‘Go left along the Embankment,’ said Mason, checking the instruments on a panel before him. ‘If we follow the road into the City, it’ll take us towards it.’
Holman turned left, using the pavement as a guideline. He could just about see the opposite pavement now, something he hadn’t been able to do earlier that morning as he had made his way to the secret shelter. He shuddered inwardly, remembering the eerie journey through the fog-filled streets.
Even as he and Casey had been looking out at the fog, still in a state of shock and dismay, tentacles of despair spreading through them, the telephone had begun its persistent, strident ringing. He’d broken away from the mesmeric spell the fog was casting to answer it, as though it were some sort of lifeline, a straw to be clutched at.
It had been Douglas-Glyne, the Defence Under-Secretary, at the other end and he’d snapped out instructions, not allowing Holman to argue or dissent. He was to make his way to Westminster Bridge where he would be picked up by a vehicle resembling an army scout car, only larger and much heavier and fitted with various antennae.
From there he would be brought to a secret rendezvous, the whereabouts of which could not be revealed to him just yet. He was to avoid becoming involved in any incidents that might occur on the way; his sole purpose was to get to the rendezvous point unharmed and as quickly as possible. He was to protect himself even if it meant killing or hurting others to do so; one or two lives were nothing compared to the millons he could help save if he himself remained unhurt. The girl was to remain where she was for now; it was too risky for both of them to make the journey across town. If anything happened to Holman then they would find a way to reach her. They could have sent their ‘special’ vehicle to fetch him but this would have taken hours, for it was virtually blind in the fog because of its own restricted vision. If he did not make it, they would have to use this method to bring back the girl.
The phone went dead as soon as Holman said he understood and would carry out the instructions. He told Casey what was happening as he quickly dressed, doing his best to keep his voice calm and assured. She did not cry, nor protest, knowing circumstances were directing their actions, that they could no longer control their own destinies, that they had to move as events dictated. He told her to bolt the door behind him and then lock herself in his bedroom. They wasted little time in saying goodbye for the temptation to lock themselves in, away from the outside world and its madness, was too great; the slightest hint from either one of them would all too easily be succumbed to. Instead, they kissed and, without a word, he left.
He used the stairs to get to the ground, not daring to chance the lift which was unreliable at the best of times. The nightmare took on a new dimension once he was in the street.
It was the feeling of emptiness that was most frightening. A feeling of complete hollowness. Nothing was substantial, nothing quite real. He stayed close to the walls, dreading bumping into anyone, but, at the same time, eager to meet someone of his kind, of flesh and blood. He heard a strange wailing noise and realized it was human. He heard a car pass by, travelling fast, fading into the distance, then a crash, followed by cold silence. He heard a scream, a woman’s scream, mingled with a laugh. Hysterical laughter. A madman’s laugh. But it was all remote and unreal, the phony rantings of a fairground ghost house.
He was thankful it was still early morning and most people were either asleep or just stirring. In his mind’s eye he saw a picture of the bedlam that would come later that day, and he quickened his step almost into a trot. He guessed what the task before him would be, but in a strange way, he now welcomed it. At least it would be positive action and not just stumbling around in the mist waiting for something to happen. And he would be among people again, hopefully normal people. Thank God Casey was immune. If the plan failed, whatever they had in mind (and he had a shrewd idea), he would go back to her and get her away. To hell with them; they’d made the mess, let them deal with it. He’d done enough already.
Too late he saw the dark shadow before him and they collided, the impact sending the other man to the ground. Without thinking, Holman stooped down to help the sprawled figure to his feet. The man reached up and held on to Holman’s shoulders and it was only then, when their faces were no more than a foot apart, that Holman noticed the strange grin on the man’s face. He backed away, but the man clung to him, a low growling, chuckling noise coming from his wide grinning mouth. Holman tried to push him off, but an arm reached around his neck and his head was forced forward. He struck out in panic and the man’s chuckle turned into a snarl of rage as he retaliated with a savage kick at Holman’s ankle. Holman ducked forward, releasing himself from the tenacious grasp, then brought the flat of his hand up underneath the man’s chin and pushed it back and back, swiftly, moving with it until the back of the man’s head connected with the brick wall behind him. There was a loud crack and the man went down on his knees, one hand reaching for the back of his head, a pathetic whining sob coming from him. His other hand groped blindly for Holman’s leg, but Holman stepped back out of reach then turned and began to run.
When he stopped, he found himself completely isolated. He must have run into the road for he could see nothing on either side of him. He walked forward briskly, but alert for any danger, hoping he was heading in the right direction. He heard a scream on his left, a long piercing scream that ended in a sickening, squelching thud. Something wet brushed his face and he put his hand to it. When he looked at his fingers, they were smeared with blood. He wiped his cheek vigorously with his coat sleeve, repulsed by the thought of what had happened. Someone, a man or woman, had jumped from a window, and their body had splattered blood for some distance as it broke on the concrete.
His pace quickened. The longer it took him to reach Westminster, the more people there would be out on the streets. He had to move faster. Dare he chance a car? It was risky, he would be driving virtually blind, but it might be worth it. He heard singing, not far away and drawing nearer. It was a man’s voice, loud and clear. And happy. He saw the dark shape that suddenly became clearly defined; it was a man on a bicycle, weaving left and right, pedalling slowly, oblivious to anything but his own song. He saw Holman and rode round him in a tight circle, smiling and singing, his eyes never leaving Holman’s, neither challenging nor belligerent. Placid.
As the cyclist completed a second circuit, Holman considered relieving him of his vehicle and using it himself, but decided against the idea, for it could be more dangerous than just walking. With a wave of his hand, the man disappeared into the mist again and Holman listened to the voice as it receded into the vacuous distance, leaving him feeling even more isolated.
He whirled as he heard running footsteps, but they carried on right past him without his catching any more than a glimpse of a shadowy figure. He realized it was no good at all going on like this. His nerves were taut and his progress was slow; it would take him hours to reach Westminster at this rate and long before then the streets would be crowded. He would have to take a car; it wouldn’t be too difficult to find one and he knew how to start one without a key. He found his way back to the kerb and used it as a guide. He was bound to run into a parked car soon.
He passed a woman who was pushing an ordinary house broom along the gutter, tutting at the piled-up dirt and cursing at the world in general.
He passed a body that lay sprawled across his path. He didn’t stop to see whether it was male or female, dead or alive.
He passed a dog feeding on the carcass of another. It looked up and growled menacingly, saliva and blood drooling from its jaws, not attacking, but watching him intently until he’d been swallowed up by the fog again.
Holman’s breath was coming in short gasps now and he wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the impure air or the tenseness of the situation. He had to find a car soon.
Then, he saw the soft light ahead of him which grew brighter as he approached. He thought it might be a fire at first, then perhaps a shop front because
of its steady glare, but, as he drew nearer, he realized its source. It gave him the answer; the way to get across London fast, and with far less risk. It would be frightening, he knew, but not as frightening as it would have been by car. He broke into a run.
Holman emerged from the underground station in Trafalgar Square just over an hour later, his hands and face black with dirt, a torch still glowing in his hand. The dark journey through the tunnels had been without incident. The station at St John’s Wood had been deserted even though all the lights were still working. He had assumed it had been abandoned during the night and nobody had bothered to lock its gates or switch off the power. A door marked ‘Private’ had been left open and he had soon found a heavy-duty-type rubber torch. As he descended the staircase to the platform, he had wondered if the current had been switched off, but there would be no way of knowing. It was his intention to keep well clear of the lines, but he would have felt better in his own mind if he had known whether they contained their deadly electricity.
Fortunately, the single low-watt lights along the tunnels had been left on too, ready for the night cleaners and maintenance men, but on several stretches further on between stations he had been in total darkness. He had noticed the station itself had been full of the fog although less thick, and even the lower regions of the platforms contained some wispy clouds of it. On one occasion, he had heard muffled voices coming from the tunnel parallel to his and he’d switched off his torch and waited in the dark until they had faded into the distance. His main worry was that a train would come roaring down the tunnel at him, a notion he had a hard time shaking off. Even the black, scuttling shapes of disturbed rats did not bother him as much as that thought.
But he’d made it. The joy of once again emerging into the daylight, grey though it was, was immense and made him feel quite light headed. The fog seemed sightly less dense, but he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t because he’d come from the blackness of the tunnels and the contrast between total darkness and murky grey was deceiving his eyes.
He paused for a moment to get his bearings, switching the torch off and placing it on the ground. He became aware of a puzzling sound off to his right, a curious cooing noise echoing from the mists, continuous and monotonous and, somehow, haunting. He realized its source: pigeons. The thousands of pigeons that belonged to Trafalgar Square. Would they be affected by the fog? Their unified call was strange and hypnotic and aroused his curiosity. Forgetting his instructions to avoid any trouble, he walked towards the compulsive ululation, keeping a wary eye out for any sudden shadows that might appear. He crossed the broad road and reached the inner square where he stopped and peered into the mist.
The pigeons were spread like a deep grey carpet before him, disappearing into the mist, but giving the impression that the mass of small bodies covered the rest of the square completely. Occasionally, one would flutter a few feet into the air but would soon settle on to the backs of the others and snuggle its way in between them. Although they huddled together, they did not seem afraid; there was no nervousness about them, no sudden movements among them except for those that were squeezed from their positions and had to manoeuvre their way in again. And all the while, the deep-throated cooing penetrating the poisoned air, sinister and compelling. Holman suddenly noticed there were taller shadows rising from them, the ghostly shapes of people, quite motionless, silent and inhuman.
He backed away. Something was going to happen. He could sense it.
His eyes never left the birds until they had been obscured from his vision by the other enemy, the fog, and only then did he turn and begin to walk away at a brisk pace. He knew that a sudden movement from any of the people who stood among them – and there must have been many others for he had counted at least five within range of himself – and the pigeons would be galvanized into action. Whether or not they would attack he did not know for sure, but instinct had told him to get away, the menace that pervaded from them was an almost tangible thing.
Hoping he was headed in the right direction, he hurried on. The fact that he now appeared to be in a sort of no man’s land, without a kerb or building to guide him, caused him even more anxiety. If his sense of direction was correct, Whitehall would be ahead of him, the Strand to the left and the Mall just off to the right, he was at the junction of all the roads.
He heard the car before he saw it. Its engine was roaring, the tyres screeching which, fortunately for Holman, gave him plenty of warning of its approach. Standing perfectly still, he tried to judge with his ears exactly where the car would appear. The noise was coming from the direction of the Strand, but seemed to be alternating from left to right; the screeching of tyres told him the driver was weaving some crazy pattern from one side of the road to the other. And then it was no more than twenty yards from him, sweeping through the mist like a demon from hell.
He was rigid from the shock of it for even though he had been expecting its emergence from the fog, the suddenness of its appearance had an almost paralysing effect on his limbs. His keen instinct for survival took command and moved his legs just in time as the vehicle, a bright red sports car, sped past, just catching the side of his leg, sending him spinning into the road. He had caught sight of its driver just as the car bore down on him: it had been a middle-aged man, naked – at least from the waist up – and gross, a maniacal grin on his face; beside him was an equally naked woman, also middle-aged, also gross, and she stood with her large breasts flopping over the windscreen, shrieking and laughing.
Holman lay in the road, not hurt but stunned, watching the car as it disappeared into the mist again. As he got to one knee, he heard one elongated screech of tortured tyres, silence, and then the awful sound of impact as the car struck something immovable. This was followed at once by the beating of thousands of wings, the cooing now becoming a shrill cry as the pigeons rose en masse into the fog-laden air.
Human screams mingled with those of the birds and Holman knew he had been right; the pigeons were attacking.
He rose to his feet and pulled up his trousers to check his leg. He would have a nasty bruise later but the skin hadn’t broken. All too conscious of the danger just beyond his vision, he ran away from the noise, limping only slightly, sure that if just one bird found him, others would soon follow.
He thanked God when he found the pavement and thanked Him again aloud when he discovered he was in Whitehall. The rest of the journey to Westminster Bridge was hazy and unreal, a fantasy of sounds and sudden visions that appeared briefly and vanished just as abruptly. He later remembered many people rushing past him towards the noise, like lemmings, seeking destruction; a huge fire to his right (he had no idea of which building it had been, famous or otherwise); two more cars racing neck and neck, smashing into each other’s sides as they went; a group of people engaged in a scuffle beneath the War Memorial. It had meant nothing to him as he fled; his only thoughts were to reach safety of some kind and the only safety he would find would be with sane people.
Finally he found the turn-off he sought. The bridge was just ahead. And so were the religious freaks.
He was among them before he’d had a chance to retreat. He had often seen them around London, dressed in long, brightly coloured saffron robes, the men’s heads shaved, chanting their monotonous litany to the discordant accompaniment of crashing tambourines, shuffling along in a peculiar hopping-dance motion. Secretly, he had always been fondly amused by them, for there was an engaging freshness about them, and their religion seemed harmless and happy. But now, their appearance took on a more sinister aspect.
They were seated on the ground in a wide circle which he had unwittingly broken into.
‘Welcome, Brother!’ One of them, who had been standing in the centre leading the chant, spread his arms wide in greeting. ‘Today is the Beginning! Join us in our thanks.’
Holman warily looked around; the others were on their feet now and advancing on him with their hopping gait, the gaps between them closing as they drew nearer.
The man leaned forward until his pointed face was touching Holman’s and whispered, ‘If you try to run, I’ll break your fucking back.’
Holman was transfixed more by the harsh words than by the hold on him.
‘To your knees, Brother. Humble yourself so that you might be saved.’
Holman tried to resist but more hands clasped his shoulders and forced him down. The big man stayed with him so they were both on their knees facing one another, the immense hands still holding him. He looked into the big-boned face and saw dark brown eyes that looked glazed yet cruel. A thin stream of saliva drooled from the corner of the man’s mouth. His voice boomed out, ‘I love you, Brother! We love you!’ And then a whisper, ‘I’m going to kill you, you fucking creep.’
He grinned at Holman, bringing his forehead down and kissing it.
‘Today is your Beginning. And to Begin, you must first die,’ he said, as others leaned forward to kiss Holman. Now they were all kneeling, packed tightly up against the two men in the centre.
‘You – you’ve got to let me go,’ Holman said, looking around anxiously. ‘I’m the only one who can do something about the fog.’
‘The fog, Brother? There is no fog. All you see around us is the spirit of mankind. Today is the Beginning. The mist is only the Being, the souls who have already begun the journey.’
‘Let me go!’
‘Peace! The bridge you are about to cross is short, and the brief pain you will feel will be nothing compared to the eternal happiness that waits beyond.’ And again, the whispered words, ‘You’ll be the fifth today, bastard. I’ll snap your neck like a fucking matchstick.’
The Fog Page 23