A man yelled and bolted through one of the deserted lanes toward the door. I think that was what finally started the stampede. People rushed pell-mell into the fog.
«Hey!» Brown roared. I don’t know if he was angry, scared, or both. His face was nearly purple. Veins stood out on his neck, looking almost as thick as battery cables. «Hey you people, you can’t take that stuff! Get back here with that stuff, you’re shoplifting!»
They kept going, but some of them tossed their stuff aside. Some were laughing and excited, but they were a minority. They poured out into the fog, and none of us who stayed ever saw them again. There was a faint, acrid smell drifting in through the open door. People began to jam up there. Some pushing and shoving started. I was getting an ache in my shoulders from holding Billy. He was good-sized; Steff sometimes called him her young heifer.
Norton started to wander off, his face preoccupied and rather bemused. He was heading for the door.
I switched Billy to the other arm so I could grab Norton’s arm before he drifted out of reach. «No, man, I wouldn’t,» I said.
He turned back. «What?»
«Better wait and see.»
«See what?»
«I don’t know,» I said.
«You don’t think-» he began, and a shriek came out of the fog.
Norton shut up. The tight jam at the OUT door loosened and then reversed itself. The babble of excited conversation, shouts and calls, subsided. The faces of the people by the door suddenly looked flat and pale and two dimensional.
The shriek went on and on, competing with the fire whistle. It seemed impossible that any human pair of lungs could have enough air in them to sustain such a shriek. Norton muttered, «Oh my God,» and ran his hands through his hair.
The shriek ended abruptly. It did not dwindle; it was cut off. One more man went outside, a beefy guy in chino workpants. I think he was set on rescuing the shrieker. For a moment he was out there, visible through the glass and the mist, like a figure seen through a milkscum on a tumbler. Then (and as far as I know, I was the only one to see this) something beyond him appeared to move, a gray shadow in all that white. And it seemed to me that instead of running into the fog, the man in the chino pants was jerked into it, his hands flailing upward as if in surprise.
For a moment there was total silence in the market.
A constellation of moons suddenly glowed into being outside. The parking-lot sodium lights, undoubtedly supplied by underground electrical cables, had just gone on.
«Don’t go out-there,» Mrs. Carmody said in her best gore-crow voice. «It’s death to go out there.»
All at once, no one seemed disposed to argue or laugh.
Another scream came from outside, this one muffled and rather distant- sounding. Billy tensed against me again.
«David, what’s going on?» Ollie Weeks asked. He had left his position. There were big beads of sweat on his round, smooth face. «What is this?»
«I’ll be goddammed if I have any idea,» I said. Ollie looked badly scared. He was a bachelor who lived in a nice little house up by Highland Lake and who liked to drink in the bar at Pleasant Mountain. On the pudgy little finger of his left hand was a star-sapphire ring. The February before, he won some money in the state lottery. He bought the ring out of his winnings. I always had the idea that Ollie was a little afraid of girls.
«I don’t dig this,» he said.
«No. Billy, I have to put you down. I’ll hold your hand, but you’re breaking my arms, okay?»
«Mommy,» he whispered.
«She’s okay,» I told him. It was something to say.
The old geezer who runs the secondhand shop near Jon’s Restaurant walked past us, bundled into the old collegiate letter-sweater he wears year-round. He said loudly: «It’s one of those pollution clouds. The mills at Rumford and South Paris. Chemicals.» With that, he made off up the Aisle 4, past the patent medicines and toilet paper.