The Fog

by James Herbert

  The voice that returned was brisker, sharper. ‘Do you know what town gas is comprised of, Mr Holman? Let me tell you: it is a toxic mixture comprising fifty per cent hydrogen, twenty to thirty per cent methane, seven to seventeen per cent carbon monoxide, three per cent carbon dioxide, eight per cent nitrogen and two per cent hydrocarbons. Furthermore,’ Ryker went on, as though lecturing an inquisitive student, ‘it contains ammonia, sulphur, hydrocyanic acid, benzene and other substances. In other words, a highly combustible mixture. I think the mutation has provided us with another answer, don’t you agree, Mr Holman?’

  The radio went frustratingly dead again before he had time to answer. My God, he thought, he means to blow the tanks up and the mutated mycoplasma with them! But what sort of damage would an explosion of that force do to the surrounding area? But he was right; it was worth the risk!

  Holman scrambled to his feet, intending to cross the river through the tunnel that was still intact and give help to the two on the other side. Hanging the radio over his shoulder by its strap, he raised a hand to his mouth to call the Sergeant, who was still unaware of what had happened. It was then that he discovered he had problems of his own.

  Before he could utter a sound, Holman became conscious of the fact that he was not alone. A crowd, attracted by the noise of the explosion, had gathered behind him; there seemed to be a couple of hundred of them, filling the road leading to the tunnel. Whether the crowd had already assembled before and were mindlessly roaming the streets en masse, he had no way of knowing, but their complete silence was more disturbing than if they had been yelling and screaming. Somehow, he knew, they sensed he was different.

  He backed cautiously away from their cold, staring eyes, not wanting to make any sudden movement that would alarm them and jerk them into action. But there was a stirring in the crowd and a small boy of about fourteen pushed his way through and said in a quavering voice: ‘Please tell me what’s happening, mister?’

  Holman looked down at him in surprise. The poor kid, he thought. He hadn’t been affected yet. He’s wandering around with the pack wondering what the hell’s going on. He stepped towards the boy and said, leaning forward, ‘Listen, son – ’ He got no further. The crowd suddenly surged forward like a human tidal wave at the sound of his voice. The boy went down instantly, and Holman knew he was lost. Hands grabbed for him and he was swept backward with the motion of the people; striking out at them, trying to break their grips on him. He felled one man directly in front of him with his knee, backhanded a woman who was grabbing for his hair, struck another man who was trying to choke him with a hefty blow from his elbow. But there were too many of them. He felt himself going down, his breath crushed from his body.

  Then a shot rang out. A body close to him screamed and fell forward. He couldn’t tell by the scream if a man or a woman had been hit, but at that stage he couldn’t have cared less. The crowd froze, then fell back, scrambling over one another to get clear. It was the noise of the rifle shot that had frightened them more than anything else.

  ‘Quick, sir, make a break for it!’ he heard the mechanical voice of Sergeant Stanton call out.

  In a flash Holman was on his feet and, using one hand for support, cleared the iron balustrade that ran along the road overlooking the ramp, dropping six feet on to the incline. He fell forward on to his knees, but the Sergeant allowed him no time to pause. ‘This way, sir, quickly,’ he shouted, and another shot rang out.

  Holman sprang to his feet and ran towards the grey-suited soldier. ‘Thank God you hung on to your gun,’ he gasped.

  ‘After what I’ve seen today, mate, I wouldn’t go anywhere without it.’ He fired into the crowd again. ‘Not very accurate in this get-up, but with this mob, who needs accuracy.’ He raised it again and fired. ‘Quick now, into the tunnel. I won’t be able to keep up with you, so you go ahead, get to the Captain. I’ll be able to hold them as I beat a slow retreat.’

  It was pointless to tell him what had happened at the other end of the tunnel so he said, ‘I’ll stay with you, I’ll help you.’

  ‘What you gonna do, spit at them?’

  ‘I’ve got a gun.’ Holman showed him the revolver.

  ‘They’d have to be on top of you for that squirt to work, and if they’re on top of you, well that’s not going to help much, is it? No, you go on, sir, I can hold ’em. Look at ’em now, cowering like animals. They won’t come any nearer.’ To show Holman what he meant he raised the rifle and shot at the nearest figure, a woman who was crawling towards them on all fours. As she screamed, the crowd moved several feet back. ‘You be on your way, mate,’ he said, and Holman could almost imagine him grinning beneath the mask.

  He was staggered by the soldier’s cruelty: he knew they were in a dangerous predicament and his feelings for the demented people were becoming less and less sympathetic by degree, but he could not understand the Sergeant’s inhumanity. He was taking pot-shots at the mob as if they were diseased sheep that had to be slaughtered. Had the madness touched him, too?

  ‘What about the container?’ was all he could manage to say.

  ‘That’ll be all right. They can’t harm it and they can’t move it. We’ll collect it later when we come back in the vehicle. Now for the last time: will you get into that fucking tunnel . . . sir?’

  Holman turned, and with one last look at the intimidated, but still slowly advancing crowd, he disappeared into the tunnel leaving the Sergeant at the foot of the broken concrete slope he had created. As his running footsteps echoed around the walls of the tunnel, and he sank deeper into the blackness of its interior, he heard two shots ring out in rapid succession. He hoped the Sergeant would retreat into the tunnel where he would be safer, the crowd might not even follow him into the darkness.

  But Sergeant Stanton had been foolhardy in his contempt for the crowd, for as he had shot at them, taking his time, picking off the more dangerous looking of them, one had climbed around behind him to the top of the twin tunnels; madmen have a special kind of cunning. The man picked up a solid rock of concrete from the many scattered around the top of the bridging structure of the tunnels, and, almost nonchalantly, hurled it down at the unsuspecting Sergeant. Even the tough helmet could not prevent Sergeant Stanton’s head from caving in under the impact. The grey-clad figure crumpled and the mob surged forward again, screeching with delight, grabbing the dead body and holding it aloft, throwing it high into the air and letting it drop to the ground with boneshattering thuds. Then they stripped it of its clothing and ran into the tunnel with it, holding it high above their heads.

  Holman heard the noise of the crowd behind him. He listened for gunshots but when none came, he knew what had happened; they’d got the Sergeant.

  He was in total, frightening darkness now, halfway down the tunnel he guessed, but both ends out of sight because of its many curves. How he prayed to see that patch of grey light ahead that would mean the tunnel’s exit, for the blackness made him feel as though he were in a void, without a body, inside his own mind, his fears intensified because his imagination had no barriers of vision now. At least earlier that day (God, had it been the same day, it seemed like an eternity away) in the Underground tunnel, he’d had a torch; he had been able to relate to what he actually saw, but now he only had the touch of the rough concrete wall and the feel of the road beneath his feet to tell him he still existed as a living person. He barely took his groping fingers off the wall for fear of it not being there when he reached for it again. He moved along at a careless speed, trusting to chance that he would not meet an unexpected obstacle in the dark. Ryker had said the tunnel was clear, but then he had been travelling in the vehicle.

  He could hear the frenzied mob behind him, sounding much closer than he knew they actually were because of the confined space, but, nevertheless, he increased his pace. He felt the wall curve gently and the road begin a subtle ascent. Were his eyes playing tricks, or was the blackness really less solid to the right of his vision? He blinked his eyes, k
nowing he had only by the flexing of his small eye muscles. Yes, there was definitely a greyness ahead. There would be another bend, the incline would become steeper, and there, at the end, would be daylight! He was breathing heavily and the muscles of his thighs ached abominably, but the effect of the dull light and anticipation of the brighter light to follow gave him new stamina. His fatigue wasn’t overcome; it was just ignored.

  It took him another five minutes to emerge from the tunnel, the cries of the demented mob behind and the promise of daylight ahead continuing to keep his weary legs pumping away, refusing to slacken their cruel pace. The fresh air, fog-filled though it was, managed to revive him a little, which was fortunate, for the final slope leading on to the motorway above ground, was the most exhausting. He was almost at the top when the radio hanging from his shoulder began to crackle into life again. Several times, in the tunnel, he had been tempted to dump it as an unnecessary encumbrance, but now he was glad he hadn’t.

  ‘Can you hear me, can you hear me?’ a voice asked urgently.

  He pressed the transmit switch. ‘Hello, yes. This is Holman! I can hear you. Ryker? Peters?’

  ‘Thank God,’ the voice said. ‘It’s Captain Peters here.’

  He slumped down against the wall which sloped down towards the tunnel. ‘Have you planted the explosives yet?’ he asked, trying to make his words intelligible through gasping breath.

  ‘Yes, I’ve done that. As much as I could beneath each gas holder. They’re made of steel those things, but they’ll crack like eggs with the amount of gelignite I’ve used. I’m going to set the timer for five minutes which will give us plenty of time to get back into that tunnel. We’re going to need all the shelter we can get.’ Before Holman could tell him of the mob in the tunnel, the Captain went on, ‘Here comes Ryker now. He was just getting a last look at the bloody thing while I was setting up the wires here. I think he’s still in a state of shock, you know. One minute he’s quite rational, the next he seems to go off into – my God! He isn’t wearing his helmet!’

  Holman heard the Captain calling out Professor Ryker’s name, then the radio went dead. He raised himself and looked over the top of the wedge-shaped wall, narrow at his end, but deep by the tunnel’s exit. He could just about make out the huge structures of the gasworks through the fog which, he noticed, was thinning out considerably.

  ‘Peters, Peters!’ he shouted into the receiver. ‘What’s happening? For Christ’s sake answer!’

  He was still shouting into the speaker when he realized it was answering. Again, it was the Captain’s voice, but his words sounded even more distant. The brisk, military coolness had gone, and the words carried an edge of panic to them. ‘H-he’s taken the detonator box from me. He’s become infected by the fog, I’m sure and yet . . .’ The voice struggled to control itself, ‘He seemed quite rational. He said we couldn’t wait for five minutes, the risk of the nucleus moving away was too great – it had to be destroyed now while we had the chance. I refused, but h-he pushed me back and grabbed the box. I didn’t dare struggle with him in case the mechanism was jolted and it went off there and then. He’s – he’s walking back now, into the fog, into the nucleus! Holman, wherever you are now, try and find shelter. Get into the tunnel if you can. I’m coming out! I’m beside the vehicle – I may just have a chance!’ Static, then silence.

  Holman knew better than to try to call the Captain again; the poor bastard needed all the time he could get! He looked towards the vast refinery, shaking at the thought of what was about to happen and then he thought he saw movement. He couldn’t be sure because of the drifting fog, but yes, it looked like the Devastation Vehicle! He might just make it!

  Then two things happened at the same time: the mob poured from the tunnel below, carrying what looked like a bloodied naked carcass above their heads, and as he turned their way, a searing flash, followed by a deafening explosion and then in turn followed by a thunderous whoosh of exploding gas, rocked the very earth.

  Holman curled up into a tight ball trying to make himself as small as possible. He could feel the hot air burning into his back, his hair crackling as it was singed from his scalp; he thought his eardrums would burst with the noise, he could feel the trickle of blood as it ran from his nose. The roar seemed to be going on forever, the concrete was cracking beneath him. Although he could not hear them with his deafened ears he could feel fresh blast-waves sweeping over him, more violent tremblings of the ground, and he knew the other smaller tanks were going up one by one. He was afraid to look even had it been possible, for he knew the world above him was now a blazing inferno and if he raised himself, the heat would scorch his eyes. He was luckier than most of the people below at the tunnel’s exit; he was tight up against the solid wall which was reinforced by the width of the road running along its top, but they, although sheltered from the worst of the blast, were relatively exposed. Many were burnt to death instantly by the scorching blast of dry air; others were swept back into the tunnel, the bodies shattered by fragments of flying steel and masonry; and many more were crushed to death by the falling concrete slabs as parts of the tunnel caved in.

  It was a long, long time before Holman had the courage to uncover his head from his blistered hands and look up. He saw that the ramp he had crouched in was littered with debris, much of it solid pieces of rock and metal that, if they had struck him, would have killed him instantly. He did not look down towards the tunnel for he had no desire to see the carnage to human bodies the explosion would have wreaked; instead, he slowly and painfully raised himself to his knees and cautiously, inch by inch, lifted his head so that he could see what lay beyond the wall.

  The whole area before him seemed to be a gigantic ball of flame. He could no longer see the structures of the gas plant or any buildings at all for that matter; anything that had been left standing – if anything had been left standing – was completely obscured by the billowing fire. He couldn’t hear the rumble of new, smaller explosions, but he could see the sudden bursts of yellow flame among the deeper orange and red billowing fire. He ducked down again for his eyes were already becoming sore with the heat and he blinked rapidly to moisten them. After a minute had passed, he looked over the top again.

  The fire seemed to stretch from the river for at least a quarter of a mile to his right, covering the whole of the plant and most of the smaller factories nearby. He turned his head and saw that even the buildings across the wide motorway had been completely gutted. The devastation was appalling: the gas holders had obviously been full, the steel containers raised to the limits of their height for the use of gas that day would obviously have been small, and the two explosions beneath them had cracked them both wide open, igniting the highly combustible gas they held, setting off a chain reaction among the surrounding refining tanks, spreading the destruction with rebounding swiftness.

  A few hundred yards away he could see what must have been the broken shell of the Devastation Vehicle lying on its side, almost completely burnt out now. He sank back down, his head against the wall, and closed his aching eyes. What a terrible price to pay. His thoughts were no longer angry – not even at those who had first instigated the malignancy then set it free by their stupidity – nor were his thoughts filled with fear of the madness it had caused. He was drained of feelings of that extremity; all he felt now was a deep, wearying sadness. He knew the mutation was gone, destroyed by the intense heat, the enemy and the ally of mankind. Nothing could have withstood that destructive but purifying inferno, not even the man-inspired disease, the mutated mycoplasma that seemed somehow more than just a formation of malignant and parasitical cells. Had its deviousness been imagined? Had it really possessed the power to evade its would-be destroyers, or had its movements been controlled merely by the drifting air currents? Had its mesmerizing quality only been the imagination of man, part of the subconscious will for self-destruction every mind possesses, hidden deep down in the darkest recesses of the brain, but always ready to be brought to the surfac
e? Had Ryker really gone mad, or had he seen it was the only sure way? Perhaps he had known the disease had already got a grip on his brain and was steadily duplicating itself, destroying his healthy brain cells one by one, gaining control of his mind. Perhaps he had known this and decided in his last rational thoughts to end it both for himself and the disease. Or perhaps his suicide had been a combination of the madness and the compulsive drawing power of the nucleus itself. There was no way of knowing the answers to any of these questions now and, at that moment, Holman had no wish to know. All he wanted was to rest.

  A sudden rush of colder air stirred him from his apathy. His hand stretched to the top of the wall and he pulled himself up once again. The fire was rising, drawing itself together in a great mushroom shape, spreading out with fire and black smoke at its head, the fumes at its base almost white in their intensity. As it rose into the air, terrifyingly awesome in its furious beauty, the warm air rose with it, drawing in the cooler surrounding air, the heat repeating the process, creating an ascending maelstrom, reaching into the sky. He could see the fog being drawn in and sucked up, the streaking yellow-grey vapour making the fast currents of air visible, sweeping over him in swirling drifts, soaring upwards with the flames to be dispersed into the sky. Holman knew all the fog would not be cleared in this way, but at least a vast area would be free of it; the rest would be thinned and then dispersed by the wind now that its core, its nucleus, the mutation that had been creating and feeding from it, had been destroyed.

  He sat back against the wall, his hands hanging loosely over his raised knees, staring into the sky, waiting for the first clear blue patch to appear.

  22

  Holman had moored the small launch beside the jetty near Westminster pier. He had left the lead container in the boat; they could send men in protective suits from the underground headquarters to collect it, he was too exhausted to attempt bringing it to dry land. He had waited by the tunnel exit for more than an hour before summoning up his reserves of power to make the journey back. He’d gone through the tunnel again, this time using the narrow catwalk at its side, slightly above the level of the road, intended for motorists whose cars had broken down, using its rail as a guide, ignoring the moans of torment and pain from the people in the darkness below him. On the other side he had found the trampled body of the boy who had come forward from the crowd, lost and afraid, wondering what had happened to the world around him. Holman’s mind had gone back to the beginning to the little girl he had rescued from the earthquake in the village, the first victim to die from the disease. He tried to contain the sorrow for there was more for him to do.