The Fog - James Herbert [103]
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.
‘Come, Brother. Now is the time!’ The man before him was only two feet away and Holman was impressed and a little intimidated by his size. He placed two huge hands on Holman’s shoulders while the dirge coming from the others grew louder. He tried to pull away but the grip on his shoulders tightened.
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.