Steven ducked his head just in time to avoid getting hit by the pickaxe.

  "Be more careful with those tools," he grunted. "You're going to take my eye out."

  "You complain too much," replied Mike, who was walking in front of him, supposedly to spot any potential breaks in the ice.

  Mike was carrying a pickaxe, a shovel, and a makeshift fishing pole over his shoulder, swaying to the rhythm of his slow steps. Whenever he slipped, the tools would jerk unpredictably. Steven had already taken two unexpected blows. He decided to slow his pace and let Mike pull ahead, for his own safety.

  The cold of the Thames was beginning to seep into his feet, making it difficult to advance, as if keeping his balance on the frozen roof of the river wasn't enough. A nauseating, sticky stench enveloped them, too persistent to come solely from the garbage and debris scattered across the river's surface. That stench was coming from the depths of the Thames; Steven was convinced of it. When he looked down, he couldn't help but imagine a torrent of sewage flowing beneath the ice, beneath his trembling steps and those of his stubborn companion. It disgusted him completely, and yet he had let Mike talk him into going fishing right there of all places.

  "It's the perfect spot," his friend had said, brimming with confidence and certainty.

  It was always like that with him. He was always convinced he'd found a solution, and he always managed to dismantle Steven's protests.

  "If it's so perfect, it'll be crowded," Steven replied.

  But Mike's optimism never faltered.

  "That's the best part. There isn't a single soul," he assured him. "We're going to catch so much we'll grow scales from all the fish we're going to eat."

  "It's impossible for a place like that to exist without anyone claiming it."

  And yet it was true. There was a place to fish in peace without street gangs beating you to a pulp for trespassing on their turf. Of course, there was a reason why no one prowled around that area, a reason Mike had kept from him and that Steven should have guessed. His friend seemed incapable of proposing anything normal, anything without risk. Steven suspected Mike was immune to fear.

  He still didn't understand why he always ended up tangled in his reckless schemes. He pondered this as he walked, studying the ice carefully before every step.

  Most likely, Steven ended up following Mike's terrible advice because he couldn't come up with anything himself, plain and simple. It was the trait he hated most about himself: his indecisiveness. Mike, on the other hand, always had some initiative, even if it wasn't brilliant. And now he desperately needed his friend to be right, for this not to be another one of his crazy ideas. Steven was very thin; he hadn't eaten a single thing in two days, and he had a family to feed. They had to find food at all costs.

  Life in London had turned out to be disgusting. Had he known, Steven never would have entered the big city. He would have stayed on the outskirts, on the other side of the wall, dealing with the scavengers as best he could.

  His luck began to go downhill ever since they bumped into the radioactive man. That's what Mike called him. That lanky, big-nosed guy they had found in the crater, the radioactive zone where they got the telio, another one of his inseparable companion's brilliant plans. After leaving the poor man to his fate, they had finally managed to score a smuggled city pass. They gathered their meager belongings and left everything behind to go to London, wrapped in hope.

  They ran into their first obstacle upon entering the city, right at the London Wall. It happened just as a convoy arrived from the Secure Zone of the North, with a truck carrying an enormous cannon, led by a spectacular limousine. Steven hadn't seen one that elegant in years, not since before the Wave, of course, probably not since he worked in London as a watchmaker at Big Ben. Some sort of altercation broke out with the detachment of northerners when Gordon and Nathan arrived. Then there was an explosion. A gaping hole opened up in the ground, and the truck carrying the cannon sank into it. Steven's wife was injured; she broke her leg, and they had to take her to the hospital.

  But the misfortunes didn't end there. They admitted Steven's wife, and they had to sell what little telio they had left to pay the bill. Steven had a terrible time waiting for his wife to recover. The soldiers guarding the hospital were a bunch of undesirables who wasted their time playing poker and complaining, and they wouldn't let him see his wife. They were in a foul mood because they had lost some comrades in a very strange mission from which only some guy named Rick had survived. And then there was also a major incident at the hospital. Apparently, someone escaped by blowing a hole in the wall—a patient, no less.

  When they got out of the hospital, Mike and Steven found themselves jobless. Their contract to work as day laborers on a construction site had been terminated. Apparently, a company called the T.U.C. had bought the lot where they were supposed to work and they were putting up a rather ugly black building.

  They went extremely hungry. There was a moment when despair almost got the better of Steven. If it hadn't been for a generous handout he received, he wouldn't have been able to feed his family. It was given to him by a peculiar character, a lanky young guy with blue eyes and dark hair who was completely covered in a black cloak. He talked a lot, in an overly ornate manner, and bowed frequently, never dropping his smile. It was unnerving. But he saved him and his loved ones from malnutrition, for a while at least.

  Mike and Steven had no choice but to beg, and that wasn't easy in London either. They were forced to join a beggar organization that lived in the sewers. Life was very hard. They ate a lot of rat meat and were entirely too cold. They heard strange rumors about some new inhabitants, a new gang made up of people wearing dark raincoats. Mike and Steven didn't put much stock in those rumors, but they made sure to stay away from the areas where the members of that mysterious gang supposedly operated.

  The only pleasant moment of their stay in London took place down there, in a tunnel cut off by a huge hole that contained a bank of fog inside. Logically, no one went near that area, but Mike insisted it was a good place to hunt for rodents. It was there that they stumbled upon the most beautiful sight Steven had ever beheld. A spectacular dark-haired woman was with two men, giving them incomprehensible orders.

  "I want the runes engraved before tomorrow. If there is a single flaw in the trap and I don't manage to successfully impersonate Diago because of you..."

  Steven didn't understand her, but he didn't care. She was so beautiful she turned every woman he'd ever seen in his life into monsters. Tall, well-proportioned...

  Mike dragged him out of there. Apparently, he was immune to beauty as well. The fact of the matter is it was a good thing he did, because they later found out there had been a cave-in there that shook the whole tunnel.

  That same afternoon, Mike surprised him again. He got a job working as a mover for Jack Kolby, the tycoon. According to what his intrepid friend explained, Jack himself had tracked them down, following the trail of the telio they had sold on the black market. The millionaire was very interested in the crater and everything related to the telio. That's where they learned that Raven, the radioactive man, had died. They overheard Jack by chance as he was talking to a gigantic black man with a shaved head.

  "Raven and the rest have already gone to heaven," Jack was saying. "Naturally, they have no idea where they've ended up..."

  They didn't manage to catch much more. Steven felt a slight twinge of pity for that skinny guy.

  Shortly after, the scene repeated itself. They finished a delivery of something that was boxed up and weighed a ton, and while they were resting, they saw Jack talking to an individual they didn't recognize at all.

  "If you don't teach me how to handle those swords, we won't stand a chance," Jack grunted. He looked angry, chewing hard on the cigar sticking out of his lips.

  "I'm not authorized yet," replied the stranger, a tall, slightly hunched-over individual. It caught Steven's attention that his jacket had two vertical slits in the back. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait."

  "We'll see about that," Jack said grudgingly. "There's another way to learn..."

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Steven didn't understand Jack's fixation with sword fighting. He couldn't imagine a man in his position wasting his time on that. And yet it must have been a very important matter to him, because when he realized that he and Mike had accidentally overheard part of the conversation, he fired them. And he didn't pay them for the days they'd worked.

  So they ended up jobless and penniless once again. They wandered the streets of London looking for any opportunity to scrounge up some food. They crossed paths with a lot of strange people, very different from the ones found outside the big city. There was one group in particular that Steven would never forget. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but something about the way those guys moved was different. They vaguely reminded him of the man who refused to give Jack sword fighting lessons. At the front was a long-haired redhead with an impeccable goatee. And the most incredible thing was two blond twins, roughly six-and-a-half feet tall, walking with bare arms, completely unfazed by the freezing London climate. Steven had never seen two people so alike.

  They also bumped into some pretty strange people at Highgate Cemetery. They were forced to spend a night there among its graves and mausoleums. And when they woke up, there was a large group of men prowling the area, all of them wearing those strange black raincoats with slits down the back. They took off before there was any trouble, although those people seemed very focused on whatever they were doing and didn't even look at them.

  The only food they managed to get was a dented, rusty can Steven salvaged from a dumpster. It contained meat of some sort. He gave it to his family and went looking for more, after lying and telling them he'd already eaten a little. He didn't want to worry them too much if he could avoid it.

  Hunger was giving Steven terrible cramps, and that was how he ended up following Mike across the ice covering the Thames, driven by desperation, consumed by the need to find something to put in his mouth.

  Steven tried to be positive and not give up. He pictured his wife and daughter's faces when he brought them a couple of fish—fresh meat to feed on. The thought cheered him up a little, and he managed to curl his lips into a hint of a smile as he held his hands out to keep his balance.

  He realized there was no longer any garbage or filth on the ice. They had reached an unusually clean section of the river. Steven turned around and saw all the debris they were leaving behind on the frozen surface of the Thames. He looked back ahead and saw the explanation right in front of him. Lurking, imposing, as gloomy and menacing as ever.

  The Fog.

  That was the reason no one came near this part of the river—a very compelling reason at that. A reason Mike had hidden from him, one that chased away all the worries in Steven's mind in one fell swoop, making room for fear. The enormous mass of fog occupied practically the entire river basin, even though they had reached the widest stretch.

  Mike moved forward with a carefree stride, heading straight into the fog. Steven never ceased to be amazed by his friend. He gathered the courage to follow him, mentally preparing the excuse of the cold to justify the chattering of his teeth.

  "Aren't we close enough already?"

  Mike turned around, looked at him, and set the tools down on the ice.

  "I told you we'd be alone," he reminded him. He wasn't gloating. Nor was he showing pride or boasting about his ingenuity. He said it simply, almost in a bored tone, like someone talking about the weather. "Though the closer we get, the fewer people will have been here and the better fish we'll catch."

  "We'll be fine right here," Steven was quick to point out. "Any closer, and I'm sure the fish disappear into the fog."

  He couldn't believe Mike didn't feel even a shred of fear.

  "Good point." Mike grabbed the pickaxe. "I hadn't thought of that. Let's get to work. We're lucky people are afraid of the fog."

  "It doesn't scare you?"

  "Why would it scare me? The most extraordinary thing about the fog is that it never changes, under any circumstances. If it doesn't move, there's no danger, no matter how close we are to it."

  The reasoning was extraordinarily logical and simple, so much so that it should have been enough to chase the fear away. But it wasn't. Kids know there's nothing in the closet, and yet they still fear a monster will emerge from inside and devour them. That's how fear works, ignoring all reason—except in Mike's case.

  Breaking through the thick layer of ice was going to cost them more effort than they had anticipated. Steven lost track of time, focusing only on raising the pickaxe and bringing it down with his meager strength, alternating his strikes with Mike's.

  "Wait! Hold on a second."

  Mike snorted.

  "Giving up already? Swing the pickaxe, we're almost through the ice."

  "That's not it," Steven said. "It's the fog... it moved."

  "You're not going to scare me with..."

  "Look out!"

  Mike jumped at the shout.

  "What is it now?"

  Steven was trembling, pointing his finger.

  "T-The ground..." he stammered. "Look."

  Something had appeared beneath the ice. An elongated shape. It stretched out between them, like an immense line that hadn't been there before, trailing off toward the fog. The ice made it impossible to clearly make out what it was. Steven had a feeling it was nothing good; he felt the urge to flee immediately.

  Mike crouched down, resting his hands on the surface, and brought his face close to the ice.

  "I could swear it's moving."

  He was right. The strange shape was trembling and undulating, though it held its position.

  "I don't care if it's moving or holding still," Steven said, not hiding his agitation. "Let's get out of here."

  "Maybe it's a snake," Mike ventured. "It must be huge. Can you imagine how much meat?"

  Steven forced him to his feet with a sharp tug on his arm.

  "Can't you be reasonable for once? That is not edible, I guarantee it."

  But Mike kept staring at the ground, as if his vision could penetrate the ice. Steven grew impatient, looking for some detail to convince his stubborn friend that they needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

  Suddenly, the shape beneath the river glowed—or at least that's what it looked like to Steven. The ice turned whiter, a bit more transparent. There was a light down there, an orange light... or maybe yellowish? It was hard to tell.

  "Did you see that?" asked Steven, his mouth hanging open.

  The light flickered, swaying beneath the ice as if it didn't come from a steady source, as if it were...

  Then he realized what it was. And he fell to the ground.

  "What's wrong, Steven? Are you okay? You've gone pale."

  "I-It's... It's fire!"

  "What? That's impossible. It's underwater. Come on, calm down."

  Steven scrambled to his feet.

  "It's fire! Look closely!"

  Mike ducked his head down again to look.

  And in that exact instant, another orange streak appeared beneath the ice. It shot out from the fog and spread at top speed until it crossed the first one, right at the spot where they were standing.

  "Holy crap!" exclaimed Mike.

  "We have to get out of here."

  A new orange trail stretched beneath the river, this time a little further from their position. And then another, and another. Lines of fire were drawing themselves beneath them at high speed, crossing, mixing..., and they seemed to complement one another.

  "I think it's a giant symbol," Mike said, fascinated.

  "And we're right in the middle of it," Steven pointed out. "Let's go, Mike, please!"

  The ice cracked and vibrated. They had to grab hold of each other to keep from losing their balance.

  "I think you're right, buddy. Let's get out of here!"

  "It's about time," Steven sighed.

  They'd barely taken two steps when a crack opened up in front of them. The ice split apart, spitting out water. Dirty, foul-smelling water.

  "We can't go that way!" yelled Steven. The ice was fracturing in multiple places all around them. "We have to make it to the shore. That way!"

  They ran, they slipped, they scrambled back up. There were more and more fissures. They would soon be trapped if they didn't reach solid ground.

  Steven involuntarily shot a glance at the fog, and his heart nearly stopped. It was moving. The fog was trembling as if a hurricane were shaking it from the inside—the very same fog that had remained motionless since the Wave, planted in the middle of the Thames without absolutely anything being able to alter its state. Steven had no intention of sticking around to see what new horror would emerge from its dark depths.

  He ran with all his might. He helped Mike up and ran even faster. And then they had to stop.

  A column of fire, about three feet tall, appeared in front of them, just a step away. But the most bizarre thing was that the ice wasn't melting, nor was the water extinguishing the fire.

  "What is that?" yelled Mike.

  Steven didn't know. But it couldn't be fire, at least not the kind that comes from a lighter, he was sure of that. The flames rippled around something elongated, something more substantial, maybe even solid.

  Then the small orange column rose higher, and when it fully emerged from the ice, they saw that the fire rested on a hilt... and a hand was holding it.

  "It's a sword!" said Steven, not quite believing what he'd just said.

  A man's head appeared, and then the rest of his body. His back was to them, and he had two enormous black wings.

  More swords like it sliced through the ice in different spots. The people wielding them began to emerge. They were all dressed in black.

  Steven and Mike were paralyzed by panic.

  Another man joined the one who had just emerged in front of them. He was taller and didn't have wings, though his raincoat had two slits in the back.

  "I thought this moment would never come," said the newcomer.

  "Me too," replied the other. "It's been millennia in that disgusting hole, but we've finally opened the gates. No more playing hide and seek. The time for our vengeance has come."

  Mike snapped out of it and tugged on Steven, who had been completely absorbed by the winged men.

  They had to jump between chunks of ice that were now floating isolated. Mike slipped and fell into the water at one point, but Steven managed to pull him out. They stumbled along as best they could, leaning on each other, until they reached the shore. They had to stop to catch their breath. The river was swarming with those men with black wings and swords of fire. The fog was still churning, shifting into strange shapes, roaring.

  "This is..." Steven panted. "Is it what I think it is?"

  "Sure looks like it," Mike answered in an animated tone, his eyes wide open.

  Was his friend never scared?

  "We can't stay here. It's not safe."

  "Neither is the rest of the city," Mike replied. "Look."

  Steven realized that all of London was trembling. Screams of panic reached him from every direction. The sounds of traffic accidents, frantic running, breaking glass... Absolute chaos.

  And he still hadn't seen the worst of it.

  He looked where Mike was pointing and his heart began racing again. A black building was rising up amidst the others; it was slowly ascending as if it were going to climb right up to the sky.

  "And there's another one," said Mike.

  And they weren't the only ones. The two friends spun in a circle and counted up to five black buildings levitating.

  "We never should have come to London," Steven lamented.