The Fog

by James Herbert

  It was they who had made the mistake. The great, faceless they and now they were using one man, one man who had had nothing to do with their mistake, to help rectify it.

  But, she supposed, it was necessary. There was a chance he could save them valuable time, be it hours, or days, and his life was expendable because of it.

  She tried to focus her attention on the report before her: the latest patient they had treated was responding immediately to the blood transfusion and the radiology. Fortunately, they had got to him in time; others would not be so lucky. And this was just the beginning, the first few of the thousands, probably millions, to come. The world was standing by to give assistance, for Britain was no primitive, backwater country inhabited by people dying because they lacked civilization. Because it was a country populated by educated Westerners, other countries were eager to help, not just because of a kinship with another race, but because if it could happen to Great Britain, it could happen anywhere, on any continent, to any country. And if it, or something equal to it, ever did happen to another country, the country concerned wanted to be sure they would receive such help as they were now giving.

  Still, Janet thought, the help, from whatever source and for whatever reason, would be sorely needed over the next few weeks.

  Stan Reynolds, the security guard for the giant oil company building that stood towering over the Thames, again sat with his huge boots on the oak boardroom table smoking a fat cigar, sipping an expensive brand of Scotch.

  ‘If it’s good enough for the Chairman, it’s good enough for me,’ he chuckled, puffing away at the cigar while the flames from the room directly below heated the floor beneath him.

  Earlier, he had visited many offices in the vast, complex building and emptied their desks and filing cabinets of paper on to the floor. He hated the building because it represented a lifestyle he had never experienced himself, nor ever would. He was expected to protect the executives’ offices, to guard them with his life if necessary, and for what? A pittance of a salary and the privilege of having snot-nosed execs bidding him ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good night’ when they felt like it. That was why he had set fire to their ‘confidential’ papers their ‘strictly private’ files. Besides, he liked fires; they reminded him of the blitz. He’d been something in those days; a sergeant in the army, respected by privates and snot-nosed young officers alike. And when he’d been home on leave during some of the worst bombing of the war, his neighbours had come to him for help. He’d been respected then.

  By now, half the bottle of Scotch had gone and he took a long, stiff swallow of the remainder. As the heavy boardroom doors burst into flames, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Gen’men,’ he said, looking along the table at the two rows of empty seats. ‘I wish to perprose a toast.’ He climbed on to the black leather chair, then on to the table, his boots making ugly scratch marks on its smooth surface. He raised the bottle high. ‘Fuck the Chairman!’ he shouted and took another swig from the bottle, nearly choking when he began to cackle with laughter.

  Looking down, he saw the deep impressions his boots had made on the table and again went into fits of laughter. He dug a heel hard into the wood and was pleased with the result. He did it again with his other heel then clomped his way to the end of the table, stopping and turning to study his trail of scars. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank, then threw it at the picture of the previous chairman which hung nearby, and, with one final whoop of exhilaration, ran back down the length of the oak table and jumped over the leather chair towards the huge window behind it.

  He was well past his prime and his jump did not have much momentum, but half his body went through the glass and its weight toppled the rest over the edge behind him. He couldn’t see the ground as he fell, all he could see was a soft, yellowish grey blanket ready to receive him.

  McLellan and his family slept soundly. Outside his house, in the normally quiet Wimbledon street where he lived, was pandemonium. His neighbours were in combat, using bottles, pokers, anything that came to hand; scratching at each other’s eyes, tearing at each other’s throats. They kicked, they punched, they pulled the clothes from one another. No one knew why and no one bothered to ask themselves; they were too far gone with the madness.

  McLellan was lucky for they ignored the sign he’d left on his doorstep which said: PLEASE HELP. HAVE GIVEN FAMILY OVERDOSE TO KEEP FROM HARM. PLEASE HELP. He knew when he’d chalked the message on to his child’s toy blackboard it was a slim chance, but there had been little choice anyway. Better to die in their sleep than be at the mercy of a dreadful madness.

  So far, they had been left undisturbed and their neighbours were too intent on killing each other to break in and search them out. They slept on.

  Irma Bidmead, the old woman who had loved cats yet sold their bodies for vivisection, was already dead. The cats she had fed and housed still gnawed away at her cold flesh mixed with bits of material from the garments she had worn. They had clawed and scratched at her eyes first, then when she had been blinded and weakened, they had sat on her face and smothered her. When her feeble struggles had ceased, they had begun to eat her.

  Now they were full, eating out of greed, not hunger, but later they would go out and seek younger, more tender flesh. It wouldn’t be hard to find.

  Chief Superintendent Wreford laughed at the rantings of his wife. He had locked her in a bedroom cupboard and sat on the end of their bed watching the door as it bulged when she tried to force it open from inside. Her moans had a peculiar rasping tone to them, for earlier that morning he had climbed the stairs from the kitchen holding a kettle full of boiling water in one hand. He had stood over his wife and poured the contents of the kettle into her upturned, open mouth. Her snoring had always sickened him.

  Then, as she had screamed and screamed, he had bundled her up in the bedclothes and locked her away in the cupboard.

  Soon now, her struggles would grow weaker and he would let her out. She would see the joke when he explained it to her and if she didn’t, if she began to nag at him like she had in the past, well, he would show her the kitchen knife he held in his lap. He had seen what you could do to a person with a kitchen knife; he had seen many pictures of victims at the Yard. They were funny those pictures; fascinating what you could do to a human face. You could make the lips smile permanently if you wanted to. He would show her when he let her out – if she whined at him.

  He waited patiently, smiling at the cupboard door.

  Detective Inspector Barrow had only just woken. He stood by the window, wearing a loose-fitting bathrobe, and gazed out at the fog. Abruptly, he turned away and walked towards the wardrobe. He took out his best suit and laid it carefully on the bed. Then he opened a drawer and took out a clean shirt which he laid on top of the suit. He walked back to the wardrobe again and reached up to the high shelf inside and brought down a wide cardboard box. It was his own private, and strictly against regulations, ‘Black Museum’ of weapons used in various cases in which he had been involved. He studied its contents for a while, then removed one particular object. He replaced the lid, and returned the box to its resting place.

  He went into the bathroom and turned on the bath taps. While it was filling, he carefully shaved.

  Samson King had enjoyed his bus ride immensely. He didn’t know where he was for he had left his normal route, but it didn’t matter. He felt free as a bird and a million times more powerful. He had smashed down anything that had got in the way of his charging red beast. People, cars – anything that had stood before him. The passengers on his bus had enjoyed it too; even now they were laughing gleefully, pointing out of the windows, calling out at the blank faces that stared after them. There were at least fifty people on his bus now for he had stopped twice at bus stops to let them on.

  Samson giggled as he remembered the bus stop he hadn’t stopped at. Instead, he had driven into the queue, encouraged by his passengers, fascinated by the bodies that disappeared like skittles ben
eath his wheels.

  He couldn’t see too far in the fog, and had crashed into quite a few traffic islands and signs. He had been using the kerb as a guide but occasionally he would switch to the other side of the road, and for a brief time would be driving blind in a no-man’s-land. He had enjoyed that. He had also enjoyed the moments when he had found himself at a broad junction and had sent the bus spinning round and round, almost toppling it over.

  But most of all, he had enjoyed crossing the river over Tower Bridge. There had been quite a few people on the bridge and he had swerved the bus from side to side, making them run before him, chasing them to the very edge where they had been forced to climb the parapet and jump into the filthy water. That had been best!

  And now he raced down the wide road, not knowing where he was going and not caring, picking up speed, the excitement rising inside him, heedless to his lack of clear vision, regardless of anything that got in his way.

  Then he saw the vehicle. It was an odd-looking thing, grey-coloured with strange-looking objects sticking out from its sides. He ignored its oddity for his mind had already determined to ram it. It was moving directly across his path and it suddenly gave a spurt of speed as though the driver had spotted him and was trying to get clear.

  Samson laughed aloud. It couldn’t escape him! He pressed down even harder on the accelerator and two seconds later the bus was on the vehicle, catching it at its rear, lifting it up and over, pushing it on to its back, knocking it aside. He lost control of the bus for a moment but didn’t try to regain it. He was too busy laughing.

  The bus sped across the road and ploughed into a shopfront.

  20

  Holman shook his head to try to clear the haze. It made it worse so he stopped.

  He lay there for several moments longer, giving his body time for feeling to return again, for the shock of the crash to wear off. Slowly, he opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself in daylight, grey though it was. He could hear a strange voice speaking from a distance. Unreal as it sounded, it managed to convey urgency, anxiety.

  Lifting his head slightly, he tried to look around to find out where it was coming from, and, to his surprise, discovered he was lying in the road with the Devastation Vehicle on its back a few yards away from him. The voice was coming from the open doorway to its cabin and he realized it was the voice of the radio. Base was demanding to know what had happened.

  He must have been thrown clear from the vehicle, but as yet, could not ascertain whether he had been fortunate or not. The door must have been smashed by the bus as it had hit it, and then swung open as it turned over, spilling him out into the road. He didn’t feel as though anything was broken: his face felt raw as if he had skidded along the road on it and both his knees hurt like hell, but apart from that, he seemed to be all right. He tried to lift himself and found he could, although it made him feel a little giddy.

  Mason! Where was Mason? Holman’s senses were returning rapidly now and he sat up, turning his body towards the vehicle, using one hand for support. He must be still inside, he told himself. God, he mustn’t be hurt too badly! Trembling, he got to his feet, then staggered forward to the open doorway.

  ‘Mason!’ he called out, poking his head into the dim interior. It was empty.

  Holman spun round, leaning back against the vehicle for support. ‘Mason!’ he called out again, this time louder. Then he saw the grey-clad figure.

  Mason was stumbling away from the vehicle, leaning forward at the waist, both hands to his face as though in pain. He was making for the red bus, whether by intent or because he was walking blind, there was no way of knowing, and as he drew nearer, several people were alighting from its platform and staring silently at him. One of them pointed at him and began to giggle.

  ‘Mason, come back!’ Holman shouted, realizing that without his helmet, his companion was exposed to the fog.

  But Mason hadn’t heard him. He fell to one knee as he reached the crowd that was still climbing off the bus. Several of them began to laugh now, pointing down at him, calling out to their fellow passengers to come and see the ridiculous-looking man. The front of the bus was embedded in a shop window, but now a figure was emerging from the wreckage, crunching through the shattered glass, leaning against the side of the bus to steady himself. He was wearing the uniform of a London Transport driver and blood trickled in a thin line from his crinkly scalp down his brown face. He was grinning broadly.

  Holman started forward to warn Mason but he was still unsteady on his feet and fell painfully on to his knees. He called out again, one hand reaching outward towards the crowd, but nobody seemed to hear him.

  The driver was now standing over Mason, who was still on one knee, rocking his body backwards and forwards in pain, low moans coming from deep down in his throat. The black man swung a foot at him then stepped back and roared with laughter as the clumsy figure toppled. Someone else stepped forward and aimed a kick, retreating when the blow had been accomplished. The rest of the crowd joined in the laughter. At once, as if by some silent, mutual agreement, they all gathered around the prone body and began to kick at it.

  ‘Don’t, don’t!’ Holman screamed at them, but they took no notice, absorbed in their own violence. To his amazement, he saw the figure of Mason emerge from the tangle of legs, crawling on all fours protected from the worst of the blows by the heavy suit he wore. His eyes met Holman’s and they registered recognition, but his hands were kicked from beneath him even as he opened his mouth to cry out. His exposed head hit the pavement with a loud thud and he lay motionless in the road. The crowd’s laughter took on a new, more hysterical pitch as they leapt upon his body, using their feet to stomp the life from him.

  With a shout of pure rage, Holman gained his feet and staggered towards them, his anger pumping adrenalin through his body, helping his strength to return. He leapt into the throng, taking several people down with him and was on his feet again instantly, swinging punches, kicking out at them. For a moment they cowered away from him, afraid of his anger, afraid because they sensed he wasn’t like them.

  All except the driver. He wasn’t afraid of anybody. He roared at Holman for spoiling the fun and threw himself at him. Holman went down under the weight and found his face pressed hard against the road’s surface and his eyes staring into those of a dead man.

  Mason’s face lay a foot away from his own and it was turned towards him, the eyes unseeing, the expression rigid. A thread of blood came from one corner of his mouth, an indication that some of his ribs had torn into his lungs. Whether it had been caused by the accident or the cruel kicks of the lunatic mob, Holman would never know; all he felt was despair and the urge to lie there on the ground until the crowd left him alone. But he knew they would not leave him alone until he too was dead. The heavy weight was suddenly released from his body as the black man stood up and a boot kicked Holman viciously over on to his back. He saw nothing but the greyness above him at first, the eddying, drifting clouds of fog, singed with yellow, filled with man-made impurities. A ring of grinning, evil-looking heads intruded upon the periphery of the soft grey picture as the crowd gathered round him, looking down at him as though he were an animal about to be slaughtered for the sheer fun of it. They reminded him of the faces of his school friends when, many, so many years ago, they had trapped a wasp in a jam-jar and had begun to fill the jar with water through a small hole in the top. The ring of expectant faces had smiled gleefully at the wasp’s struggles to get free as the water rose, frantically buzzing around the inside of the jar, its circuit becoming smaller and smaller, its tiny legs beating against the smooth glass in an effort to grip it, all to no avail. To Holman, the smiles had seemed to turn into sadistic leers as the water crept up, inch by inch, the space between the top of the water and the roof of the jar physically encapsulating the wasp’s remaining lifetime. The grinning lunatics reminded him of the incident, for their expressions were not unlike those of the schoolboys and the circumstances now were not dissimi
lar. But this time there would be no one to save his life as he had done for the wasp by stepping forward and knocking the jar from the ringleader’s hands so it shattered upon the ground, giving the insect its small existence back. He had paid for that action with a beating, but it had been worth it for the astonished, cheated looks on his companions’ faces alone.

  One head came closer to his, bringing his fleeing mind back to the present, and he saw it was the black man’s. The bus driver’s hand shot forward and grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head up and forward, the large brown eyes looking into his own. Holman recognized the slightly glazed look of the madness, even though the eyes were filled with cruel amusement. He remembered the revolver.

  Carefully, he reached for the shoulder holster beneath his coat, flicked the gun’s hammer free of its retaining loop, drew it out steadily, clicking off the safety catch as he did so, put the short barrel under the man’s chin, and pulled the trigger.

  The driver’s head exploded, spattering the crowd with blood and brains, tiny bone fragments flying into the air acting as shrapnel. The force of the blast sent the body reeling back away from Holman, the grip on his hair tightening so some of it came away at the roots. He jumped to his feet, holding the gun forward, ready to use it again, but the mob was too stunned to attack him. They stood looking at the twitching body on the ground, their crazed minds unable to understand exactly what had happened.

  Holman began slowly to back away, his eyes never leaving the faces of the crowd, waiting for the first sign of hostility towards him to resume. Several were wiping blood from their faces and looking at their hands in amazement. He saw one middle-aged woman, a woman who normally would have probably fainted at the sight of blood, lick the red stains from the fingers of one hand, then repeat the process with the other. Her glazed eyes looked around her at her companions, then at the bodies on the ground, then over towards the cautiously retreating Holman. A snarl broke from her lips.