The Fog

by James Herbert

  He had come to regard it almost as a living, thinking thing. Ryker had called it a monster. It seemed apt. The feeling that it was protesting in some way against this violation against it still persisted but, of course, it was only the high-pitched humming of the machinery, the quivering stiffness of the steel tubing combining with his imagination that produced and heightened the effect. At least, that was what he told himself.

  The urge to go closer to the source was becoming stronger and several times during that long three minutes he found himself staring blankly into the bright mass. At last, with a sigh of relief, he switched off the machine, pushed another button to effectively seal the container, then detached the tubing, leaving it lying limply along the ground. He stood up and once again looked into the radiance. Perhaps he should get a closer look at it. Perhaps behind the veiling mists that swirled in front of it he would find some clue to its beginnings; some idea of its structure he could inform Ryker of, who would perhaps recognize a vital factor in the progress of his theory. He was immune, after all; it wouldn’t harm him.

  He began to walk towards it.

  A gloved hand clamped down heavily on his shoulder when he had only gone ten yards, spinning him round roughly.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Ryker demanded to know, his body heaving with the exertion of running in the cumbersome suit.

  Holman could only stare at the darkened visor.

  ‘I could barely make out your figure through the fog,’ Ryker went on, ‘and when it disappeared altogether, I knew something was wrong. It has been a long time since I have run so fast. Now tell me: what are you up to?’

  Holman rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. I was walking into it. I just had a compulsion to get nearer to it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ryker slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Well, do not look at it again. Turn your back on it and let us return to the machine. Did you complete your task?’

  ‘Y-yes. Yes, it should be full. But you shouldn’t be this close – your suit may not be enough protection.’

  ‘I know, I know, but you had to be stopped. Come along, let us get away from here.’

  They collected the machine and made their way back to the tunnel’s entrance, much to the relief of the two soldiers who had been growing more anxious by the minute.

  ‘Everything okay, sir?’ enquired the Captain, stepping forward to take the machine.

  ‘Everything is fine,’ Ryker told him. ‘Now, we will not waste any more time; we must seal the tunnel entrance immediately. Take the container back out of harm’s way – we will worry about loading it on to the vehicle later, when our next job is done.’ He looked up at the arch of the tunnel and smiled inside his helmet.

  ‘It is very fortunate that they thought of building another tunnel. Captain Peters and I will take explosives through the southbound passage and plant them at the other end. We must seal both openings at the same time so that the mycoplasma will be trapped; we will time our blasts so they occur simultaneously.’

  They went over to the vehicle and the Sergeant began to unload three cases of explosives. ‘This will be more than enough,’ he told them. ‘If we fail the first time, we’ve plenty more for as many goes as we like.’ He reached in and brought out another box, smaller than the others. ‘Detonators,’ he explained.

  They turned as they heard the lumbering figure of the Captain returning. ‘I’ve put the container halfway up the incline,’ he said, ‘where the road branches off to the ramp we’ve just come down. It’ll be quite safe there for now; it’s virtually indestructible and nobody can move it unless they know how to operate it.’

  He poked his head inside the cabin of the vehicle and emerged again holding a small two-way radio. ‘We’ll keep in touch constantly,’ he said. ‘You take this, Mr Holman. It’s simple to operate, and you can speak to us while Sergeant Stanton is setting up his explosives.’ He handed the radio to Holman who examined it briefly, then nodded.

  ‘It should take us about twenty minutes to get through the tunnel and set ourselves up, providing we don’t run into trouble on the way,’ the Captain went on, glancing at his watch. ‘But we’ll radio through and synchronize our blasts that way. All set?’ he turned towards Ryker.

  The figure nodded and clambered into the vehicle. Before he was completely through, he turned and said, ‘Good luck to all of us. And may God help us.’

  Holman stood well back while the Sergeant went about setting his explosives thirty feet inside the tunnel, even though he was assured it was quite harmless until it had been ‘primed’. ‘In fact,’ Sergeant Stanton had explained, ‘it’s the blasting caps that are more dangerous. Highly explosive, they are.’ He had shown him the small metal tube that was the primer. ‘There’s a little bit of lead azide in there, with a larger amount of trinitrotoluene – TNT to you. Very sensitive.’ He had grinned through his mask at Holman, enjoying the man’s discomfort. ‘Don’t worry, sir, you’ll be all right with me.’ He had gone into the tunnel whistling tunelessly, happy now that he was at last doing something positive, something he was an expert at.

  Holman dragged clear of the entrance the dead body of the man he’d thrown from the car, for some illogical reason not wanting it to be buried beneath tons of concrete. After a short while, the Sergeant came out of the tunnel, unwinding a long thin cable from a spindle behind him. ‘That should do it,’ he said, almost cheerfully now.

  The radio crackled in Holman’s hand. ‘Hello, can you hear me, Mr Holman?’ It was Ryker’s voice sounding distant and even less human than it had through the mask’s speaker. Holman acknowledged. ‘The Captain is inside the tunnel now,’ the voice went on. ‘The southbound passage was clear. Filled with fog of course, but not the nucleus. We had to take it steady – our vision was not too good – but we used dipped headlights and stayed close to the wall. As yet, we’ve seen no people over this side and I must admit, we have no desire to. The exit – or should I say entrance – at this end is perfect for our purposes. It is enclosed by heavy concrete slabs all the way along the incline leading from the tunnel. We have parked our vehicle on the opposite road of the other tunnel which is much higher than its sister road. That is where I am perched at this moment, looking straight down into the exit; we will move back to a safer position as soon as we are ready. How are things at your end?’

  ‘Sergeant Stanton is just running out the fuse. We should be ready at any time.’

  ‘Good. Captain Peters asked me to tell the Sergeant he will place one charge as near to the roof as possible, another at the bottom of the opposite wall. Could you pass that on to Sergeant Stanton please.’

  Holman shouted the message after Stanton who was now some distance away up the incline. He looked up at Holman, nodded, pointed to his chest and gave the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘The Sergeant’s done the same,’ Holman said into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Good, good. Now I suggest we find cover. The Captain is coming out of the tunnel now so we should soon be ready to proceed. I will speak to you again in a few moments.’

  The radio went dead and Holman walked back towards Sergeant Stanton who had now climbed the parapet on to the small side road that overlooked the incline leading down to the black hole.

  ‘We’ll be all right up here, sir,’ the soldier said as Holman scrambled up after him. ‘I’ve set it so that the tunnel will come down causing very little to come our way – but we’ll have to be wary of a few flying rocks.’

  ‘What about the container?’ Holman pointed towards the mobile box that stood further down, closer to the entrance.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be all right, sir. There’s not much that can harm that thing.’ He connected the plastic-sheathed fuse to a small handbox. ‘One twist of this knob here, sir, and we’ll have that entrance down in no time.’

  ‘No plunger?’ asked Holman, feeling naïve.

  ‘Not for this.’ The Sergeant grinned, his enjoyment increasing as the time for his blast grew nea
rer.

  The radio crackled into life again and a voice said, ‘Captain Peters here. Can you hear me, Sergeant?’

  The Sergeant leaned towards the speaker. ‘I can hear you, sir.’

  ‘Right. We’re in position here. We’ll give it a countdown of one minute. Check your timer.’

  Holman saw the soldier look at a small clockface on the detonation box he held in his hand. His gloved finger poised above a catch at its side. The voice from the radio said, ‘Start it after three.’ The seconds were counted and the Sergeant’s clumsy finger pushed the catch down, starting a tiny red second hand on its circular course.

  ‘All right, Sergeant. I’m handing the radio back to Professor Ryker now,’ the Captain’s voice said. ‘Be ready on the stroke of sixty. Good luck and keep your bloody heads down.’ The radio went silent again.

  Holman watched in fascination as the red hand crept round the dial. Several times he thought it had stopped but realized it was only an optical illusion. As it reached the forty-five-second mark, he felt the urge to blow his nose, but he knew it was only nerves and rubbed it with a shaking finger instead. Ten. His throat felt dry. Seven. He cleared it. Five. He remembered to breathe. Three. Would the blast be powerful enough to completely block the entrance? Two. It had to be. One.

  He buried his head in his hands as he sensed rather than saw the Sergeant briskly turn the knob.

  He felt the whooshing of air before he heard the explosion, sweeping his hair back, dragging at his clothes. He thought the ground had actually trembled beneath him. Then he heard the roar, a split second behind the actual blast, muffled at first then developing into a loud, rumbling crack of thunder.

  He kept his head down close to the concrete surface, expecting to feel fragments of rubble descending upon them, but none came. Still, he lay there, covering his head until the Sergeant’s hand prodded him on the shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right now, sir. A nice clean one, that.’

  The Sergeant was on his knees looking towards the tunnel’s entrance, nodding his head in self-admiration. Holman looked up, deafened by the blast, but anxious to see its results.

  Dust was swirling around the entrance, mixed with the fog, but after a few seconds, it began to drift away. Holman managed to smile at what he saw.

  Tons of broken concrete and rubble had completely filled the high entrance – if one could call it an entrance any more. For some inexplicable reason, he had expected just to see the entrance blocked up, but of course, the beginning of the hole had now moved back forty feet or so and a steep slope of broken rock led up to its broken roof.

  He clapped the grinning Sergeant on the arm and picked up the radio. ‘Hello, Professor Ryker,’ he said into it and was puzzled as to why he couldn’t hear his own voice. Then realized his head was still ringing with the blast so he placed the radio on the ground while he studied the wreckage more thoroughly. The Sergeant had already dropped down on to the incline and was now walking towards it. He reached its foot and stood there, examining the damage. At last satisfied, he turned and waved at Holman and once more gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  By now, Holman’s head was clearing so he picked up the radio again and spoke into it. ‘Hello, Ryker, can you hear me?’

  There were a few moments of static then the professor’s voice came through. ‘Hello, hello, Mr Holman. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I can, Professor.’

  ‘Quite a blast, eh? Well it seems to have done the job at this end. Captain Peters has just gone for a closer look, but from here it looks fine. How about your side?’

  ‘It’s completely sealed at this end. Sergeant Stanton is just climbing the slope to the top, but he’s already indicated everything’s fine.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. I shall move forward myself now along the top road, and examine the damage from there. The dust is settling and the air over here seems to be clearer than on your side, so I am getting a pretty clear picture of the results of our little blast. Yes, yes, the nearer I get the better it looks. I can see Captain Peters directly below me; I think he will be satisfied with his work. He is looking round for me – ah, yes, he sees me. He is waving. Good, good, I think he is happy – he is shaking hands with himself.’ Holman heard a strange metallic rasping through the receiver which could only have been the Professor chuckling to himself. The voice went on: ‘I am moving past the blockage now and I must say it looks very, very solid to me. There is one enormous concrete slab at an angle at the top, it must be at least twenty feet across, that is – ’ the radio went silent for a few moments, then the voice continued, and Holman could sense a sudden tension in it, even through its distortion. ‘There is something wrong. There – there is dust spewing from the top of the concrete – no, from behind it. Is it dust?’ There was a long pause. ‘Or is it just the disturbed fog? No, the fog is clearer over here, it must be dust. I will look closer. It seemed to be coming out rapidly, like steam. I am near to it now, I can see behind the con – ’ again his voice broke off. ‘There is a gap!’ Holman started at the sudden exclamation. ‘There is a gap in the roof! The fog – it is escaping from it! But this is impossible. It must be the force of the blast. The air inside the tunnel must be forcing the fog out. It must be that, surely the fog couldn’t – God! There is a light! The hole is beginning to glow. The light is coming out. It is the light we saw in the tunnel, the yellow light. No, no, the mycoplasma is escaping. It is emerging with the fog! I must get away from here! I must get away.’

  The radio went dead, except for the sharp crackle of static, and Holman, for the first time in many years, broke down and wept.

  ‘Holman! Sergeant Stanton! Can you hear me?’ Holman raised his head at the sound of the voice and made a grab for the radio. He had no idea of how much time had elapsed since the receiver had gone dead: it might only have been seconds, but more likely it had been several minutes for his tears of frustration had blotted out all sense of time. Was there no answer to this nightmare? Was there no way to succeed in destroying it?

  ‘Hello, this is Holman,’ he said hastily into the speaker. ‘Ryker?’

  ‘No, this is Captain Peters. Professor Ryker is beside me in the vehicle; I don’t think he’s too good.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The mycoplasma; it got loose. I heard Professor Ryker shouting and scrambled up to the top of the slope to see what was wrong. He was down the road a piece, near the vehicle, lying in the road. Ahead of him, I could see a – I can only describe it as a sold mass of light, although that hardly fits. It seemed to be drifting away with the fog; it must have passed right over him!’

  Holman drew in his breath slowly. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘I don’t know, he seems sort of dazed. I dragged him into the vehicle, but couldn’t risk taking his helmet off to examine him. I think it’s more fright than anything; the sight of that thing escaping and coming towards him. Anyway, he seemed to come out of it a minute ago; he told me to follow it, said we mustn’t lose sight of it this time, and then he just slumped back and seemed to black out. I think he’s coming round a bit now.’

  ‘Peters, be careful’ Holman urged. ‘He may have been infected.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so; these suits are pretty bloody tough. I think it’s just shock. Anyway, I’m following the thing, the nucleus, whatever it is, just keeping it within visual range. We haven’t got far yet, but it seems to be heading due east towards – ’ again, the agonizing silence. ‘Holman, there’re two enormous buildings rising up ahead of us in the fog,’ the voice broke in again. ‘They look like – yes, they are. Gas holders. Giant gas holders!’

  Holman’s mind raced back to the occasions he had used the three-lane motorway leading from the Blackwall Tunnel. He remembered the last time had been late at night, and on his left, just as he’d emerged from the southbound tunnel, he’d seen a fantastic sight that had resembled a scene from a science-fiction movie. It had been a vast gas refinery, its silver towers and tanks floodlit at night
giving it an awesome and spectacular appearance. There were two main gas holders (those Peters had just seen presumably) and rows of smaller tanks farther back. The refinery had been built on the river bank to give it easy access for the coal that was brought up the Thames in barges to be processed for the manufacture of town gas. He knew it was one of the largest plants of its kind in England, for it helped serve a vast area of the South East.

  ‘Holman, what is this place?’ It had sounded like Ryker’s voice.

  ‘Professor, is that you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m a little bit dizzy, but otherwise fine. Now, quickly tell me, what is this place ahead?’

  Holman told him all he knew of the huge gasworks and how, if necessary, they could get into it.

  ‘I think it is necessary,’ the voice came back. ‘The nucleus is making straight for it. How strange: it is the large quantities of carbon dioxide and sulphur dioxide that are formed in the combustion of gas that add greatly to the pollution of our atmosphere; and now, the mutated mycoplasma is seeking it out, going to it as if it knows it is under threat and needs replenishment, needs to grow stronger.

  ‘Ah, Captain Peters has seen the side road you spoke of; we are turning into it. We are close to the holders now, they are looming above us. There is a gate ahead; we will go through. I can see the nucleus.’

  ‘Where is it, where is it now?’ Holman shouted into the receiver.

  He thought he heard a dry laugh at the other end. ‘Why, where you would expect it to be, Mr Holman, nestled between the two gas holders, like a tiny child between two monstrous parents.’

  Holman stared at the receiver. Ryker’s voice had sounded almost whimsical. ‘Ryker?’ he said.