The Fog - James Herbert [109]
‘My God, look at that!’ Mason was pointing ahead at four blazing cars that had piled up in the centre of the road. The flames were too thick to see if anybody occupied them, but a large crowd of people had gathered round the blaze, silently watching. As Holman and Mason drew nearer, the blood froze in their veins at the horror of what was happening. As the crowd watched, individuals would break from the ring and rush forward to throw themselves into the fire. The crowd cheered and then fell silent until another repeated the action.
‘We’ve got to stop them!’ Holman shouted, unable to take his eyes from the scene.
‘No, we’ve got our orders,’ said Mason firmly. ‘We’re not to interfere in any way. We mustn’t get involved!’
Holman knew it was useless to argue. And Mason was right; they were not to jeopardize the mission. If they were to involve themselves in every incident that occurred along the way, then the odds were that they would never reach their destination.
‘All right,’ he said evenly, ‘if there’s nothing we can do, let’s get away from it as quickly as possible.’
Mason was relieved. ‘We’ll go around,’ he said. ‘Back up, there’s a turning to the left – goes towards the Strand. We’ll go that way.’
Holman reversed the vehicle, narrowly missing a heavy truck that thumped past them, headed directly towards the burning cars and people. They heard the crash, for although the vehicle itself was soundproof, it was equipped with receivers on its exterior to pick up noise, a function that was necessary because of the lack of vision.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ breathed Mason, ‘this is terrible.’
‘It’s only just beginning,’ Holman told him cruelly. ‘It’ll get worse.’
And it did get worse. They passed many burning buildings, more blazing cars; scores of people roaming the streets, insanity evident in their faces; individuals curled up in corners, occasionally staring around with wide, fearful eyes. They passed bodies that had obviously fallen or jumped from the surrounding tall buildings; they heard screams, laughter, chanting; they saw people on their knees praying. And, strangest of all, they saw people behaving normally: queuing at bus stops, walking along briskly as though on their way to work, swinging umbrellas or carrying briefcases, entering the buildings that were open, waiting patiently outside others whose doors had not yet been locked, chatting to one another as though it were an ordinary working day, ignoring the chaos that was taking place around them. But that was their abnormality.
They drove slowly on down Fleet Street towards Ludgate Circus, steeling themselves against the sights, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to stop the vehicle and help those in particularly perilous plights. Holman was thankful they had passed no children. He realized they probably would later on when they passed through the more residential districts, but he hoped they would remain hidden from his eyes behind the veiling mist, for he doubted whether he could prevent himself helping a child in distress.
Suddenly they found themselves surrounded by a mob of workmen at the bottom of Fleet Street. The men began banging on the sides of the vehicle, trying to peer into the small but wide windows. They rapped on the glass, trying to break it. Holman and Mason heard heavy footsteps clunking overhead as some of the men scrambled on to the roof.
‘Christ! Must be all the bloody printers in Fleet Street!’ said Mason.
‘Yes, they must have been working through the night,’ Holman agreed. ‘But surely they would have been warned?’
Mason shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ll have to drive through them!’ he said.
Just then the vehicle began to rock from side to side.
‘They’re trying to turn us over!’ shouted Holman above the noise.
‘Drive!’ Mason commanded, leaning forward to switch off the sound. He didn’t want Holman to hear the screams as they mowed their way through the crowd.