The Fog

by James Herbert

  He had found the container where they had left it and he led it towards the river. There, he had soon found a small row-boat which he had used to reach a motor launch moored further down. Starting the launch had caused no great problem for it had a self starter and by the simple trick of touching wires and completing the circuit, the engine had soon been running. With satisfaction he had noted its tanks were half full, more than enough for his purpose. He had run the mobile container off the dockside on to the deck and it lay there on its side, undamaged and, for him at least, immovable.

  As he had guided the launch out into midstream and begun his journey up the long, winding river, the sun had been breaking through the patchy grey sky above, its rays, where they managed to strike the brownish water, reflecting schools of bobbing silver light shards. He could see both banks of the river and knew an enormous hole was being created in the fog. The fire behind him raged, its blazing column still rising and its base spreading outwards. The fire would last for days, consuming more lives, more property but, most important, the fog. Then it would burn itself out, finally subdued by its own ferocity.

  All along the river banks, he could see people staring towards it, white-faced, shocked by its enormity, the sight filling their sick minds to the exclusion of all else. The blaze would be seen for miles and he hoped it had the same paralysing effect on many more; at least this way they had no thoughts of harming themselves or others. He avoided the floating bodies in the water where he could, but others were knocked aside by the launch, their stiff, puffed-up limbs turning lazily in the water.

  The fog had been thicker near Westminster, but not as thick as before. He had left the launch and found his way back to the underground car park. They had seen him coming through their television scanners, but had not recognized him at first because of his scorched hair, his blackened and bruised face, his tattered and bloody clothes, but when he began pounding on the blank concrete wall at the back of the basement car park, they had realized who he was and immediately opened the massive door.

  He had told them of all that had happened: of the journey through the city; the death of Mason; the sealing off of the Blackwall Tunnel; the final destruction of the mycoplasma with the destruction of the gas plant. They had fired questions rapidly at him and he did his weary best to answer them all. Finally, they had congratulated him, praised him, but he had told them it was Professor Ryker and Captain Peters who deserved the thanks; it had been their combined efforts that had finally destroyed the disease.

  Janet Halstead had examined him quickly, but not before she had smothered his grimy face with kisses of relief. She had found nothing seriously wrong, although many of his cuts and the burns on his hands would need special attention, and the enormous bruise on the side of his face, caused when he had been thrown from the overturned vehicle, would give him a lot of pain in the days to follow. She had urged him to rest, insisting he was in a state of near collapse, but he had refused, telling her there was one more thing he had to do before they began spraying the town with sleeping gas: he had to reach Casey.

  He had begged her for a shot of something that would keep his fatigued body going and seeing that he was determined to leave anyway, she agreed, warning him she did not know how long the effects of the drug would last in his exhausted condition. He had assured her they would last long enough for him to get to Casey and that he would then gladly lie down and sleep while the city was sprayed with gas. His resolve had been strengthened and his anxiety aroused when they had tried to reach his flat on their internal switchboard, but power throughout London had finally gone dead and their only communication with the waiting outside world was through their transmitters. They had promised him the spraying operation would begin in the southwest and the northeast areas, the aircraft working their way in sections across London, leaving the area in which he lived till last. To help him, they had given him the use of a military vehicle, a stocky, solid army scout car, but obviously, and to their regret, they could not risk sending anybody with him; the fog might still contain enough of the disease to penetrate the protective suits. As it was, they would need volunteers to collect the container, but that was a justifiable risk.

  Finally, after Janet Halstead had quickly cleaned his face and hands up and he had borrowed a leather jacket from someone to cover the gun and shoulder holster he still wore, he had driven from the underground shelter, feeling the drug already beginning to revitalize his exhausted system.

  He climbed the stairs and, by the fourth flight, he could feel the weariness creeping back through his limbs; the drug was wearing off already. It must have been the drive back that had begun to drain him again, for the horror was still going on. Somehow he had half expected it to be all over with the destruction of the nucleus, but he soon realized the trail of misery it had left in its wake. There were still many of the individually gruesome and macabre incidents, but now the majority of the people had formed themselves into large marching crowds. Marching towards the river! It seemed that there would be a recurrence of the Bournemouth tragedy unless the gas reached them first. He had used the car’s transmitter to inform the base of what was happening and they reported back they would now concentrate the dropping of the gas along the river’s edge, on both sides, before dealing with the rest of London. Where he could, he had skirted the main groups of people, but several times he had had to drive carefully through them. Fortunately they ignored him, their minds filled now with only one thought. Self-destruction.

  Even as he climbed the stairs, he could hear the low-flying aircraft in the distance, swooping down, spewing out their lifesaving and hopefully for many, mind-saving gas. In other parts of the town where the fog seemed fairly low, helicopters were being used, their pilots breathing through oxygen tanks in case gas from the aeroplanes drifted their way.

  When he reached his floor, he breathed a sigh of relief to see the door to his flat was still firmly closed. As he pounded on it with his fist, calling out Casey’s name, he failed to see the shadowy figure sitting on the stairs leading to the roof where it had been patiently waiting for most of the day.

  Holman heard her muffled voice from behind the door, ‘John is that you?’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ he shouted back, managing to coax his aching face into a wide grin, ‘it’s me. Everything’s going to be okay. Open up.’

  He heard the scraping of furniture, the heavy bolt being shot back, the latch clicking, then her face appeared in the small gap governed by the safety chain, strained with dried-up tears, fresh ones about to flow.

  ‘Oh, John,’ she cried, ‘I didn’t know what had happened to you. I’ve been so worr – ’ her words were cut off as she fumbled with the safety chain. ‘Somebody’s been trying to get in all – ’ but again her words were cut off as he pushed the door wide and pulled her towards him, enveloping her with his arms, relaxing his grip slightly only to kiss her face.

  She was crying with relief and happiness as he pushed her back into the hall and kicked the door with the heel of his foot.

  She broke away to look into his face and her eyes instantly clouded with anxiety. ‘John, what’s happened to you? What have they done to you?’ she asked.

  He smiled wearily. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘First, you and I are going to have a stiff drink. Then we’re going to bed and I’ll tell you all about it. And then, we’re going to sleep. We’re going to go into a long and glorious sleep.’

  She smiled back at him, her expression curious but full of happiness. And then it froze into rigid lines of fear as she saw something over his shoulder, something that had prevented the door from closing fully. Puzzled by her frightened look, Holman turned to see what had caused it. He caught his breath.

  Barrow was standing in the doorway, a strange grin on his face.

  Holman turned his body so that he was facing the detective and Casey was behind him.

  ‘Hello, Barrow,’ he said warily.

  There was no reply, no movement.

 
; Casey touched his shoulder and said in an urgent, hushed voice, ‘John, it must have been him. Somebody’s been trying to get in all day. Banging on the door, trying to force it. When I called out, there was never any answer but the pounding would stop then start again an hour or so later. He must have been out there all this time.’

  Holman tried to get an answer from him again. ‘What do you want, Barrow?’ he said.

  Again, there was no reply, just the odd, disturbing grin. Strangely, Holman noticed, he was immaculately dressed: dark brown three-piece suit, white stiff-collared shirt, deep green tie. It was only his distant eyes and the humourless smile that gave any signs of his demented state. Holman tensed as Barrow suddenly put his hand into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and drew something out. He couldn’t make out what it was at first, but as Barrow began to unwind it, he saw it was a length of thin wire, two small wooden handles attached to each end.

  ‘Get into the bedroom, Casey, and lock the door,’ he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the figure in front of him.

  ‘No, John, I’m not leaving you,’ she said.

  ‘Do as you’re bloody told,’ he said evenly through clenched teeth. He sensed her move away from him and heard the click as the bedroom door closed.

  ‘What do you want, Barrow?’ he said again, not expecting a reply but this time receiving one.

  ‘You,’ Barrow said. ‘You, you bastard.’

  He had the handles of the wire in either hand now, holding it up at chest level, drawing it out so that the wire was taut. Holman knew how the macabre weapon was meant to be used: as a garrotte. Twisted around the victim’s neck, it would cut into the windpipe and jugular vein, killing within seconds.

  Barrow took a step towards him.

  Holman had been through too much that day to waste time trying to appease him and Barrow was already too near for him to risk reaching for the gun – so he attacked first.

  He flew at the detective, charging low, ducking under the threatening wire, and both men went crashing back through the open doorway, falling in a struggling heap in the hall outside. Holman had landed on top but found himself being lifted completely off his opponent and then thrown to one side. The policeman’s strength was incredible and, as he rolled over in an effort to get to one knee, Holman knew he would not stand much chance against him, especially in his own weakened condition. He saw Casey suddenly appear in the doorway, a hand to her open mouth as she saw the weapon Barrow held. The policeman was on his feet moving in for the kill, a dry chuckling noise coming from his throat, but he turned his head when Casey screamed.

  It gave Holman the fraction of time he needed to get to one knee and launch himself forward again from that position. His head struck Barrow in the midriff, knocking the wind from him, sending him reeling back along the hall. Holman found himself lying on Barrow’s legs and he received a vicious kick under his chin from the detective’s knee. He fell back against the wall, his senses spinning for precious moments. He tried to push himself up by using the wall for support, but he was too late. He felt the icy sharp wire go around his neck and just managed to get an arm up to prevent it closing completely. Barrow had crossed the two handles and was kneeling in front of Holman pulling them in opposite directions with all his strength.

  Holman could feel the wire cutting into the back of his neck, and his arm, fortunately protected by the borrowed leather jacket, which was preventing him from being choked, although he was near to it. His hand was pressed up against the side of his face, held there by the wire at his wrist, and he tried to push it away, resisting the tremendous pressure Barrow was exerting, but it was no use; he could feel his strength deserting him. His vision seemed to be dimming, the excruciating pain was sending waves of white heat through his head. He began to lose consciousness.

  Then, by some miracle, the pressure was released slightly. His eyes began to clear as he fought his way up from the deep well of unconsciousness, but it seemed an age before he could focus them, and when he could, he saw that Casey had Barrow by the hair and was pulling his head back, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling with the effort. Barrow was forced to let go of one of the handles to use a hand to free himself. He reached up and grabbed one of her wrists, trying to break her grip, but she hung on grimly, pulling him backwards, forcing him to lose his balance.

  He came up again with an enraged roar, turning on her, forgetting Holman for the moment. He lashed out at her viciously with the back of his hand, sending her flying back against the opposite wall, bringing blood to her lips. She stood there sobbing, a hand to her face where he had hit her and he stepped towards her and slapped her again, knocking her body upright, her eyes blazing into his. He looked down at her, breathing heavily, his gaze completely blank for a few seconds. Then he began to grin again. He reached out and gripped the top of her flimsy blouse then pulled down with one swift motion, ripping it open, the sight of her small, exposed breasts causing him to pause, his smile becoming wider, his eyes more cruel.

  He stared at Holman almost incomprehendingly when he was roughly swung round by his shoulder, his expression barely having time to change into one of fury before the fist smashed into his face. He went crashing back against the girl but retaliated instantly, using his feet as he had been taught to – as weapons – catching Holman a painful blow on his thigh. He lashed out with his fist, catching Holman only a glancing blow on the forehead, but enough to send him spinning across the hallway. He made as if to follow, but Casey courageously hooked an arm around his neck and tried to pull him back. He whirled around in her grip and pushed her back against the wall, his body tight against hers, pressing into her. One hand reached up for her shoulder, ripping the blouse from it, then groping towards her breasts, his other hand sliding down towards her thighs. His head was close against hers, and she could feel the wetness of his lips on her cheek. She tried to cry out but found she couldn’t, her terror paralysing her vocal cords.

  Holman staggered towards him again, knowing he had to finish it soon or Barrow would kill them both. His anger when he saw the detective’s intention gave him just the added strength he needed to launch another attack. His fingers encircled Barrow’s head and found his eyes. He dug his fingers in and pulled back with all his might.

  Barrow screamed and came away from the girl, his hands flying to his face, trying to break Holman’s merciless grip. He pushed himself back, crushing Holman against the opposite wall but even though the grip was released, he found he couldn’t see through his bruised eyeballs. He struck out blindly but Holman easily dodged the blow, using the opportunity himself to send a vicious hook into Barrow’s stomach, doubling him up. He kicked him in the face, the back of Barrow’s head taking the worst of the blow, but nevertheless, the force of it sending him staggering back down the corridor.

  Even as Holman went after him, the detective was straightening his body, shaking his head, his sight returning. A smile was just beginning to spread across his face again when Holman charged into him, using his shoulder in an attempt to knock him flat. Barrow almost avoided the attack by twisting his body, but Holman just caught him, spinning him round, both of them falling to the floor again. Both men raised themselves to their knees at the same time and faced one another, but it was Barrow who reacted first. He used the hardened edge of his hand on the side of Holman’s neck, bringing it down in a short sharp chopping motion. Again if it hadn’t been for the collar of the leather jacket, Holman would have been seriously injured; as it was he fell forward on to his face, the whole of his left shoulder and the top of his arm completely numbed with pain.

  He lay there gasping, his body heaving with the exertion, and he heard the dry insane chuckle of Barrow as he got to his feet.

  The Detective Inspector looked down at his weakened opponent, his face a mask of sadistic pleasure. Casey was further down the hall, collapsed on her knees, leaning against the wall, her blouse hanging in tatters around her. She wept for Holman, but knew she could do no more to help hi
m, the madman was too strong. Barrow raised a foot to bring it crushing down on the back of Holman’s head.

  As he did, Holman looked up and their eyes met: gloating victory showed through Barrow’s crazed glare; defeat showed in Holman’s. But the detective hesitated a moment too long in relishing his triumph and the defeat in Holman’s eyes was replaced by a look of hope.

  They had moved so far down the hall that Barrow now stood with his back to the stairs. Holman’s right hand snaked out and grabbed for Barrow’s foot, the one that supported his weight. He gripped the ankle and yanked it forward, using the last of his remaining strength to do so. The detective fell back and crashed down the stone stairs, over and over until he reached the bottom and bounced off the facing wall.

  Holman’s head sank to the floor and he lay there, his body heaving, too exhausted to move. He could hear Casey sobbing farther down the hall, but he could not summon the strength to go to her just yet. She called his name and slowly began to crawl towards him.

  He lay there, his mind buzzing with thoughts as it does when too tired to concentrate on anything specific. He had been through so much in the last few days: his mind had had to adapt to so many strange factors; he’d had to accept death, not just individual but multiple death; he’d had to accept killing.