Chapter 13
It is March 7th, 3:01 a.m.
And there is smoke in the air.
Moving through the compound of dull colored temporary homes of those who protect and serve. The fog moves at a leaden pace with no rush or worry of being caught. Not like it will, because it won't. Because they made sure it wouldn't. And they made sure to its targets it would be just another night of sleep. Another night, but no morning.
It swivels and bends through the creases of the murky colored tents. It slithers and whispers with feet that can't be heard through the floorboards of the mild air inside. It moves, stealthily like a crouching tiger, deeper into the premises of tent I-77.
The two men are sleeping in their designated locations. One is thrown over across his cot, his legs dangling at the too-small-a-bed edges. His arms are above his head, stretched against the tents cotton canvas and grazing the plastic mat beneath the gray cot. This man's shirt is pulled up enough to expose his navel and he has a grin on his face, the corners of his mouth smeared with hot saliva.
The other man is curled inward, his back to the flaps of the tent. His long legs are tucked close to his chest, his arms wrapped around a blanket that isn't on his body. His face is set in a grimace and the mouth is drawn into pain- or maybe some form of sadness. Because there's many types of sadness.
Neither seem to be aware of the creeping smoke.
Because it is odorless.
Because the reason it was designed was for one reason and one reason alone.
To kill.