The Fog - James Herbert [131]
‘No, I don’t think so; these suits are pretty bloody tough. I think it’s just shock. Anyway, I’m following the thing, the nucleus, whatever it is, just keeping it within visual range. We haven’t got far yet, but it seems to be heading due east towards – ’ again, the agonizing silence. ‘Holman, there’re two enormous buildings rising up ahead of us in the fog,’ the voice broke in again. ‘They look like – yes, they are. Gas holders. Giant gas holders!’
Holman’s mind raced back to the occasions he had used the three-lane motorway leading from the Blackwall Tunnel. He remembered the last time had been late at night, and on his left, just as he’d emerged from the southbound tunnel, he’d seen a fantastic sight that had resembled a scene from a science-fiction movie. It had been a vast gas refinery, its silver towers and tanks floodlit at night giving it an awesome and spectacular appearance. There were two main gas holders (those Peters had just seen presumably) and rows of smaller tanks farther back. The refinery had been built on the river bank to give it easy access for the coal that was brought up the Thames in barges to be processed for the manufacture of town gas. He knew it was one of the largest plants of its kind in England, for it helped serve a vast area of the South East.
‘Holman, what is this place?’ It had sounded like Ryker’s voice.
‘Professor, is that you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m a little bit dizzy, but otherwise fine. Now, quickly tell me, what is this place ahead?’
Holman told him all he knew of the huge gasworks and how, if necessary, they could get into it.
‘I think it is necessary,’ the voice came back. ‘The nucleus is making straight for it. How strange: it is the large quantities of carbon dioxide and sulphur dioxide that are formed in the combustion of gas that add greatly to the pollution of our atmosphere; and now, the mutated mycoplasma is seeking it out, going to it as if it knows it is under threat and needs replenishment, needs to grow stronger.
‘Ah, Captain Peters has seen the side road you spoke of; we are turning into it. We are close to the holders now, they are looming above us. There is a gate ahead; we will go through. I can see the nucleus.’
‘Where is it, where is it now?’ Holman shouted into the receiver.
He thought he heard a dry laugh at the other end. ‘Why, where you would expect it to be, Mr Holman, nestled between the two gas holders, like a tiny child between two monstrous parents.’
Holman stared at the receiver. Ryker’s voice had sounded almost whimsical. ‘Ryker?’ he said.
The voice that returned was brisker, sharper. ‘Do you know what town gas is comprised of, Mr Holman? Let me tell you: it is a toxic mixture comprising fifty per cent hydrogen, twenty to thirty per cent methane, seven to seventeen per cent carbon monoxide, three per cent carbon dioxide, eight per cent nitrogen and two per cent hydrocarbons. Furthermore,’ Ryker went on, as though lecturing an inquisitive student, ‘it contains ammonia, sulphur, hydrocyanic acid, benzene and other substances. In other words, a highly combustible mixture. I think the mutation has provided us with another answer, don’t you agree, Mr Holman?’
The radio went frustratingly dead again before he had time to answer. My God, he thought, he means to blow the tanks up and the mutated mycoplasma with them! But what sort of damage would an explosion of that force do to the surrounding area? But he was right; it was worth the risk!
Holman scrambled to his feet, intending to cross the river through the tunnel that was still intact and give help to the two on the other side. Hanging the radio over his shoulder by its strap, he raised a hand to his mouth to call the Sergeant, who was still unaware of what had happened. It was then that he discovered he had problems of his own.
Before he could utter a sound, Holman became conscious of the fact that he was not alone. A crowd, attracted by the noise of the explosion, had gathered behind him; there seemed to be a couple of hundred of them, filling