The Fog - James Herbert [123]
And yet, his detachment wasn’t complete: it was the sight of the children, infants some of them, who were walking the streets, many on their own, still clad in pyjamas and night-clothes, that lost dazed look on their tiny faces. It was this that stirred his emotions most. He wanted to help them, to gather them up and lead them to safety, to keep them from harm until help was at hand, but he knew the best way he could help them was to carry out his plan.
The idea was simple: the mutated mycoplasma had been locked away below ground for many years, trapped and contained by tons of earth; now it had returned to another underground sanctuary, a man-made open womb that could be made into a prison if both ends were sealed. So he had returned to the vehicle and, with relief, found it untampered with; the radio was still buzzing (a voice had been calling in every ten minutes, desperate for a reply from the two passengers of the vehicle) and he’d used it to tell headquarters of his plan. There had been great excitement and relief at the sound of his voice, but the men on the other end were professionals and had soon acknowledged his instructions. He asked for explosives, the ‘brisant’ kind, the type used for quarrying and demolition work because of its shattering power. He asked for as much as could be loaded into the second Devastation Vehicle in case the first attempts failed, and an explosives expert because his own knowledge was extremely limited in that field. He gave them directions as to his exact location, for he had checked on the names of the streets on his way back to the vehicle: they would find him and the overturned vehicle at a point along the East India Dock Road close to a turning called Hale Street. He told them to hurry.
The voice at the other end urged him to sit tight and wait, no matter how long it took them to get there, and to avoid any trouble. If he were to be attacked, he was to use the gun without hesitation.
He had smiled grimly. He had little compunction about killing now, for he thought of the people out there as hardly human any more, their hostility helping to negate his compassion. He had remembered the demented man clutching his wife’s disembodied head at the entrance to the tunnel; he had backed the car right into him, repugnance at what the man had done filling him with hatred – unreasonable hatred, he knew, for the man could not help the actions of a sick mind. The impact had killed him, Holman was sure, and he felt no regret. Perhaps later, when he had time to reflect, he would feel pity, but now he had become quite ruthless; partly because of fear of the illness, but mostly because he had a mission that he couldn’t allow to be jeopardized.
Two hours went by before he saw the other vehicle appear from the fog and halt beside its ill-fortuned twin. He rose from his hiding place behind the shop’s counter, amid shelves filled with confectionery, and walked towards the door, unbolting it and stepping outside into the misty street. He had found the door wide open when he’d arrived and assumed the owner had left it so on leaving the premises. He walked over to the second vehicle just as one of its side doors began to open. A heavy-suited figure clambered out carrying what appeared to be an ordinary rifle except that its trigger was at least three inches long and had a wide, looping guard to accommodate it. The figure wore a helmet fitted with a dark, narrow visor for vision, and he had to swing his whole body around from the waist in order to see about him. The black visor came to rest in the direction of Holman as he walked forward, his arms slightly raised in a gesture of greeting turning into one of apprehensive placation as the