The Fog - James Herbert [118]
Holman turned and fled. Away from the bus, away from the crowd, away from the dead bodies, away from the vehicle. Into the fog.
He heard a cry from behind and knew they were following. His legs hurt and still felt unsteady as a result of the crash, but he refused to succumb for if he stopped running, he would have to kill again. And then they would kill him.
From nowhere, a car appeared, screeching to a halt in front of him, pitching him forward on to the bonnet although it hadn’t actually hit him; it was the momentum of his own pace that had sent him sprawling. The car was an old Ford Anglia, rusty with age but obviously still having some life in it. Holman rolled off the bonnet and ran round to the driver’s door. He yanked it open and was about to haul its occupant out when the startled man said: ‘Please let me go. I’ve got to get away from these lunatics!’
Holman hesitated and then bent forward to get a closer look at the man behind the wheel. He appeared to be in his early forties, fairly well dressed and most important of all, his eyes, although frightened, did not appear to have the glazed look that was a symptom of the disease. He looked up at Holman, a pleading expression on his face and said, again, ‘PIease let me go.’
‘Get over!’ Holman commanded, pushing his way in, using his weight to get the trembling man into the passenger seat. He revved up the engine and engaged first gear, pulling the door shut as the car shot forward. He was just in time, for outstretched hands clutched at the windows but were knocked aside by the sudden jerk of the car. A figure ran into their path and was sent spinning back into the road. He swerved to avoid another and skidded violently when he was confronted with the overturned Devastation Vehicle. The Anglia did a screeching U-turn, mounted the kerb on one side of the road and sped on along the broad pavement for fifty yards or so, leaving it with a resounding thump only when Holman saw he would not get through the gap ahead caused by a concrete street light and its neighbouring wall. When he considered he was far enough from the pursuing crowd, he reduced speed, afraid that he might run into another vehicle in the fog. He became aware he was still holding the revolver in one hand and the man he had pushed roughly into the passenger seat was staring at it apprehensively. He shoved it back into its holster and heard the man breathe a sigh of relief.
‘You’re not the same as the rest, are you?’ the man asked nervously.
Holman took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at him. He was backed away as far as he could get against the door, one hand on the dashboard, the other holding on to the back of his seat to steady himself. He looked white and frightened.
‘As the rest?’ Holman asked cautiously.
‘You know, not mad. Everyone’s gone mad. It’s the fog. Please tell me you’re not, you’re okay. Like me.’
Was it possible? Holman stole another quick glance at the man; was it possible the disease hadn’t affected him? He seemed normal enough. Scared, his eyes were frightened, but he seemed rational under the circumstances.
‘I’m sane,’ Holman said, but wondering if he still was. Could anyone remain sane after all he’d been through?
The man smiled. ‘Thank God for that,’ he said ‘I’ve been living through a bad dream. I thought I was the only one left. You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes that were becoming moist with self-pity. ‘My – my wife tried to kill me. We were having breakfast; we didn’t realize what the fog was, what it meant. I don’t know why, we just didn’t associate it with the fog we’d heard about, the Bournemouth fog. I looked up and she was just sitting there, staring at me, a sort of smile on her face. I asked her what she was smiling about and she didn’t answer. Just smiled even more. Her eyes – her eyes were different somehow. Wide. Not really seeing.’ He began to sob quietly. ‘It was horrible,’ he said brokenly. Taking a deep breath, he continued: ‘She got up