The Fog - James Herbert [115]
He waited patiently, smiling at the cupboard door.
Detective Inspector Barrow had only just woken. He stood by the window, wearing a loose-fitting bathrobe, and gazed out at the fog. Abruptly, he turned away and walked towards the wardrobe. He took out his best suit and laid it carefully on the bed. Then he opened a drawer and took out a clean shirt which he laid on top of the suit. He walked back to the wardrobe again and reached up to the high shelf inside and brought down a wide cardboard box. It was his own private, and strictly against regulations, ‘Black Museum’ of weapons used in various cases in which he had been involved. He studied its contents for a while, then removed one particular object. He replaced the lid, and returned the box to its resting place.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the bath taps. While it was filling, he carefully shaved.
Samson King had enjoyed his bus ride immensely. He didn’t know where he was for he had left his normal route, but it didn’t matter. He felt free as a bird and a million times more powerful. He had smashed down anything that had got in the way of his charging red beast. People, cars – anything that had stood before him. The passengers on his bus had enjoyed it too; even now they were laughing gleefully, pointing out of the windows, calling out at the blank faces that stared after them. There were at least fifty people on his bus now for he had stopped twice at bus stops to let them on.
Samson giggled as he remembered the bus stop he hadn’t stopped at. Instead, he had driven into the queue, encouraged by his passengers, fascinated by the bodies that disappeared like skittles beneath his wheels.
He couldn’t see too far in the fog, and had crashed into quite a few traffic islands and signs. He had been using the kerb as a guide but occasionally he would switch to the other side of the road, and for a brief time would be driving blind in a no-man’s-land. He had enjoyed that. He had also enjoyed the moments when he had found himself at a broad junction and had sent the bus spinning round and round, almost toppling it over.
But most of all, he had enjoyed crossing the river over Tower Bridge. There had been quite a few people on the bridge and he had swerved the bus from side to side, making them run before him, chasing them to the very edge where they had been forced to climb the parapet and jump into the filthy water. That had been best!
And now he raced down the wide road, not knowing where he was going and not caring, picking up speed, the excitement rising inside him, heedless to his lack of clear vision, regardless of anything that got in his way.
Then he saw the vehicle. It was an odd-looking thing, grey-coloured with strange-looking objects sticking out from its sides. He ignored its oddity for his mind had already determined to ram it. It was moving directly across his path and it suddenly gave a spurt of speed as though the driver had spotted him and was trying to get clear.
Samson laughed aloud. It couldn’t escape him! He pressed down even harder on the accelerator and two seconds later the bus was on the vehicle, catching it at its rear, lifting it up and over, pushing it on to its back, knocking it aside. He lost control of the bus for a moment but didn’t try to regain it. He was too busy laughing.
The bus sped across the road and ploughed into a shopfront.
20
Holman shook his head to try to clear the haze. It made it worse so he stopped.
He lay there for several moments longer, giving his body time for feeling to return again, for the shock of the crash to wear off. Slowly, he opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself in daylight, grey though it was. He could hear a strange voice speaking from a distance. Unreal as it sounded, it managed to convey urgency, anxiety.
Lifting his head slightly, he tried to look around to find out where it was coming from, and, to his surprise, discovered he was lying in the road with the Devastation Vehicle on its back a few yards away from him. The