THE ARRIVAL
A green tour bus crept cautiously through the thick fog before coming to a halt beside a small billboard for the rental company Neptunus.
The driver, a tall, slender man with short grey hair and sharp brown eyes, peered forward, trying to make out the road ahead. His name was Ron. He was both driver and guide. With a disapproving shake of his head, he grabbed the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice crackling slightly, “we’ve reached our destination. It’s nine twenty-six, and the temperature outside is ten degrees. We’ve had to park here because of the mist — there’s no space for large vehicles in town. Our visit to C. would normally begin with a boat trip on the North Sea, but due to the weather, it’s been cancelled. Still, there’s plenty to do in C. There’s a cycle hire shop, a few souvenir shops, and a park if you fancy a promenade. Fishing is permitted, too. Oh, and before I forget, we’re expected at the Sea Sight restaurant at twelve o’clock. I’ll show you where it is later. My name’s Ron — if you have any questions or problems, just come to me. Do wrap up warmly. This is a port town — the wind can be brutal.”
He opened the doors. Twenty-one passengers stepped out — no children among them. The air was bitterly cold and perfectly still, carrying the sharp scent of approaching winter. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and the silence felt unnaturally heavy. Everyone was struck by the complete absence of sound.
“Please follow me,” Ron said. “I suggest we stay together until the fog lifts. Don’t lag behind or try to find your own way into town. I don’t want anyone to get lost in this weather. It’s only a five-minute walk, so please keep to the footpath.”
The tourists followed in uneasy silence. No one dared speak. The eerie atmosphere of the deserted city and the freezing air created an oppressive tension that weighed on them all. After five minutes, the group emerged onto the marketplace. The fog had thinned slightly, improving visibility, but a deadly tranquillity still hung over the small town. Shops and restaurants stood shuttered and dark.
Suddenly, a man of average height with intense grey eyes and a full, sensual mouth broke the unbearable stillness.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Dimon demanded, his voice sharp with disbelief. “Where the hell is everybody?”
A nervous murmur rippled through the group. They clustered tightly around Ron, hoping for answers. But Ron stood speechless, confusion etched across his face. He pulled out his mobile phone and tried calling the boat captain they were supposed to meet. No answer. He dialled his colleagues at work. Nothing.
Dimon crossed his arms. “Ron, there’s no signal here. Maybe we should just head back to the bus. The bars are closed anyway. There’s no point hanging around.”
Ron exhaled heavily. “Yeah… I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry about all this. I honestly have no idea what’s happening.”
No one objected. Several passengers reassured him that they weren’t angry — he wasn’t to blame. They were all eager to leave the sinister town behind. As Ron led them back towards the bus, the group grew talkative and animated. Laughter broke out here and there, a clear sign of relief after the earlier tension.
Once everyone was back on board, Ron counted the passengers. He counted again. Six were missing.
Cold sweat prickled on his forehead. The others noticed immediately that something was wrong.
A tourist near the front spoke up, voice tight with worry. “There was a woman in a pink coat sitting next to me. Where is she?”
Ron swallowed hard. “We have a problem. Six people are missing. I’m going to need your help.”
Silence fell over the bus. No one relished the idea of returning to the cold, eerie streets of the port town. They glanced at one another, silently hoping someone else would volunteer.
Dimon stood up. “If one of you was lost out there in that creepy place, you would want the rest of us to come looking, wouldn’t you? There are six people missing and sixteen of us here. Let’s split into groups of four and find them — so we can get the hell out of this place.”
Ron nodded gratefully. “Thank you, mate.”
“I just want to leave,” Dimon muttered.
Reluctantly, the tourists filed off the bus and divided into groups. They made their way back to the marketplace. Ron gave clear instructions on how and where to search, and they agreed to meet back in thirty minutes beside the Shark Tooth pub.
