The smog was thick and smothering, so much so that the townspeople slept restless nights, ever fearful that the fog would reach around their legs and then drag them down into the lung-clogging dirt of the earth. Cursow, the town museum’s curator, slept suspended from hairy ropes attached to the ceiling. The thick bindings were tied around his limbs, pulling his chest muscles apart but – he believed – keeping him safe from the smog.

On the third day, Mayor Lunhill called for a town meeting to discuss the desecration of the town’s air supply (many of the older residents attended the meeting with gallon jugs of air - obtained from the basements – which had not been completely polluted yet) but no conclusive answers could be obtained. The Pennyworth Society, who were well-versed in areas of the paranormal, blamed ‘pixie magic’. Father Creed, who pointed fingers and screamed holy words at the assembly, blamed the many sinners of the town. Controversially, Dr. Doctor blamed the town’s popular plastics factory, whose tall chimneys cast shadows over the town hall and where many of the population worked. Wary of the economic repercussions and enjoying the finely moulded seats, the council took the view that this was ‘flumptutious balderdash’ and moved for it to be stricken for the record (weeks later, the Mayor and Mrs. Lunhill received a 12” cylindrical object ‘from your Polythene Pals’).

Despite the many theories and graphical evidence, no infallible cause could be found for the smog. It soon became clear that the pressing objective was not to find the genesis of the smog, but to find its apocalypse. Once again, many varied ideas were chucked across mouth-to-ear in the hall’s wooden shell. From blowing to sucking, the Mayor was torn by the stress until finally; he decided to call it a night. It was only when he had made this order that everyone realised it was dark outside.

At 3’o clock, sinister shade had covered the town: the sun was completely blocked out. This was when everyone decided to panic. Running around like acephalous poultry, the townspeople were blinded by the smog. Knocking into each other, lampposts, trees and the statue of Spencer Silver that stood outside, the town fell into disarray. Grandma Kirschbaum fell over the steps leading out into the courtyard and was trampled underfoot by a congo-line of children, desperately leading themselves on unknown paths.

Eventually, everyone was called over by Blind Man Tellison, who had mapped out the entire town in his mind. Grasping hold of each others waists, he led them to each of their houses, where in haze they spent the nights awake, certain now it was only a matter of time until the smog smashed through their windows and crushed them in a smoky fist.

* * *

The next day, lead by a mixture of the ringing bells and rehearsed reverence, all but one of them made their way to the church. The front two aisles were jammed by those hoping that proximity to the Father would save them first, and the statue of Mary was touched by so many hands that a glistening of grease shined off her; giving an aura unmatched by the stained windows that now were so dimmed by the smog only flickering candlelight could make out the face of St. Peter. When everyone was calm Father Creed called out to ask who had tried to leave during the night but found it was too foggy to see past their own noses. When some families admitted to trying to escape, they were admonished by his harsh Irish tone (‘But how did he know it was too foggy?’ asked Mr. Nunn, a comment sadly ignored by most) and suitably shamed by the others. Grandma Kirschbaum, who had been left outside in the fog and forgotten, could testify for the density of her night canopy.

The Haitian was practising his own religion in his house: tribal rituals that none the less had proved successful over the years. Inside his garage, in a perfectly polished pine box, he kept his tools. One large white sheet and one large colourful robe, four green candles, one book of prayers and one bowl of pure imported lake water, two pre-prepared and frozen sacrificial chickens, and one ragged, naked, doll.

Inside the church, the congregation sat listening to the Father as he preached from the book of Revelations, a personal favourite, telling them all what was coming in the End. They sat in awe, blown back by his emotion and power as he ranted at them, moving his body in violent convulsions and spraying those front two aisles, regretting their eagerness. Shaking his fist at them, he demanded, AND WHAT HAVE YOU MADE OF YOURSELVES, AND WHAT? AND WHEN THEY FIND OUR CHOKED AND SMASHED BODIES, HOW WILL THEY REMEMBER YOU? ASK THIS, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU. Grandma Kirschbaum, sitting three rows back from her usual position (having been pushed out of it), dropped her head into her hands.

The doll, despite its haggard appearance, was well stitched and made to exacting standards. The Haitian knelt on the sheet, a candle at each corner and prayer book on his lap, with the doll in front of him. The book was more for appearance than anything: he knew it off by heart. Reaching for a kitchen knife on his left side and a chicken on his right, he begun to chant quietly and slit the bird’s throat over the doll, letting the blood drip onto its torso.

Father Creed, seemingly placated by his earlier explosion, now spoke more calmly to his audience. ‘In the End Times, we must put our faith into the only one who can save us,’ he said, eyes gazing upwards, ‘because He will listen to your thoughts, He will listen to your prayers and He will make them true.’ No-one could accuse Creed of being a desperate man, but those close enough to see his eyes wouldn’t be accused of stupidity if they said they saw distress dancing in them.  He continued, ‘Pray now, with me. Close your eyes and concentrate on what you want most so that He can give unto us.’

The doll, soaking up the blood with its rough-sack fabric, rose slowly from the Haitian’s lap.
Grandma Kirschbaum, remembering the night before, murmured slighted under her breath in prayer.
Father Creed, loosening his vestiges, stared at the rolling smog sweeping over his church windows.

It’s hard to explain what transformation feels like, being that the only ones who experience it are wholly fictional and keep quiet about the whole thing. Perhaps it would be best for me to not attempt this completely, then; but an inherent flaw in all stories is that it contains an inherent flaw – hopefully this’ll be the only one people will spot.

The clearest way to describe it would be like going through puberty in five seconds. Bones growing, muscles stretching, hormones going haywire: and all the social embarrassment that comes with it. For Grandma Kirschbaum, however, it was more like going through it backwards. Her skin tightened up as if someone had pinned it from behind, her hair rejuvenated itself and (to the joy of Mr Holden, sat to the right) her breasts lifted up. She wasn’t entirely sure where the silver bikini combo came from, but Father Creed glared at the choirboys suspiciously.

‘What’s happened!?’ the mayor said, ever ineffective in a crisis.
Kirschbaum scanned the townspeople’s faces: chiefly, shock was painted on them but a few showed confusion and some, hope. These were the ones that stood out, and it registered with her that these were the most important.
‘I guess it was time to be noticed,’ she said.

Kirschbaum walked outside of the church into the smog, relishing at the power running through her body. The electricity crackled her skin and for a brief moment she closed her eyes; enjoying the pleasure. Even before she moved her arms, the fog cleared a little around her: for the first time in hours, the pavement could be seen. A small crowd followed her.

The Haitian, still in the garage, was moving his hands over the doll, encapsulating it in an air bubble.

For a second, Kirschbaum realised that she had no idea what she was about to do. Urging this out of her mind, she raised her hands to her temples like on the sci-fi movies of her youth, scrunching up her eyes. Somewhere underneath her now pristine skin, Kirschbaum could feel her blood changing – it became more passionate, somehow.

‘I can’t believe this,’ muttered someone, ‘what does the old hag think she’s up to now?’

This was all that was needed: her heat beating, her pulse racing, her lungs panting all in an instant and her arms now stretched above her head, Kirschbaum could feel the temperature rising. Sweat began to form round her temples and in her cleavage, but most of all in her forearms. It prickled her skin but the heat seemed unattached: yes, it was there at a hundred degrees and rising, but it felt like she was observing this with the rest of the crowd. She was at the same time both acutely aware of the intense heat and the fact she couldn’t feel it soaring past the three hundred mark. The crowd had stepped back into the shelter of the church now: they couldn’t bear the temperature as it singed their body hairs.

Kirschbaum sensed the heat (four hundred, five) creeping up the tiny hairs on her own arms, racing for the tips. Now walking forward slowly, the smog burnt away as she walked through it. This is impossible, she thought, but still continued.

Somewhere around eight hundred degrees, her arms set alight. The townspeople who were now huddling behind pews and watching through the open church door let out a collective gasp. Now, the heat did hurt a little, but she couldn’t stop.

Swinging her arms round in a wide circle, she burnt more of the smog away. It was definitely time.

Later on, only a few months later, the description of the smog-beast's defeat was wildly varied. Some people said Grandma Kirschbaum simply walked through the smog, burning it all up slowly but defiantly. Others told epic tales of how she fired long flames around, scorching the pollution up, leaping off the buildings to reach the very top of it all, pirouetting round like a ballerina, somersaulting like a gymnast and attacking it like a martial artist. The event, like the heat, seemed so unreal that no-one could really say what had happened. Were the brown marks on the side of the library always there? As a matter of fact, she tended to dance a lot, like a tribal ceremony. Her flaming arms made shapes of light that left trails of sparks flying: the whole thing was a mastery of light. It crackled around in the smoggy air sometimes exploding like fireworks. At the climax, her hair tussled from the frantic movements; the townspeople swore the winds grew stronger, blowing harder until; finally, all of the smog was clear.

When the townspeople risked going outside the next day, Grandma Kirschbaum, back to her old body, was found lying in the grass outside the town hall; asleep.