I slapped my forehead in frustration and anger at myself, wondering how I could have been stupid enough to forget the Scout's AM/FM for so long.
"Don't do that," Mrs. Reppler said curtly. "You can't think of everything. If you try, you will go mad and be of no use at all."
I got nothing but a shriek of static all the way across the AM band, and the FM yielded nothing but a smooth and ominous silence.
"Does that mean everything's off the air?" Amanda asked. I knew what she was thinking, maybe. We were far enough south now so that we should have been picking up a selection of strong Boston stations - WRKO, WBZ, WMEX But if Boston had gone
"It doesn't mean anything for sure," I said. "That static on the AM band is pure interference. The mist is having a damping effect on radio signals, too."
"Are you sure that's all it is?"
"Yes," I said, not sure at all.
We went south. The mileposts rolled past, counting down from about forty. When we reached Mile 1, we would be at the New Hampshire border. Going on the turnpike was slower; a lot of the drivers hadn't wanted to give up, and there had been rear-end collisions in several places. Several times I had to use the median strip.
At about twenty past one - I was beginning to feel hungry - Billy clutched my arm. "Daddy, what's that? What's that!"
A shadow loomed out of the mist, staining it dark. It was as tall as a cliff and coming right at us. I jammed on the brakes. Amanda, who had been catnapping, was thrown for-ward.
Something came; again, that is all I can say for sure. It may have been the fact that the mist only allowed us to glimpse things briefly, but I think just as likely that there are certain things that your brain simply disallows. There are things of such darkness and horror-just, I suppose, as there are things of such great beauty - that they will not fit through the puny human doors of perception.
It was six-legged, I know that; its skin was slaty gray that mottled to dark brown in places. Those brown patches reminded me absurdly of the liver spots on Mrs. Carmody's hands. Its skin was deeply wrinkled and grooved, and clinging to it were scores, hundreds, of those pinkish "bugs" with the stalk-eyes. I don't know how big it actually was, but it passed directly over us. One of its gray, wrinkled legs smashed down right beside my window, and Mrs. Reppler said later she could not see the underside of its body, although she craned her neck up to look. She saw only two Cyclopean legs going up and up into the mist like living towers until they were lost to sight.
For the moment it was over the Scout I had an impression of something so big that it might have made a blue whale look the size of a trout-in other words, something so big that it defied the imagination. Then it was gone, sending a seismological series of thuds back. It left tracks in the cement of the interstate, tracks so deep I could not see the bottoms. Each single track was nearly big enough to drop the Scout into.
For a moment no one spoke. There was no sound but our breathing and the diminishing thud of that great Thing's passage.
Then Billy said, "Was it a dinosaur, Dad? Like the bird that got into the market?"
"I don't think so. I don't think there was ever an animal that big, Billy. At least not on earth."
I thought of the Arrowhead Project and wondered again what crazy damned thing they could have been doing up there.
"Can we go on?" Amanda asked timidly. "It might come back."
Yes, and there might be more up ahead. But there was no point in saying so. We had to go somewhere. I drove on, weaving in and out between those terrible tracks until they veered off the road.
That is what happened. Or nearly all-there is one final thing I'll get to in a moment. But you mustn't expect some - neat conclusion. There is no And they escaped from the mist into the good sunshine of a new day; or When we awoke the National Guard had finally arrived; or even that great old standby: It was all a dream.
It is, I suppose, what my father always frowningly called fan Alfred Hitchcock ending," by which he meant a conclusion in ambiguity that allowed the reader or viewer I to make up his own mind about how things ended. My father had nothing but contempt for such stories, saying they were "cheap shots."
We got to this Howard Johnson's near Exit 3 as dusk began to close in, making driving a suicidal risk. Before that, we took a chance on a bridge that spans the Saco River. It looked badly twisted out of shape, but in the mist it was impossible to tell if it was whole or not. That particular game we won.
But there's tomorrow to think of, isn't there?