The Fog

by James Herbert

  ‘If we cannot disperse the fog, our only hope is to find the antidote to the disease, fast. And to make that serum, we need a quantity – however small – of the mutated mycoplasma itself, as Professor Ryker says, in its “purest form”.’

  ‘But you know it would be impossible to get that,’ Ryker said, a worried frown creasing his face.

  ‘Impossible, why?’ Sir Trevor looked at the scientist. ‘Surely someone wearing some sort of protective clothing, breathing apparatus, that sort of thing, could get close enough to get a sample?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of getting close enough,’ said Ryker, ‘it means going to the very centre of the fog.’

  ‘The centre?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘Sensors in our aircraft have discovered a force in the centre of the fog. This is obviously the nucleus of the mycoplasma itself.’

  ‘The glow!’ said Holman, half to himself. ‘When we were driving through it, Casey saw a glow!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Holman,’ the Professor nodded his head. ‘It is possible that the organism has taken on a sort of incandescent quality because of the process it is going through.’

  Sir Trevor Chambers broke in huffily. ‘All right. So the “neat” stuff is in the centre. That still doesn’t prevent some one with suitable protection going in to get it!’

  Ryker looked towards the Home Secretary askance. He received a sharp nod of acquiescence.

  ‘We said earlier that Broadmeyer was careless,’ he said to Sir Trevor. ‘But only in small ways. No scientist is careless enough to handle dangerous chemicals or substances without suitable protection. He was covered from head to foot in protective clothing.’

  ‘Good God! You mean there is no protection from it?’

  ‘Not the practical protection that would enable a man to move freely. It was one of the reasons it was considered so dangerous, the fact that it could pass through the special heavy material of these suits.’

  ‘Lead-lined suits?’ said Holman.

  ‘Too clumsy and cumbersome for an operation of this sort. The wearer would have to travel half a mile to reach the fog’s centre in virtual darkness and still have no guarantee he would be safe from the mutated mycoplasma at its strongest.’

  A hint of suspicion began to creep into Holman’s mind. ‘This sort of brings us back to the point about immunity, doesn’t it?’ he said, looking directly at the Home Secretary.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ said the Home Secretary, quite unembarrassed. ‘We need someone who is immune to the disease to go in and bring back a sample. You, Mr Holman, it would seem, are that person.’

  15

  Four spectral shapes moved through the thick yellow mist. Three were gross, misshapen versions of the human form, lumbering along at a slow, uneven pace, one leading a small trolley containing a dark, oblong box that had several strange attachments to it. The fourth figure was more representative of his species, yet seemed to have a peculiar hump on his back and a face that contained only a pair of eyes.

  One of the heavily suited men tapped Holman on the shoulder. This was as far as they dared to go; the rest was up to him. His voice was muffled through the smog-mask as he gave them the thumbs-up sign and said, ‘okay’. The three scientists couldn’t have heard him anyway through their glass-visored helmets. The aperture for vision was very small and they had to swivel their heads to see one another, and even then the fog was so thick it was difficult to see more than two yards ahead.

  It was clearer for Holman who was not wearing a suit, but still the farthest he could see was about five yards. The heavily clad figure who had tapped him on the shoulder handed him the handle to the trolley. By pressing a button in the tip of the handle, the small but heavy motorized vehicle would propel itself along, restricted in its speed by the person who controlled its power. Holman looked into the inscrutable mask of the scientist, trying at least to see the man’s eyes, but gave up, unable to penetrate the dark interior of the reinforced glass visor. Instead, he patted the man’s arm once in a gesture of thanks.

  He watched the grotesque figures turn and disappear into the yellow mist, leaving him with a feeling of utter loneliness so acute that he had to fight the urge to call after them. But they had taken a risk bringing him this far; they knew the outer fringes of the fog were weak but just how weak, they hadn’t yet ascertained.

  Holman turned away from the point where they had been swallowed up and faced the direction he himself had to take, remembering the street plan he’d studied during the night. He thought by now he could walk the streets blindfolded and still find his way.

  The tiny oxygen tank on his back was uncomfortable but deemed necessary in case the mist became too choking. He pressed the button controlling the trolley and moved forward again, feeling ill at ease and claustrophobic. The test had been positive. They were fairly certain he was immune; certain enough to consider it worth the risk, at any rate. But they had left the choice to him; nobody could force him to enter the fog again.

  Of course, there was no choice really. What else could he do? If they couldn’t destroy the fog, then millions could die from it. The only answer was the serum. And he was the only suitable person available. It was no good damning the army for their stupidity, the crass stupidity he had suspected all along; now was the time for constructive action. But my God, would they know about it when it was over! If it was ever over.

  The small amount of blood containing the disease they had drained from a still-living, but completely insane victim of Bournemouth, had been absolutely rejected and destroyed by his own blood cells when introduced into his system. Whether that small amount was enough to judge the test conclusively or not, they did not know, but in a crisis of this proportion, chances had to be taken. And it was he who had to take them.

  He thought of Casey. She had looked so pale last night, so still and incredibly beautiful in her trance-like state. He didn’t want to lose her! He’d rather die himself now than be left without her. Was it just her illness that had brought his love to this crushing, fearful peak? No, he answered himself. It had just made him realize her value, his own incompleteness without her. To lose her now would be the ultimate irony.

  He stopped. For a moment he thought he had seen a shadow moving in the fog. Or was it just the swirling mist playing tricks on his eyes? He started walking again, keeping close to the sides of the streets so he could see the buildings and where they ended to allow for other turnings, but he stayed off the pavements because of the contraption trailing behind.

  The transfusion on Casey had been successful: this morning it would be the turn of therapeutic radiology, the radiation burning out the badness, the angle of the X-ray constantly being moved so as to damage as little as possible of the healthy tissues. He prayed that it would work, expelling from his mind the frightening thought that it might not.

  He dreaded the moment he would have to tell her of the death of her ‘father’. Simmons had passed away during the night, never having regained consciousness since leaving the house. He had died alone. Holman would never tell Casey she had killed the man she thought to be her father – it might destroy her. And he still wasn’t sure if he would tell her of the man’s dying confession to him. Would it help diminish her loss? He thought not. It would only confuse her emotions. He walked on through the fog that was becoming thicker, more yellow.

  Now, let’s see, he thought. This must be the shopping arcade. If I turn right now, it should lead me to the cathedral. He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. He was sure it was more psychological than the fact that the fog was restricting his breathing; he was involuntarily inhaling as little of the surrounding air as possible even though he knew he would be able to use the small oxygen tank strapped to his back if he really needed to. They had told him the source of energy seemed to be coming from somewhere near the old cathedral. The trolley that trailed along behind him like a faithful dog contained a lead-lined box that operated on the same principle as a vacuum cleaner. Attached to i
ts side were several lengths of metal tubing that when assembled and joined to a tough flexible hose from the container could be probed into the nucleus of the mutated mycoplasma and a sample drawn back into the holder. It was a hastily conceived plan, but the only one available to them in so short a time.

  Summoning up his courage, Holman turned into the street that would lead him into the lawns surrounding the cathedral. The street was narrow and as he passed by the shops he noticed the window of one had been smashed. Further along, he discovered another had been broken. Looters? Was it possible that there were still people in the town, an unscrupulous few who didn’t realize the danger they were in? The public had had to be told of the consequences of contact with the fog; surely no one would risk entering it now for the sake of robbing the unoccupied shops? Perhaps it had been an accident; an army lorry unable to manoeuvre comfortably in the narrow street, or perhaps someone had fallen against it in the rush to leave the town. But two windows? He looked more closely at the shop. It was a jeweller’s. Well, that confirmed it. Someone had stayed behind to scavenge, ignoring the risk, heedless of the warnings. Was he, or were they, still around or had they fled having accomplished their robbery? He shrugged; it wasn’t his problem.

  The yellowness was even more dense now as he drew nearer to the historic building and the extent of his vision became even more limited. He passed through the opening to the lawns which housed their few important gravestones and surrounded the cathedral, his eyes constantly narrowed, peering into the murk, trying to make out the path that led to the very doors of the ancient place of worship. Where was the glow? Surely he should have come upon it by now? He would have to make a circuit of the building, they’d insisted the centre was in this particular area. It could have moved on, of course, but there was very little breeze to stir it.

  But as he approached the cathedral’s entrance, he noticed a faint half-glow.

  He stopped dead. Was it possible? Was the nucleus, the heart of the disease, housed within the great church. Could it have drifted into Winchester Cathedral and become trapped inside its ancient but solid stone walls?

  Another, more disturbing thought jarred Holman’s mind.

  What if it hadn’t drifted in by accident? Could it possibly be self-motivated? It was an incredible idea and he tried to dismiss it from his mind. It was too fantastic, too much like science-fiction. But then everything that had happened was too fantastic.

  The thought persisted.

  He walked on, a coldness creeping through his body, his steps noiseless and cautious. He tried to fight the chill that enveloped him, reassuring himself with the thought that the sinister circumstances, the loneliness and the lack of clear vision were all working together, attacking his imagination, allies to fear.

  He saw that the glow – or was it just a brighter tone of yellow? – was definitely coming from the open doorway. Had he the nerve to confront its source lurking inside?

  ‘Fuck it!’ It was a soft spoken war cry. He went on.

  Lingering at the entrance, he peered into the brighter mist. The air was much harder to breathe in, the acidity burnt his nostrils and throat. He reached for the oxygen mask looped over his shoulder and was about to remove the smog mask when something flickered in the corner of his vision. He froze and studied the spot in the fog from where the movement had come. Imagination again? He saw nothing, only the patterns made by the swirls of the mist. He listened and heard nothing but the imagined beating of his own heart.

  Holman looked towards the source of the glow. It was at its strongest at the centre of the cathedral’s vast interior, near the altar. It seemed to have no definable shape, its outer edges constantly changing their line and only visible because of the sudden contrast in yellows: the apparently clear clean yellow of the nucleus itself, against the murkier, greyer yellow of its protective screen, the fog. It was impossible to tell the size of the strangely writhing shape, his vision was too impaired by the surrounding layers of fog, but its very existence seemed to exude a malignancy, a malevolent growth that was frightening, yet perversely fascinating.

  It was only with an extreme effort of will that Holman tore his eyes away from the eerie spectacle and knelt down by the machine at his side. He remembered his oxygen mask and placed it over his mouth after removing the smog mask. He drew in several deep breaths and his head immediately became clearer, making him wonder if the fog itself also had a slight drugging effect. Detaching the metal tubes from the vacuum container, he began to screw them together, becoming even more nervous with the action he now had to take.

  He still wasn’t sure if he had the courage to approach the glowing mass, the mass that looked pure but was in fact made from the deadly, growing mutation, so he closed his mind to it. The moment of truth would be on him soon enough and he would either walk towards it or run like hell away from it. Either way, whichever direction, the movement would be spontaneous, not carefully considered. He concentrated on the rods.

  He became aware of their presence more by sensing it than hearing or seeing them. They appeared as three dark shapes in the fog, standing about five feet apart, just beyond reasonably clear visual range, unmoving, silent. He looked from one hazy form to another, their stillness more frightening than if they had been moving, for mobility would have at least given them some form, something he could identify.

  He rose, apprehensively clutching the section of rods he’d managed to put together before him. One of the shapes moved forward and with some sense of relief he realized it was the figure of a man. But the head was different.

  Holman took a step back in horror and raised the metal tubing in defence. As the figure drew nearer, he almost laughed with relief. It was a man, and his head looked so strange because he was wearing a grotesque World War II gas-mask. He held in his hands a long, black candlestick, its wicked-looking point, the point on which the base of a candle should have been pressed, exposed and aimed towards Holman.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Holman asked uncertainly, removing his oxygen mask to make himself understood. There was no reply as the man stepped before him.

  ‘This fog is dangerous, you should have cleared out with the rest,’ Holman continued, his eyes not moving from the point aimed at his chest. He watched, almost mesmerized, as the candlestick was slowly raised and drawn back, ready to strike.

  Holman waited no longer. He jabbed the metal rod hard into the man’s stomach and as he doubled up, brought it swiftly down on his exposed head. The man collapsed in a heap.

  Holman raised the rod again, ready for the other two. But they’d vanished.

  He looked around, his head darting from left to right, the figure at his feet moaning and squirming on the hard, stone floor. He knelt beside him and turned him over on to his back. ‘Poor bloody fool!’ he muttered. He must have thought the gas mask would be protection against the fog and seized the opportunity to help himself to some of the valuables of the deserted town. But what were he and his companions doing in the cathedral and why had the man attacked him? Had the disease affected them already? Or did they just see him as a threat to their freedom?

  He pulled the ugly mask from the groaning man’s face and saw that his eyes had the slightly glazed look he’d seen in Casey’s; he had been infected.

  The sound of a footstep warned him of the second man’s approach from behind. He whirled around to face him but a glancing blow sent him sprawling back, causing him to lose his grip on the rod. The figure loomed over him and began to laugh, a cackling hysterical laugh. The third man materialized from the mist and stood by his side and began to laugh with his companion. Suddenly, they reached down and grabbed Holman by his ankles and started to drag him along the stone floor towards the glow. He tried to kick his legs free, but their grips were firm and his efforts made them laugh even louder. His hands scrabbled for a grip but the old stone was smooth from centuries of wear. As he passed the injured man his body came in contact with the heavy candlestick. He snatched at it desperat
ely and thought he’d lost it when it rolled away from him. Fortunately it was stopped by the prone man’s foot and Holman was able to seize it. He drew it to him and was about to hurl it at one of his assailants when the man he thought he’d put out of action raised himself to his knees with a demented roar, saw Holman, and threw himself at him, his teeth bared to be used as a weapon.

  Holman managed to get an elbow under the man’s throat and keep the gnashing teeth away, twisting his own head away at the same time. There were cries of rage from the other two as their progress was halted. They dropped Holman’s legs and began to kick at the two struggling bodies, oblivious to friend or foe. One of them grabbed at the first man’s hair and yanked his head back, beating at his face with his other hand.

  It gave Holman the chance he needed. He struck at the exposed throat with his heavy weapon and crushed the man’s windpipe, instantly sickened by his own action. But there was only time for momentary regret, for the other two now directed their attention completely towards him again.

  He pushed the injured man away and pulled at the ankle of one of the others, bringing the startled man crashing to the floor. The third man caught Holman from behind and put his arms around his neck, squeezing his throat, trying to choke him to death. Because of his higher position, his head was above Holman’s and saliva from his wildly gleaming mouth trickled down on to Holman’s gasping face.

  Holman felt as though his head was about to explode. As he weakened, he was conscious of the man’s insane chuckle and as his vision began to swim, he saw the man he’d brought down raise himself on one elbow and lie there laughing at him. Vaguely, almost remotely, he realized he still held the candlestick. With both hands, he brought its wicked point swiftly up to the only vulnerable spot he could reach. The man’s scream and the sudden spurt of blood that gushed down on to Holman’s face added new horror to the nightmare. The pressure on his throat was released and he sucked in the foul air greedily as his attacker fell away from him.