The Fog

by James Herbert

He looked back and realized he must have rounded a bend for the torches of the two privates were no longer visible. He shone his torch ahead but all he could see was its bright reflection against the shiny damp wall. He must be at the centre of the bend, unable to see back or ahead – and unable to be seen. Right, this is far enough, he thought to himself, stepping out of the track and leaning his rifle against the wall. He began to unbutton his trousers, holding his torch between his upper arm and side. That was another thing! He couldn’t even piss in front of them. Their mocking faces caused a mental block – or a block somewhere else. They knew the effect they had on him and sometimes would follow him out to the gents if they were in the Naafi or a club, and stand on either side of him, grinning, while his face grew redder and the cock in his hand more apologetic.

  Even now, just the thought of them was preventing him from performing his body’s natural function. Why did they have to make his life a misery? Just wait till he was made sergeant, then they’d pay for it. Maybe that was it. Maybe they knew that and were trying to stop his progress. Bastards!

  As he stared blankly at the wall two feet away from him, his features eerily lit in the throwback from his torch, his legs apart, his hands on his penis, his mind engrossed in bitter thoughts, he failed to notice the thick tentacles of mist that crept around his ankles like a wispy grey vine. The tentacles thickened into a layer of fog as they began to rise and slowly engulf his body.

  ‘Eddie’s a long time,’ Buswell commented, his cigarette beginning to burn the insides of his fingers in his effort to waste as little as possible.

  ‘You’ll get cancer doing that,’ Evans remarked. ‘It’s the last bit that’s got most of the nicotine.’

  Buswell shrugged his shoulders. He should worry.

  ‘Come on, Corp, what you doing? Having a wank?’ Evans shouted into the darkness. There was no reply. ‘He’s probably sulking,’ he said, once more resting his elbows on his knees and flicking his cigarette end into the gloom.

  ‘Poor old Eddie. He takes it serious, doesn’t he?’ said Buswell.

  ‘Yeah. He’s all right though. Just ’asn’t really got what it takes. He’s good for a laugh though.’

  ‘D’you think he’ll ever get to be sergeant?’

  ‘Nah, no chance! Every time there’s a possibility, he fucks it up. Every time!’ Evans smiled, his face looking evil in the torch-light. ‘Don’t know how he does it.’

  ‘What d’ you think this fog really was then, Ray?’ Buswell asked him, knowing Evans always had several theories on any topic.

  ‘Well, I tell you, Bernard, I don’t fuckin’ know. But I bet you one thing – it’s man-made. It’s got something to do with the pollution, I reckon. It’s like those rivers where they’ve found thousands of dead fish, all because the bleedin’ factories have dumped their rubbish into them. Well, this time somebody’s dumped somethin’ into the air, y’see, gas or chemicals, I dunno what, but it’s got out of ’and. Like one of those ’orror films.’

  ‘Get away.’

  ‘Nah, I mean it. Somethin’ got into the air and it was spreadin’. It ain’t really fog, y’know. It’s like, er, like vapour . . .’

  As he embroidered on his new theory which was occurring to him while he spoke, the fog, unseen in the dark, curled its way along the tunnel towards them. Just inside its fringes walked the figure of a man. He held a loaded rifle thrust before him, as though it were bayoneted and he was advancing on a rioting crowd. He heard the voices that were coming from ahead and something stirred in his disturbed mind.

  He saw the figures outlined in the glare of two torches. His own torch lay shattered between the railway lines far back inside the tunnel. He drew nearer to the two men and the words, ‘Where you been?’ meant nothing to him.

  Slowly he raised the rifle and placed it against the forehead of one of the soldiers. Then he pulled the trigger.

  The tunnel was filled with the roar from the gun and the scream of the other man. The brief flash lit the scene into a frozen moment that was impressed for seconds after it had vanished on the mind of the soldier who had screamed.

  Buswell threw his torch at Corporal Wilcox, who still held the smoking rifle, his fixed gaze on the dead man who was slowly toppling backwards. Still screaming, Buswell ran from the tunnel, leaving his rifle leaning against the dark wall. In his panic he made the mistake of trying to climb the steep embankment just outside the tunnel’s entrance, his hands pulling out clumps of grass as he endeavoured to pull himself up, his feet slipping on the damp earth.

  His flailing arms caught at a small bush and, miraculously, it held his weight, enabling him to scramble up several feet. He heard the sound of a bolt being shot, sharp and clear in the chill night air, and it drove him on to further exertion for he realized the gun was ready to be fired again.

  By sheer brute strength and blind defiance of the laws of gravity he almost reached the top of the incline.

  His second mistake was to look back.

  He saw the still figure at the foot of the slope staring up at him, not moving, not even raising his rifle.

  Buswell sobbed and made a desperate lunge upwards, stretching his arm in a vain effort to reach the top of the embankment, as though there was another arm ready to grip his and pull him to safety. His hand closed over grass which was instantly torn from the soft earth and his boots were dislodged from their precarious footholds. He began to slither down, his scrabbling hands finding no purchase to halt his descent, his body pressed flat against the damp grass.

  Slowly, slowly he slid down until his feet touched the bottom and carried on at right angles to his body so that he was almost in a kneeling position. The Corporal stood over him and raised the butt of his rifle.

  The fog flowed from the tunnel, wispy and hesitant at first, but soon thickly and swift. It swirled around the two soldiers and quickly enveloped them.

  18

  Holman opened his eyes, his brain taking a few seconds to begin functioning normally. He stared up at the ceiling and allowed his thoughts to gather and settle, then turned towards the figure lying in his bed next to him. In the grey light that filtered through the drawn curtains her face looked as it used to be, calm, and hardly touched by life, but he knew, in harsh daylight, the faint beginnings of lines would be there, for she could not possibly have escaped the rigours of the past few days without their leaving some visible mark. And the wound left inside her would be much worse than any physical scar.

  How different she looked from the last time she had been in his flat. Would he ever forget that deranged look of hatred on her face, the violence of her attack on him? Would he always be waiting for that look to return, unable to close his mind to visions of the past, dreading that the disease was only lying dormant, lurking deep in the recesses of her brain, waiting for the moment to begin its evil, parasitical journey once again?

  Janet Halstead had assured him Casey was completely cured, as was he, and there was no chance of the malignancy ever returning, but it was difficult to rid himself of all his fears. Only time would do that.

  He was grateful to the doctor for allowing him to bring Casey home. Although all the tests had been completed, both on himself and the girl, and their usefulness in that particular area had been diminished, she could have insisted that they both remain at the Research Centre in case of any eventuality that might arise. But provided they reported in every day, Janet was happy to let them go, recognizing the need for them to retreat into their own privacy, to lick their wounds, to comfort one another. Medical treatment could only reach a certain point; after that, it was up to each individual’s natural protective instinct to complete the cure.

  Holman was on call at any time although they had found no trace of the fog for two days now. The trail of havoc it had left behind it was appalling, for not everybody had been cleared from its path in time. The consequences of the fog were still occurring, for reaction to it took longer to manifest itself in some than in others. For many, the effect was im
mediate, causing instant madness, their brain cells crumpling rapidly against the onslaught of the mutated parasite. Many people were killed; many killed themselves.

  On the first day of quiet, when the fog had inexplicably disappeared, the country had been left in a state of numbness. Then a stirring seemed to ripple through the land as the public demanded answers. What was the fog? Where had it come from? If it had come from the sea, what was its source? Had it really gone, and if so, could it possibly return? Were there still lunatics at large and what were the first symptoms? Had the government acted swiftly enough and what steps were being taken to ensure that a disaster of this kind and magnitude would never happen again? Had a foreign power secretly experimented on Britain and was the country now being held to ransom by that power?

  All these questions and many more had been asked and the government had to provide answers – and quickly. Today was the day of answers and reassurances. Even the truth had been considered by the special inner Cabinet who had full knowledge of the source, but the consideration was easily rejected.

  Holman’s hand found the soft curve of Casey’s waist and he dreaded the telephone call that might take him away from her. The thought of going back into the fog was repugnant to him and he prayed it had been finally vanquished.

  She stirred and snuggled towards him, a low murmur of peace escaping from slightly parted lips. His hand slid up her back and he pulled her farther towards him until their bodies touched. Still half asleep, she pushed her leg between his and her arm encircled his waist, reaching down until her hand spread out over a buttock. He grew hard against her, softly and sweetly, his penis pressed between her soft flesh and his own.

  Awake now, but her mind still comfortably dulled, her senses racing ahead of it, her hand reached down and casually stroked the back of his leg. She sighed and spoke his name and he whispered his love to her, kissing her hair and forehead. She raised her head and her lips met his, moist, gently demanding. He parted their bodies so he could touch her breasts and her nipples were hard beneath his fingertips, eager to be awakened and risen from their small surrounding islands of flesh. His head came down to take one in his mouth, his lips closing over it, his tongue moistening its tip.

  She moaned and her body stretched, her lower limbs pressing tight against him, his thigh filling her inner thighs. There had been no desire for lovemaking for either of them the night before: the memory of her father’s death was too dominant in their minds. Their bodies had needed contact, but only to gain each other’s warmth and solace, and they had soon fallen asleep, both wearied in body and spirit by the week’s events.

  Now the tiredness had gone from their bodies and their spirits were on the first step towards recovery, although for Casey, the step was small. She pulled her breast away from him, the very act of its withdrawal heightening her sensuality, and her teeth bit gently at his neck, then harder, drawing his blood towards the spot without breaking the skin.

  A flicker of fear passed swiftly through his thoughts but was instantly subdued as her lips moved on, murmuring sounds of love, kissing his chest, closing over his own rigid nipple then moving over to its jealous companion. Her tongue traced a line between the muscles of his stomach, a tiny damp stream that ended in the well of his navel.

  His penis rose quivering to meet her parted lips and suddenly it was engulfed in a warm cavern, the soft entrance concealing a sharp ridge of teeth, but its interior containing a silky, ever-moving animal that smothered it in its welcome. Her lips moved down the length of him and back again in a steady, regular motion, her tongue always active, her teeth barely making contact. He shuddered at the sensation and his hands gripped her shoulders, moving with her, controlling her timing.

  Before the shudders become frantic and the pleasure too exquisite, he withdrew himself from her and gently pulled her smiling face up to his, kissing her lips hard and passionately, the faint taste of his own body on her tongue exciting him even more.

  His hand reached flatly towards her stomach and he ran his fingers downwards through the small, tidy forest of hair until he found her other even more moist cave, silky smooth with its aroused lubricity. Her hips rose slightly and her thighs tautened as her knees bent and her heels dug into the bed. She relaxed then tightened her muscles again, moaning as she twisted her head to one side. His fingers stayed near her entrance and teased her most sensual part, then stroking more firmly, understanding her body’s demands.

  This time it was Casey who drew him away before the ecstasy became too overwhelming. She pulled at his hip and he slid over her, entering her with measured ease, resisting his own urgency. The passage was smooth and he stopped only when his penis had travelled its full length, her hands tightly clenched on his buttocks, drawing him into her, desperate to claim every inch of him. She cried out as he began to move rhythmically, her lips frenziedly seeking his, then twisting her head away again into the pillow as the pleasure began its swift ascent. Her legs bent but did not close around him, unwilling to restrict his movements or her own upward thrusts. One of his hands reached up for her breast and crushed it cruelly, but the cruelty was derived from passion and was understood and welcomed.

  Her body-stretching release came seconds before his, but the warm fluid that finally flowed from him into her deepened her own satisfaction and she was pleased to receive the heavy weight of his body as it slumped against her, when his movements had ceased. They lay still until their breathing had become steady and their hearts had slowed their pace, she stroking the back of his head, he using his elbows to help ease his weight.

  After a short while, he lifted himself from her, kissing her chest flushed from her orgasm, and rolled on to his back. She turned sideways towards him, one arm across his chest to clasp his shoulder, one leg raised to rest on his.

  She gazed at his relaxed face and drew a finger down his profile, stopping to run the length of his mouth, then down again over his chin, past his neck to come to rest on his chest where it nestled amongst dark hairs.

  ‘You still haven’t told me,’ she said after a while.

  ‘What?’ He looked down at her in surprise.

  ‘You haven’t told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘Why you call me Casey.’

  He began to chuckle. ‘You really want to know, do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. You’ll only get angry.’

  ‘Angry? You’d better tell me now!’ She raised her head to look down at him.

  ‘You’re sure you want to know?’

  ‘Yes!’ Indignant.

  ‘Well,’ he began, smiling and looking at her from the corner of his eyes, ‘when I was a kid, I used to have a dog . . .’

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘. . . and I used to call it Casey . . .’

  ‘You called it . . .’

  ‘. . . and when I saw you . . .’

  ‘. . . Casey! You—’

  ‘. . . you had the same sad little eyes . . .’

  ‘. . . you . . .’

  ‘. . . and they made me fall in love with you . . . and I knew I’d found something that would be precious to me . . . and that’s why I called you Casey.’

  She fell against him, half-laughing but ready to cry. He hugged her, still grinning, but strangely near to sadness himself.

  ‘Imagine my delight when I found you were house-trained, too.’

  And now, she did cry. She cried from happiness, sadness, and relief that they were together.

  ‘Is it over now?’

  ‘The fog? The nightmare? I just hope so. If it isn’t, well I just don’t know what else they can do about it.’

  ‘Surely they could find an answer.’

  ‘The calcium chloride must have been the answer. They just needed a lot of it.’

  ‘Why are they so reticent about announcing it?’

  ‘Because they don’t understand how the chemical could have destroyed the mycoplasma. On Ryker’s advice, they’ve decided to play it cautio
usly, to wait until they’re absolutely certain.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Who knows? When they’ve covered the area thoroughly, I suppose.’

  She shuddered and pressed closer to him. ‘Or when people stop going insane.’

  ‘They’ve got the cure now. Provided it doesn’t happen again on a massive scale, they can cure anyone they find with the illness.’

  ‘Unless the victims kill themselves first.’

  He was silent. They’d been lucky, both of them, but the price they had to pay in memories was harsh. He knew there would be many silences between them now as they both remembered. It would take years for them to detach themselves from the dream, but because of their own personal experiences, they would be able to understand and help each other.

  He looked down at her and her eyes met his. She too, had been lost in her own thoughts. She smiled.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said.

  He sat up then, resolving never to allow either of them to sink too far into the quicksands of their memories. ‘I’ll get some coffee.’

  ‘No,’ she pulled him down again, ‘you stay there. Let me do it.’

  He lay and watched her naked figure slip into his discarded shirt. The shirt flapped large and seductively around her as she bent forward to kiss him, the glimpse of her small breasts beginning to excite him again. She walked around the bed towards the drawn curtains and once more the image of the last time he’d seen her in the darkened room leapt into his mind. But even now, the thought was becoming easier to push away.

  She reached up and began to draw the curtains, but she stopped midway and he saw her body stiffen.

  ‘John . . .’ he heard her say, half turning her head towards him but unable to tear her eyes away from the strangely subdued light that came from outside.

  He leapt from the bed, already feeling the familiar coldness chilling his body. Reaching her side, he drew the curtain back at one side in a violent sweep, then stopped to stare at the scene that lay beyond.

  ‘Oh God!’ he gasped.