The Fog - James Herbert [112]
Holman turned away from the sight and leaned forward on the steering wheel rubbing a hand across his eyes then staring blankly downwards.
Mason pushed himself upright and silently placed a hand on Holman’s shoulder, giving it a little shake of comfort. Without a word Holman looked up and started the vehicle rolling forward again, guiding it back into the roadway and slowly building up a steady speed.
As they continued their journey, their minds became more numbed to each new incident, whether horrifying or just bizarre: the sight of an elderly woman pushing the obviously dead body of a man in a pram, leaving a stream of blood trickling from the carriage on to the road behind her, barely penetrated their consciousness; three men sitting by the roadside drinking from what looked like a can of paraffin, waving dirty handkerchiefs at the vehicle as it passed meant nothing to them. For Holman, it was probably the fact that he had just killed other human beings; nothing could surpass the horror of deliberately taking the lives of other men, whether they were mad or not. Remorse had not yet set in, but repulsion for the act had and, because he had been forced to take such measures, his resolution to find the means of destroying the disease was stronger than ever. For Mason, it was the mere consistency of the strange happenings, consistency being the steadiest ally to acceptance.
The scenes had not become unreal to them, but they, in their enclosed mobile compartment, had become remote from the scenes, observers moving through a strange, cloudy world, like explorers in a diving capsule on a sea-bed.
From time to time, Mason reported back to the underground base, coldly describing the scenes around them: the fires, the havoc, the waste of human life. Suddenly, he asked Holman to stop the vehicle. Holman had no idea of their exact location, but he guessed they must be somewhere near the East London docks by now. He looked askance towards his companion.
‘We’ve lost it,’ said Mason. He checked his instruments again then reported back to base, speaking sharply and urgently.
‘How could we have lost it?’ asked Holman.
‘We’re being guided by a helicopter above the fog,’ Mason told him. ‘They have sensors that have been keeping track of the mycoplasma’s centre; they relay the information back to headquarters who operate our directional finders from there. It has to be that complicated because obviously the chopper can’t see which area it’s over through the fog. But now, nothing’s happening; our finder’s just gone loose.’
A voice came over the speaker and echoed round the small compartment: ‘Hello, D.V.1. Base here again. Do you read?’ Mason acknowledged and the metallic voice went on, ‘Trouble, I’m afraid. D.V.1, Charlie 2 says they’ve lost the nucleus. Nothing at all shows on their instruments but they’re going to scout around the area until they find it again. We don’t understand how it’s happened unless the bloody thing’s gone into the river – you’re near it – but that’s hardly likely. Anyhow, sit tight for a while until you receive further instructions. Won’t be long, I’m sure. Over and out.’
Mason sat back in his seat. ‘Sod it!’ he said, then added, ‘We were close.’
‘D’you think they’ll find it again?’ Holman asked.
‘Who knows? They lost it before.’ He glanced nervously around, looking through the apertures out at the fog-shrouded streets. ‘Must say I don’t much like sitting around in the open like this.’
‘Nor me,’ said Holman. ‘It’s too vulnerable. Let’s get over against a building. It’ll give us some shelter, at least.’
He moved the vehicle forward more slowly this time, angling it across the wide road, looking for a building that might give it some protection.
It was just then that the bus emerged from the fog like a huge red monster, its lights appearing a split second