Chapter Thirty-Three: Black Fog and Tim’s Zombie Turn

A wall of inky black fog surged toward us, like a smoke bomb from a horror movie's final act. Ryan saw it too, yanking my arm and bellowing, "Move, Jake! It's bad news!" My heart jackhammered as I scrambled to my feet, legs wobbly from the tunnel's chill. We bolted back the way we came, but Tim? He just kept marching forward, oblivious, like the fog was a sunny day at the beach.

"Tim's still up there!" I shouted, grabbing Ryan's sleeve, panic spiking. "We can't leave him!" Was Tim blind, possessed, or just done with life? Either way, I wasn't about to let him waltz into a cloud of doom.

Ryan's eyes blazed. "You nuts? That could be toxic—think mustard gas, but spookier! One whiff, and we're toast. Run, now!" He tugged me hard, but I dug in my heels. Tim had been dragged into this mess because of us. Shady or not, he'd saved our bacon more than once. I couldn't ditch him to play hero in a fog of death.

"Tim's one of us!" I snapped, my voice cracking. "Three in, three out. I'm not leaving him to get ghosted!" Ryan's face twisted, torn between logic and loyalty. "You're gonna get us all killed!" he roared. "If we die, who's cracking this case? Think, Jake!"

His words stung, but my gut screamed louder. I shook him off, resolve hardening. "I can't live with bailing on him. You go—I'll get Tim." Ryan cursed, his footsteps echoing as he sprinted back. For a split second, my heart sank. Ryan and I were tight, brothers through countless late-night coding sessions and bar crawls. But now? He was gone, choosing survival over solidarity. I couldn't blame him—self-preservation's a hell of a drug—but it stung like a wasp.

No time for pity parties. Tim was vanishing into the fog, and I wasn't letting him go out like a redshirt in Star Trek. I fumbled for my phone, cursing as the low-battery warning flashed. "Great, even my tech's abandoning me," I muttered, flicking on the flashlight. The beam was weak, barely cutting through the black haze. "Tim!" I yelled, plunging into the fog, the air thick and cold, like breathing a freezer.

A gust whipped past my ear, sharp and unnatural, but no pain followed. The fog swallowed my light, blinding me. "Tim, you in there?!" I shouted, groping forward. Silence. My pulse raced, but regret didn't hit. Fear? Sure. But I was done running. Whoever was behind this—Granny, the game, some unseen puppet master—I needed answers, even if it cost me.

Something pinched my shoulder, a searing jolt that buckled my knees. "Who's there?!" I barked, spinning wildly. Nothing but darkness. Tim was a ghost, no sound, no sign. My shoulder throbbed, but I pushed on, shouting, "Tim, talk to me, man!" My voice echoed, unanswered, the whooo-whooo wail growing louder, closer, like a banshee tuning up.

Then, a hand clamped my throat—icy, unyielding, like a robot's grip. I gasped, clawing at it, my phone's light flickering out as the battery died. "Let… go!" I choked, my lungs burning. The fog pressed in, thick as tar, hiding my attacker. This was it—third time's the charm, right? First the ghosts, then the neck tickle, now this. But I wasn't going out quietly. "Who are you?!" I roared, rage overtaking fear. "Show yourself, you coward!"

With a surge of adrenaline, I shoved forward, dragging the hand with me. My brain screamed from oxygen loss, but I clung to one thought: Find Tim. Don't die. The wail was deafening now, vibrating my bones. Then, a blinding light stabbed my eyes. I flinched, ducking, and the grip on my throat vanished. The fog thinned, wisps curling away like a bad special effect.

I blinked, vision clearing. A figure stood before me, rigid as a mannequin. Tim. My relief soured fast—he wasn't right. His arms hung limp, head tilted down, but his eyes? Rolled back, whites glaring like a zombie cat's. "Tim?!" I croaked, stumbling back. "What's your deal, man? You try to choke me out?"

No answer. He stood frozen, staring through me with those dead-fish eyes. The fog was gone, a dim glow from nowhere lighting the tunnel. My skin crawled. "Tim, snap out of it!" I yelled, my voice cracking. Was Ryan right—had Tim been playing us? Or was he possessed, a pawn in the game's sick script?

Desperate, I shoved him, hard. He didn't budge, solid as a statue, but his creepy gaze intensified, boring into me. "Okay, buddy, you're scaring me worse than Granny's meat bucket," I muttered, backing up. Alone, with no idea if Ryan made it out, I was stuck with a zombified Tim and a tunnel that screamed final boss fight. The wail hummed low, a warning, and I knew—whatever was running this show, it was close, and it was loving every second of my panic.