The Fog - James Herbert [113]
The bus struck their vehicle side on, towards the rear. They felt themselves lifted violently as the vehicle was pushed into the air and then over on to its back. The grey world became suddenly black.
For the second time that morning, Janet Halstead felt the room spin dizzily around her. She was beyond the point of exhaustion, she knew. What little sleep she had had during the past few days had been fitful and disturbed and last night’s had been interrupted by the fresh, major crisis. But she had to keep going; countless lives depended on the work she and her colleagues were involved in. She realized Professor Ryker and his team of scientists, microbiologists and virologists were close to the answer and wondered if it had really been necessary to send Holman out into the fog once again. She sighed wearily, wondering if it was just her concern for the man himself that caused these thoughts; she had grown fond of him in a maternal way and it made her uneasy to see him used as a pawn, an instrument, by the great body of officials that ruled the country.
It was they who had made the mistake. The great, faceless they and now they were using one man, one man who had had nothing to do with their mistake, to help rectify it.
But, she supposed, it was necessary. There was a chance he could save them valuable time, be it hours, or days, and his life was expendable because of it.
She tried to focus her attention on the report before her: the latest patient they had treated was responding immediately to the blood transfusion and the radiology. Fortunately, they had got to him in time; others would not be so lucky. And this was just the beginning, the first few of the thousands, probably millions, to come. The world was standing by to give assistance, for Britain was no primitive, backwater country inhabited by people dying because they lacked civilization. Because it was a country populated by educated Westerners, other countries were eager to help, not just because of a kinship with another race, but because if it could happen to Great Britain, it could happen anywhere, on any continent, to any country. And if it, or something equal to it, ever did happen to another country, the country concerned wanted to be sure they would receive such help as they were now giving.
Still, Janet thought, the help, from whatever source and for whatever reason, would be sorely needed over the next few weeks.
Stan Reynolds, the security guard for the giant oil company building that stood towering over the Thames, again sat with his huge boots on the oak boardroom table smoking a fat cigar, sipping an expensive brand of Scotch.
‘If it’s good enough for the Chairman, it’s good enough for me,’ he chuckled, puffing away at the cigar while the flames from the room directly below heated the floor beneath him.
Earlier, he had visited many offices in the vast, complex building and emptied their desks and filing cabinets of paper on to the floor. He hated the building because it represented a lifestyle he had never experienced himself, nor ever would. He was expected to protect the executives’ offices, to guard them with his life if necessary, and for what? A pittance of a salary and the privilege of having snot-nosed execs bidding him ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good night’ when they felt like it. That was why he had set fire to their ‘confidential’ papers their ‘strictly private’ files. Besides, he liked fires; they reminded him of the blitz. He’d been something in those days; a sergeant in the army, respected by privates and snot-nosed young officers alike. And when he’d been home on leave during some of the worst bombing of the war, his neighbours had come to him for help. He’d been respected then.
By now, half the