabbed the German by the hair. “An’ these sausage eaters didn’t even ‘ave ta fire off a single bullet!”

    “Stand down, private.” Something glittered in Hawkstone’s hand. A Webley. “That is an order.”

    Fear briefly flashed in Garthwaite’s eyes when he saw the revolver pointed at him. But just as Murphy predicted, the highlander wasn’t the type to show vulnerability for long. Instead, he released the German and sat down on a pile of rotting planks.

    “We’re all gonna die down here you know. We’re all gonna wander off into that damned Fog sooner or later, just like the others.” Garthwaite whispered something else barely audible, something akin to, “I don’t wanna die like this.”

    The German, now free, leaned against the wall of the trench, glaring at his captor like a kicked dog.

    How quickly they turned on each other, Murphy thought as he and Hawkstone traded concerned glances. Garthwaite never was the most stable type, and his worsening mood swings may very well have been a sign he was next.

     Deep down, Murphy almost hoped Garthwaite was next.

    The rest of the day was spent in uncomfortable silence. Hawkstone kept an eye on Garthwaite and the German so as to keep one from murdering the other, while Murphy returned to his letter. It had gotten to the point where he maniacally rewrote the same passage over and over again with the small wooden stub that once resembled a pencil, but he didn’t care. Pointless as it may have been given the circumstances, the writing allowed him to concentrate on something besides the cold filth of the trench or the prospect of unimaginable suffering floating just overhead.

    Night came just as before. There were no stars in the sky, and no moon. The Fog simply adopted a slightly darker shade of grey, signifying that it was time for the four men to eat what remained of their rations and try, in vain, to drift off to sleep.       Murphy was laying there, his eyes shut. He wasn’t sleeping – far from it – rather, listening to the overbearing nothingness around him. What he wouldn’t do for just one distant gunshot, one faraway explosion. Some indicator they weren’t completely alone.

    And then he heard it. A wet, dull thud, like a butcher’s mallet tenderizing the fresh carcass. And then another. And another. Something was happening. The first thing Murphy saw when he opened his eyes was Hawkstone’s grim face. The captain’s look said it all – Garthwaite.

     Getting up and quietly peeking around the corner of the trench, the two men saw their brother in arms towering over the German, malevolent triumph on his face. Garthwaite held the prisoner by his collar, holding something in his other hand – a shiv, carved from the rusty pan ladle.

    “Sit there and mock us, will you,” Garthwaite murmured in a low, borderline growling voice that Murphy never heard from him before. The shiv drifted over to the German’s face and the boy howled in pain, his scream dulled by the dry hoarseness of his throat and Garthwaite’s rapid muttering. “murderousgoddamnedbastardsILLTEACHYE-”

    “Private Marcus Garthwaite, Highland Light Infantry,” Hawkstone commanded, slowly raising his hands up as he inched toward the soldier. “Let that prisoner go. That is an order.”

    “Ah. Ye two show up just in time. I think I’ve finally gone through to ‘im.” Garthwaite pointed to the whimpering German, who was now sporting a long, bloody gash across his face. The boy was muttering something resembling a prayer in his native tongue, cut short by Garthwaite’s fist colliding with his jaw. “Ah, don’t let him fool ya. These Germans are a sneaky type they are.”

    “I do not permit torture in this unit.” Hawkstone tried to uphold his commanding demeanor, but Murphy could see his voice was on the brink of cracking. “You are not well, Garthwaite. This Fog… this damned Fog… It’s taking advantage of your anger. Making you think irrational things. It did the same to Keegan.”

    Hawkstone slowly reached out toward Garthwaite, but the Scot recoiled in rage.

    “Don’t you dare talk about Keegan!” he growled, his voice growing more and more animalistic. “Yer responsible for him as much as this goddamn German is!”

      “What?” A mix of shock and indignation appeared on Hawkstone’s face.

“You.” Garthwaite triumphantly pointed his meaty at his superior. “Yer entire kind, matter o’ fact. Prancin’ around in the uniform yer Daddy paid for, thinkin’ it gives you the right to sit back an’ order men to their deaths like they’re toy soldiers?”

   “He’s lost it, sir,” Murphy whispered to Hawkstone, trying to gesture for him to stand back. “I’ve seen this before. We need to apprehend him. Now.”

    “Lower your weapon now, or I will have you court martialed for disobedience and war crimes,” Hawkstone commanded, either unaware or blissfully ignorant of the danger he was in.

    “It’s you that got all them boys killed!” Garthwaite continued his mad tirade, swinging his shiv around like a machete. “Ye don’ have the guts ta go an’ fight yerselves, can’ even properly interrogate this German swine,” he suddenly turned and struck the German across his bleeding face, landing a series of punches with each successive word. “Even when yer entire! Unit! Is gone!”

    Hawkstone seized the moment and reached for his revolver, but before he could fire, Garthwaite lunged at him, pouncing like a wounded tiger and pushing the shiv straight into his commanding officer’s throat.

    Hawkstone’s eyes widened. It wasn’t pain, nor shock that was on his face. Rather disbelief. He tried to say something, but only let out a single throaty gasp, as blood poured from the newly formed hole in his neck. He took one step forward, and then toppled over, collapsing right at his killer’s feet.

    Garthwaite stared at Hawkstone’s corpse, then at his own bloodied hands, then at Murphy. “I – I didn’t wanna do it…” he mumbled almost incoherently. “He… he had a gun… I had no choice… Murphy, I had no choice…”

    After a momentary pause, adrenaline surged over Murphy, and he sprung on the murderer, knocking him to the ground. Garthwaite no longer had the size advantage, so Murphy blindly railed on him.

    “Murderin’ bastard! Degenerate!” Murphy shouted landing punch after punch after punch. “You’re the damn monster here!”

    He was suddenly interrupted by a loud click. The combatants turned to find the German sitting to the right of them, holding Hawkstone’s revolver in his trembling hand.

    “Ah, look what ye’ve done now, boy.” Garthwaite said, dark glee on his battered face. “I said we should’ve killed ‘im when we had the chance.”

Murphy stared into the dark barrel of the pistol, almost hypnotized by it.

   “Don’t do this,” Murphy quietly said to the terrified kid who could end both their lives with the twitch of a finger. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please do not do this.”

   “E-Ein kugel.” the German finally muttered, his voice shaking and on the verge of tears. “Ein kugel.”

    The German suddenly raised the barrel to his own chin, and without any hesitation, fired. The shot echoed through the empty ravine, as a trail of blood erupted over the muddy wall. A few droplets flew up into the Fog, seemingly vanishing.

   “No!” screamed Garthwaite, pushing Murphy off of himself in a fit of primal rage. “He could’ve told us how to get out! You just doomed us, you mad bastard!”

    He jumped on top of Murphy and clasped his calloused hands around the Londoner’s throat.  As his vision blurred and his head started to spin from the lack of oxygen, Murphy, suddenly out of the corner of his eye, spotted something – his old pencil.

    As animal instinct took over, Murphy reached out for the pencil, and without          

thinking, stabbed wildly at the air, hitting Garthwaite square in the shoulder.

    “AaAAah!” Garthwaite bellowed, loosening his grip on Murphy as he tried to pull the splintering wood out of his arm.

    Seizing the moment, Murphy grabbed the murderer and, tapping into the strength he never knew he had, pushed him upward, into the deadly Fog.

    Up until this point, nobody really knew what happened to those who went into the Fog. By the perpetual smell of burning flesh in the wake of someone’s demise, Murphy theorized that the Fog must have been acidic in nature. The reality was far, far different.

    Garthwaite’s head simply… dissolved. Not melted nor exploded, but rather completely disassembled down to the smallest detail. Fibers of skin, flesh, bone and brain matter faded into the air, each layer simply dissolving into a red mist of particles, mixing in with the milky whiteness of the fog. The process lasted no more than ten agonizing seconds. Garthwaite’s mad screaming stopped as his vocal cords faded away. The man didn’t struggle. Eventually, nothing was left but a stump in place of a neck, and Garthwaite’s body collapsed on the floor.

    Murphy lay quietly on his back, motionless, surrounded by the corpses of the men he fought alongside and against. How long had he been laying for, he didn’t know. Was it minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

    Suddenly, something new caught his attention. His eyes, so used to the surroundings painted dull grey by the Fog, now saw a color. A sharp, crisp yellow cut through the monotony of grey.

    A sunbeam.

    Murphy’s eyes traveled with the tiny golden ray, desperate not to lose sight of it. Then another one appeared. And another. Turning to the sky, Murphy saw the very last thing he expected: a clearing. A small yet rapidly expanding blue opening amidst the greyish-white.

    Pushing Garthwaite’s corpse off himself, Murphy stared in disbelief as the Fog, the damning, suffocating, ghostly fog that confined him and his mates to the trenches, forcing them to hide like rats in the filth, was vanishing. Already, the sun, that wonderful yellow-white disk, was peaking from out of the clouds, bathing the entire battlefield in life.

    He made it. He, Private James Murphy, British Army Twelfth Company, made it. He finally stood up. The sun welcomed him. It beckoned him towards it, to life, to safety, to the world he thought he would never see again. Come Brit, come German, come Russian; it didn’t matter anymore. He would see his Lucy again. He was saved. Still shaken, Murphy carefully climbed out of the trench, into freedom. The fresh air welcomed him, he felt ecstatic, he felt free, he felt…

    Pain?

    Stay in the trench, that was the rule. Stay in the trench, and don’t give in to the Fog’s illusions and its tricks. Don’t let the Fog get to you.

    The empty trenches lay in dead silence. There was nobody left to listen to Murphy’s screams, echoing like a mad cacophony as the Fog claimed yet another victim.