The Fog - James Herbert [10]
They sat and looked up at him when he climbed the steps to his pulpit, anxious to be comforted by his words in their time of sadness. He looked down at their upturned, expectant faces, eyes focused on him, eager for him to speak.
Then the Reverend Martin Hurdle, Vicar of St Augustine’s for eighteen years, lifted his cassock, undid his trousers, took out his penis, and urinated over his congregation.
‘Now where have those blessed cows got to?’ George Ross asked himself aloud, a frown wrinkling his already multi-wrinkled, weathered face even more. ‘Bet they’ve got through that gap again.’
The farmer was used to his herd breaking through the fence of bushes and trees that surrounded their meadow and wandering off into the next. He plodded down towards the spot they’d most likely have broken through. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to do without chasing those silly creatures all mornin’. I’ll give ’em what for!’ he cursed angrily.
He reached the gap and pushed his way through. ‘Now where are yer?’ He stood looking around, then his mouth dropped open at the sight of the fog at the other end of his field. ‘Well I’ll be! Never noticed that.’ He scratched his bristly chin, puzzled.
He began to walk towards the murky cloud and grinned as he saw his cows emerging from it. ‘Trust you!’ he shouted at them. ‘Trust you to get yourselves lost in that. Stupid bloody creatures!’
Funny, having a fog down here, he pondered. Too heavy to be a mist. All this bloomin’ p’lution. ‘Come on, me beauties!’ he called out as they trudged towards him. The fog, he noticed, was drifting off into the adjoining field. Strange that he could see the edges of it, like a solid block of smoke moving across the countryside, not at all like the normal widespread blanket of grey.
The cows were up to him now and the leaders passed him.
‘Come on now, up to the sheds!’ he bellowed at them, slapping one hard on the rump as it passed.
It stopped and turned its head towards him. ‘Move yourself,’ the farmer said gruffly, slapping it again. The cow stood silently watching him.
George cursed it more loudly, then turned to see what progress the rest of the herd was making. They had all stopped and were turned towards him, watching.
‘What’s this, then?’ For some inexplicable reason, he had begun to feel nervous. There was a tension about his herd that he couldn’t understand. ‘Move yourselves. Get on ’ome!’ He waved his arms at them, trying to startle them into movement. They watched him.
Then they began to close in on him.
He realized he was surrounded by the cows and the ring was drawing tighter around him. What was happening? He could not understand the menacing air these dumb, gentle animals had taken on. He felt himself jostled from behind. He turned and lashed out at the cow he’d slapped before. ‘Get back!’ he shouted, logic telling him his rising fear was unreasonable.
He heard a pounding of hooves and again felt himself pushed from behind, this time more violently. He fell to the ground.
‘Get away, get away!’ He scrambled about on his hands and knees trying to rise, but every time he raised himself, he was knocked off his feet again. Suddenly, one of the cows turned and kicked out with its hind legs, catching him an agonizing blow in the ribs, sending him flying forward.
He began to scream as he received more kicks. They seemed to be taking it in turns to run forward and lash out at him. One kick caught him full in the face, breaking his nose, blinding him for a few seconds. When he could see once more, it was like opening his eyes to a bad dream.
The cows were racing round him, their eyes bulging almost out of their sockets, froth and slime running from their mouths. They trampled over him. If he rose, they crushed him with their bodies. They used their heads to knock him off his knees. They began to bite him, snapping off his fingers as he raised his arms to protect himself. A scream