The Fog - James Herbert [108]
‘This way, Mr Holman,’ the young man’s voice cut through his thoughts. He was standing by a doorway guarded by an armed soldier. Holman walked towards them, a questioning look on his face.
‘This is the Planning Room,’ the young man told him. ‘The Minister is waiting to brief you himself.’
As he guided the Devastation Vehicle along the fog-bound street, Holman kept a wary eye out for groups of people. These would be the most dangerous; the ones that travelled in packs, like wolves searching for lone and defenceless victims. Most of the people ignored the strangely shaped car, for today everything was strange. Mason was now helmetless because the vehicle hadn’t yet been opened above ground. They were using the reserve vehicle while the interior of the other was being carefully decontaminated. Mason grinned nervously at Holman. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, more to make conversation than out of actual curiosity.
‘Sick,’ replied Holman. ‘I feel like driving on till we reach open country, away from this.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Mason. ‘But a lot depends on us, sir. I need you to guide me. I won’t be able to see a thing once I get out there, not with this gear on.’
‘The fog doesn’t seem to be as bad now.’
‘No. As I said, it’s spreading out, thinning. But our reports say it isn’t moving on yet. Look, we won’t be out in it for long; just time enough for me to suction some of the bastard into our container and then we’ll be off. If I didn’t need your eyes, I’d do it on my own.’
Christ, you don’t know the half of it, brooded Holman. He was armed with a revolver carried in a concealed shoulder holster and his instructions from the Prime Minister himself were that he was to protect his own life at all costs, even if it meant killing his companion to do so. It wasn’t known yet if the protective suit was adequate against the mutated mycoplasma which was still an unknown entity and if Mason began to behave in the least threatening way, he was to be disposed of immediately and Holman was to carry out the mission on his own. He had balked at the order, but the PM had talked long and hard at him, telling him the choice was not his, that one life meant little compared to the millions that were in danger. A promise that he would carry out the order in the event was extracted from Holman, but he knew that only when the moment presented itself – if it presented itself – would he be able to decide.
Ryker had been present at the meeting and had assured Holman that the danger was getting worse. Because of the fog’s rapid growth overnight, he now suspected that this was Broadmeyer’s intention for the mycoplasma: to feed and grow on polluted air, thus the bigger the city, the more industrial, the more effective the disease was. The fog itself was a mere side effect of the gathering of impure air, deadly only because of the microbes that floated within it. It had given Ryker a clue to its source, but it would take time to investigate and come up with answers. In the meantime, the quickest way to probe the mutation was still to obtain a large sample of it. He had every faith in Holman that this time he would succeed. Holman wished he had as much faith in himself.
On his way back to the vehicle he had met Janet Halstead. Her cheeriness had gone, her face showed rigid lines of strain: she looked old. She, too, had urged him to succeed this time; only if he did could they begin to undo some of the terrible damage that had already been perpetrated. If she could inoculate against the disease, then men would be free to go into the disaster area and prevent others from destroying themselves and each other. He had left her without saying a word. How could