The Fog

by James Herbert

  The remaining man was pointing a shaking finger at them, laughing hysterically.

  It was too much for Holman. He staggered to his feet and ran from the cathedral.

  Once outside, he fell to his knees on the gravel path, but the pounding footsteps behind him made him stumble on again into the thick blanket of fog, thankful for its concealing refuge. He found himself running on grass, regardless of the danger of possible collision with hidden trees or gravestones. His only thought was to get away, away from those madmen, away from the mutation, away from the cathedral. To get away from the fog, to be with normal people again. His mission was forgotten, his instinct for self-survival his only driving force. He did not even feel the sudden gustiness of the wind or see that the swirls had become more vigorous in their movements.

  He slipped on the wet grass and as he stumbled forward, desperately trying to keep his balance, he ran into a tree. His head struck it with a loud crack and he slowly crumpled against it, sinking to his knees and then sprawling on to the grass.

  As his consciousness slipped away from him, he was aware of a shadowy figure appearing from the mist and standing over him. The deep-throated chuckle was the last sound he heard before he blacked out.

  They found the lunatic trying to bury Holman alive. The fog had cleared from the town, swept away by a sudden unpredicted force of wind and rain, and the helicopters hovering around the fringes of the thick blanket swooped down to search for him. As one circled the cathedral, it came across the figure of a man digging. At least, that was what the pilot thought the man was doing, but as he swept over him, he realized he was, in fact, filling in a deep hole. A crew member slapped his shoulder vigorously.

  ‘Get down there, quickly!’ he shouted above the noise of the helicopter’s engine. ‘There was a body in that hole. That man’s trying to bury it!’

  As they landed, the small-time crook who had been amazed at the chance of having the whole town of Winchester to himself to plunder undisturbed with his two cronies, and was now insane because of this ill-seized opportunity, ignored the descending machine and happily continued filling in the pit he had dragged the unconscious man towards. The hole had been left by workmen who had just begun to dig a grave that was to house the remains of an important church dignitary whose last wishes were to be buried in the shadow of his beloved cathedral. The work had been interrupted by the sudden evacuation order and the burial that was to have taken place later in the day was now replaced by a far less dignified ceremony.

  Holman lay at the bottom of the open grave where he’d been roughly dumped. There was a large swelling on his forehead caused by his fall against the tree and only the earth falling on to his body prodded his unconscious state, making him stir, a low moan escaping from his lips. As he raised a hand to his head, his eyes still closed, and opened his mouth to groan even louder, a shovel full of damp earth landed on his face, making his eyes suddenly blink open only to close again instantly as the loose soil ran into them.

  He spluttered and choked as the earth fell into his open mouth and ran down his throat. He tried to sit up, but his head was still not clear enough to allow it, so instead, he ran his hands over his face in order to clear off the dirt. He could feel the clumps of earth still landing on his body and his mind struggled to understand what was happening. It was only the chuckling sound that broke through his stupor and brought him fully to his senses.

  He opened his eyes again, this time cautiously keeping them covered with his fingers. He saw the edges of the trench above him and then caught sight of the figure that was shovelling the dirt on to him. He suddenly realized where he was and what was happening. The man was burying him alive!

  Panic-stricken, he clutched at the loose earth at the sides of the pit and pulled himself to an upright position. With a snarl of anger, the man above him raised his shovel to strike down at him to prevent him leaving his premature grave.

  He raised an arm to ward off the blow, closing his eyes, knowing there was not room enough to allow him to dodge it. But it never came. He heard voices shouting and then scuffling noises. When he opened his eyes, all he could see through the open rectangle of earth above him was the grey, disturbed sky. He became aware of the rain that was beating down into the hole, its soothing wetness serving to revive his senses even more. He drew his knees up, preparing himself to fight off any further attack.

  Suddenly, a face appeared, breaking into the rectangle of sky. It grinned, and its voice said, ‘This is no time to lie down on the job, Mr Holman.’

  A hand was extended to help him climb from his gruesome resting place.

  16

  Holman was filled with apprehension as he walked down the long corridor towards Observation Room 3 in which, he had been informed, Casey was now resting. He hadn’t been able to see Janet Halstead on his return to the Research Centre for she’d been working through the night organizing her staff as well as hospitals throughout the country for the emergency and still finding time to supervise Casey’s treatment, but now she was snatching a necessary few hours’ sleep. Another doctor had told him the radiology treatment had gone well and now they were waiting for Casey to come out of a deep slumber before they could tell if it had been successful.

  Holman needed sleep too. His experience that morning had left him drained; the memory of regaining consciousness and finding himself in a grave with a madman shovelling in earth to bury him almost outweighed the other horrors he’d been through. Being buried alive was surely a nightmare that most people had had at some time, but very few had actually experienced it.

  The army had flown him back to London by helicopter, realizing he would not be persuaded to go back into the fog again that day. Professor Ryker, and of course, Barrow, who was still acting as his bodyguard, flew with him. Ryker had naturally been disappointed when he had returned without a sample of the mutated mycoplasma, but had understood the scare he’d been through and did not persist in urging Holman to try again. The unpredicted change of weather was moving the fog too rapidly anyway for him to be able to locate its centre.

  Towns that lay ahead of it, directly in its path, were being evacuated, but fortunately the direction in which it was moving was not too densely populated. Police and army vehicles, guided by the watchdog helicopters, raced before the rolling grey mass, stopping at small villages and remote houses and bundling their occupants into the vans and trucks, and once full, veering off at a right angle, away from the danger. Then they would unload their human cargo and speed back, using a different route, to repeat the process. It was exhausting and harrowing, and already many serious accidents had occurred, but on the whole, it was proving successful.

  Unfortunately, it was a process that could not be maintained indefinitely and the men controlling the operation dreaded the unavoidable moment it would reach a large town. They prayed that the wind would not change its easterly direction and carry the fog towards Basingstoke, Farnham, Aldershot. London.

  The biggest worry at the moment was Haslemere, the largest town directly in the path of the fog, but already it was being emptied of its occupants, most of the people fleeing north, unwilling to go south because of the fear of being trapped by the sea, the fate of Bournemouth inhabitants influencing their choice. They could not be convinced that their fears were unwarranted – the fog was still only a mile wide and could easily be skirted – and the roads north were jammed with vehicles of every description as well as panic-stricken people on foot.

  The Prime Minister had arrived back in London and was directing operations with the help of his chief military, scientific and medical advisers, from a special operational headquarters, a vast, impenetrable underground shelter, less than a mile from the House of Commons, its actual location kept a strict secret from the general public. It was already being prepared for occupation if the fog should head towards London. It had been built as a sanctuary from nuclear bombs, but now it would be used as a shelter from a totally unimagined threat and its defences against radia
tion poisoning would serve just as well against the deadly man-made disease.

  The proposal to build huge fires in London to disperse the fog if it entered the city was considered and the go-ahead for their preparation given on the understanding that they were only to be used as a last resort; the danger of the whole of London going up in uncontrollable flames was a frightening possibility that could not be ignored. But it was at least a positive action. The demoralizing chess game that was being played with the fog further south could not go on for ever and the public had to see they were being given some form of physical protection, however crude.

  They, the public, were informed an antidote was being prepared and large quantities would soon be available, they were told the disease itself was weakening and would probably soon die or be so diluted with pure air, it would be ineffective; it was confirmed that the experts believed the organism had mysteriously drifted in from the sea and a full inquiry into its source would be put into force as soon as the crisis was over.

  They were lied to because the government thought it best; large-scale panic would only increase the danger to lives. The truth could be told – or at least some of it – when the threat had passed.

  Those responsible would pay the penalty – but not publicly.

  Steps would be taken so that a disaster of this nature and magnitude could never happen again.

  Holman had discussed with Ryker the fact that the mutated mycoplasma had been trapped inside the cathedral. Or had it taken shelter? Was it feasible, was it remotely possible, that the mutation had some sort of driving force? Could it have – Holman had hesitated to say it – could it have intelligence? After all it was a parasite that fed on the brain.

  Professor Ryker had laughed, but it was without humour. ‘Every living thing has some driving force, Mr Holman. Even plant life has some intelligence, it’s a matter of degree. But to suggest this organism has a will, a brain? It has a motivation for survival perhaps, just as a flower reaches towards the sun, but a mind of its own? No, Mr Holman, don’t let your harrowing experience this morning send you into the realms of fantasy. The mycoplasma does not control the fog; when the wind took the protective cloud away, the mycoplasma had to go too, trapped in its centre, caged by its own protection. It exercised no power over its cloak of fog, it gives no direction. It is a mindless, organic thing, incapable of action by thought.’

  ‘But action by instinct?’ Holman had interrupted.

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘Maybe it amounts to the same thing.’

  Ryker spent the rest of the journey in silence, deep in thought, occasionally shaking his head as though to dismiss a theory, then his forehead wrinkling in concentration as a new thought was processed and again rejected.

  Barrow had accompanied Holman to the Research Centre after Holman had given his report to the Home Secretary in person, promising he would attempt to procure some of the mycoplasma as soon as conditions were favourable. They would be in constant radio contact until that moment arrived and when it did, he would be flown to the spot immediately. It was suggested that he be positioned in a place directly in line with the fog’s centre so that it would pass right over him, but Holman had rejected the idea vehemently. If there was no other way, then he would do it, but he was damned if he would confront the mutation when it was moving swiftly, giving him little chance to manoeuvre around it.

  At another time, he would probably have taken the risk, but at that moment, his nerves were somewhat taut, and he was in no mood to repeat that morning’s performance. He was also anxious to see Casey, to find out whether the experiment had worked, to know if she would become a vegetable or return to her normal self.

  The Home Secretary wisely but reluctantly refrained from ordering him to carry out his request knowing the man would be more useful in a better condition. In the meantime, gadgets could be set up in the fog’s path, containers that could be operated by remote control to close when sensors relayed the message that the source was in the vicinity. It was a hit and miss method, but the only one available at that time.

  The rising trepidation Holman felt reached its peak when he turned the handle of the door marked ‘3’. Through its glass upper portion he could see the pale figure lying still in the bed. A nurse sat at her bedside ready to call in Janet Halstead at the first signs of consciousness. She smiled as Holman entered.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s been sleeping peacefully enough,’ the nurse replied, ‘but she had to be heavily drugged for the radiology and the blood transfusion. I’m afraid she was a bit violent.’

  ‘Can I stay with her for a while?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The nurse rose from her seat, still smiling at him. ‘I’ll leave you for a little while but if she wakes, press this button. I can promise you, this room will be full of people in a flash. We’re all rather anxious to find out the result of the radiology.’

  ‘Are the signs good?’

  ‘Oh, the signs are good, but frankly, Mr Holman, we just don’t know. I’m sure Mrs Halstead has explained.’

  Holman nodded and sat in the chair she had just vacated. The nurse left the room after checking the girl’s pulse for the sixth time since she’d been on duty, her face noncommittal to Holman’s stare.

  He sat watching Casey’s face for several minutes, her frailty causing him concern. She had been through so much it seemed impossible that she would ever be the same again even if the parasite had been vanquished. When her eyes opened, would she recognise him or would they still hold that lost, faraway glaze that was so haunting, so terrible? He knew her wrists were strapped to the sides of the bed beneath the white sheets and the knowledge made his own eyes fill with tears he was unable to shed. He wished it were possible for him to cry, to find release for his emotions, but tears were a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed for many, many years.

  He reached forward to stroke her face, the desire to weep not conquered, but unwillingly suppressed, the incapability a burden rather than a strength.

  He touched her lips with his hands, then her cheek, then her throat. She stirred, a slight frown creasing her forehead, but her face relaxed again, and became peaceful. He spoke her name, not to wake her, but because he needed to say it, and for an instant, her eyelids flickered. And then they opened.

  They found his, and for an instant, they gave no sign. He froze, and for that tiny second, nothing existed, nothing was real, and there was no time and there were no questions.

  Then the eyes became a person’s because emotion was filtering through them, feelings reflected what lay beyond, and they smiled and her lips smiled with them.

  ‘Why do you call me Casey, John?’ she asked, and fell back into a deep sleep again.

  Janet Halstead was delighted when Holman told her of Casey’s words. She couldn’t be sure until Casey had recovered consciousness fully, but it seemed fairly certain that her brain would function normally once she had. Janet urged Holman to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep, promising to wake him as soon as Casey came out of her slumber. She found him a quiet room containing a couch and left him resting while she went back to study Casey’s chart.

  It was three hours later that Barrow shook his shoulder to wake him.

  ‘She’s awake, Holman, and she’s fine,’ he told him.

  With a grin, Holman sat up and rubbed his face. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I need a shave.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll mind.’

  ‘Any new developments with the fog?’ he asked the policeman as he hurriedly slipped on his jacket.

  ‘Plenty, but I’ll tell you after you’ve seen the girl.’

  When Holman reached Observation Room 3, Casey was sitting up in bed talking to Janet Halstead. Her face lit up as he walked through the door and in a second they were in each other’s arms, Holman smothering her face with kisses. Janet smiled at Barrow and they discreetly left the room.

  ‘You’re all right!’ Holman laughed, breaking away from the tight embrace at
last.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m all right.’

  ‘Do,’ he hesitated, ‘do you remember anything?’

  ‘A few things, John.’ She became serious, her eyes averting his. ‘I remember trying to kill you.’

  He drew her towards him and said nothing.

  ‘It’s all so unclear,’ she went on. ‘Different images going through my mind, all mixed up, none of it real.’ She clung to him, tighter.

  ‘My father . . .’ Her voice drifted off.

  ‘Casey,’ Holman began.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Holman was stunned into silence. She remembered that? Finally, he said, ‘Yes, Casey. He’s dead.’

  ‘He wasn’t my father.’

  Again, Holman fell into inadequate silence.

  ‘He told me, John, just before I killed him. He told me he loved me . . . but it was more than a father’s love. He . . . he wanted me.’ She began to weep now, her body trembling, but the tears were of sadness and not remorse. ‘I can’t feel it yet. I feel sorry for him, but for some reason it’s not really affecting me the way it should. Why, John? Am I still mad?’ She pulled away and looked at him imploringly. ‘Tell me, John, am I still insane?’

  ‘No, darling,’ he said, cupping her face in his hands. ‘It’ll hit you later.’ And God help you when it does, he thought. ‘You’ve been through too much. Your mind’s protecting you. The pain will find you soon enough. Don’t go looking for it.’

  She cried out then and buried her head against him, her body now convulsing with her sobs. He held her tightly to him, knowing the hurt was seeping through, his words had spurred it to.

  ‘I loved him, I loved him so much! How can I ever live with what I’ve done?’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Casey, you weren’t responsible.’