Chapter 1— Entering the Fog
A few weak rays of sun struggled onto the deck of the Cat Black Fuchsia Chameleon. The three men had been attempting to steer the boat out of the fog, but had by now given up, and were all lying on deck miserably. They had by this time got used to the thick wet air to a certain extent, but it was still difficult to move for any length of time without getting out of breath. Consequently they had given up their attempts at steering fairly quickly.
"Who's stupid idea was it to sail this way?" said Robert irritably.
"Marc's" said George immediately.
"Well you agreed" Marc replied angrily.
"Didn't" said George
"Did"
"Didn't"
"Oh shut up." screamed Robert. There was silence as the three regained their breath.
"Well we've got up to three days." said George "We can lay here, gather our strength and then turn around."
"And go where?" said Robert "We might as well just keep going, we're outcasts. It doesn't matter if we all die." He paused, and added thoughtfully "That'd be a good line in a song"
A few minutes later he was leaning against the cabin strumming his guitar and singing a particularly depressing composition. George lay in a sad and crumpled heap on the deck, and tried unsuccessfully to see more than a few metres ahead of him through the thick fog. Marc trailed his hand sadly in the water as he hung dejectedly over the side of the boat. The grey waves washed pointlessly against his hand as the boat floated on under the heavy air.
Chapter 2 — Relighting the Fire
Robert sat wrapped in several thick blankets, wearing as many layers of clothes as he could manage at once, but the air was still bitingly cold, even to someone as used to low temperature as himself. It was as if the wind, rather than blowing over the boat, had simply remained hovering above them, chilling the air below any normal level. He watched the icy cloud of his breath spread slowly into the air, before returning to freeze his lungs. He managed with an effort to turn his head to face the huddled forms of George, his tears frozen to his mascara covered eyelashes, and Marc, his head resting weakly against the cabin wall.
It was Marc who eventually broke the silence, his voice quivering. "I'm really sorry." he said weakly "I didn't know it would be like this."
"One of us will have to light the fire again." said George "Or we'll all die.
There was a sudden ripping sound as Marc lifted his face away from the wall to which it had been frozen. "I'll do it" he said, "This is my fault" He struggled forward and began to light the tinderbox. George watched sadly. Robert pushed the pile of wood slightly closer to Marc with his foot, and then gave up.
Eventually a fire was burning. The three men struggled to gather around it and attempted to get some feeling back into their hands and feet, as well as all the rest of their bodies. This done they decided to take some positive action, and prepare supper.
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"I don't understand it" said Robert "I know it's really cold, and the air is really terrible, but we shouldn't be this tired."
"Yeah, there's something really weird about it." agreed George
Marc lifted his hand from the fire and passed George the piece of toast he was holding. George devoured it immediately.
"Lucky we found out about your ability to repel fire really." he said "Since we forgot the toasting fork."
"It's all very well for you." said Marc "It's not your arm getting cramp."
"Well, that's the last of the bread anyway." said Robert "Three slices each." He turned to George. "So, what've we got left?"
George turned the pages of the inventory clumsily, due to his numbed hands. "Half a sack of grain, a few funny looking carrots, and the chickens, plus any eggs they might lay."
"You want me to kill a chicken now, while I have the energy?" asked Robert.
"No need." said George "They've probably pretty much frozen to death."
"Betsy!" Marc gasped, looking around anxiously. Robert held her up by one leg and shook her experimentally. She flopped limply, her feathers crisp.
"I don't know much about chickens, I admit." said Robert "But I'm pretty sure it's dead."
"Poor little chicken" said George sadly. "Lets cook it. Hurry Robert."
Marc sighed. "Couldn't you cook one of the other chickens?"
"Whatever." said Robert, reaching for the nearest of the frozen bodies.
There was a silence in the cabin. "Well" said Robert "Only another two days and we'll be dead." No one had the energy to reply.
Chapter 3 — The Fire is Almost Out
As far could be calculated in their state of permanent semi-darkness it was the second day since the Cat Black Fuchsia Chameleon had entered the fog. The fire had been burning since they had lit it the day before, and Marc was feeding it with what little remained of the wood. Robert was being less than helpful by singing "The fire is almost out and there's nothing left to burn" and strumming along on his guitar.
George sat sadly by the window looking worried. "I can definitely see shapes." he said "Sort of in the air and the sea. But I can't see what they are 'cause they keep moving."
Marc joined him at the window. "He's right" he called back to Robert. "They're horrible." He shuddered. "I wish we weren't here."
"I don't want to know." moaned Robert, sinking inside his blankets "Come away from the window before you freeze to death."
"But we're going to anyway" pointed out George logically "There's no point in making it last longer than we have to." But he moved back inside the cabin and flopped limply to the floor. Marc struggled back over to the fire, his limbs heavy and unwieldy.
The cabin was by this time slowly filling up with fog, which leaked through the gaps between the boards even when the window was kept shut. The three were again having trouble breathing.
"I'm so tired." said Robert "I might as well just give up now and freeze to death. It'd be easier." There was a discouraging lack of attempts to persuade him not to let himself die.
"Well I can't stay awake any longer" said George "I'm gonna have to go to sleep, even if I am taking a chance on whether or not I'll wake up."
Marc dragged himself into a sitting position. "Come on. Sit up and stay awake. You never know, we might make it." He said hopefully.
"What makes you so cheerful in the face of death?" asked Robert.
"I'm not cheerful." said Marc. "I'm scared."
"Me too" said George quietly.
Robert sighed "Yeah, so am I" he admitted.
"Well if we're going to stay awake" said George "Perhaps we should sing. That's what people usually do in this kind of situation."
"Sure" Robert shrugged "What're we singing?"
"Remember that song I sang to you, Karma Chameleon?" said George "That's pretty lively. What's your most lively song Robert?"
"Lovecats, I guess." said Robert "What about you Marc?"
"Twentieth Century Boy's good to sing." suggested Marc.
"Okay, we'll sing them in order." said George "Ready?"
And so for the first, and possibly last time ever the voices of Boy George, Robert Smith and Marc Bolan sang together. George's higher voice mingled with Robert's low moan and Marc's strange bleating. As the boat sailed across the darkened sea the fog deepened and the cold increased. And slowly the three voices wavered and weakened until they were just hoarse whispers. And the whispers grew quieter until there was no sound but silence.
Chapter 4 — Breathless
The Cat Black Fuchsia Chameleon ploughed aimlessly through the almost solid water. It was surrounded by thick grey waves of mist which seemed to almost weigh it down in the water. The deck was empty, and unendingly grey. The rudder, unmanned, hung loosely in the dull water.
Inside the cabin all was silent and still. The wheezing of George's breath, the muttered sighs of the sleeping Robert and the slow crying of Marc had long died out. George lay on his side, his kohl-lined eyes wide open but sightless. Robert had curled himself into a ball, his arms wrapped around himself. The fog curled around him, but he could no longer feel the cold. Marc's face glistened with ice, which mingled with his blue glitter and brought a hint of colour to his white face. Nothing moved but the coils of mist. The boat sailed on through the darkening waters.
