The Fog - James Herbert [132]
He backed cautiously away from their cold, staring eyes, not wanting to make any sudden movement that would alarm them and jerk them into action. But there was a stirring in the crowd and a small boy of about fourteen pushed his way through and said in a quavering voice: ‘Please tell me what’s happening, mister?’
Holman looked down at him in surprise. The poor kid, he thought. He hadn’t been affected yet. He’s wandering around with the pack wondering what the hell’s going on. He stepped towards the boy and said, leaning forward, ‘Listen, son – ’ He got no further. The crowd suddenly surged forward like a human tidal wave at the sound of his voice. The boy went down instantly, and Holman knew he was lost. Hands grabbed for him and he was swept backward with the motion of the people; striking out at them, trying to break their grips on him. He felled one man directly in front of him with his knee, backhanded a woman who was grabbing for his hair, struck another man who was trying to choke him with a hefty blow from his elbow. But there were too many of them. He felt himself going down, his breath crushed from his body.
Then a shot rang out. A body close to him screamed and fell forward. He couldn’t tell by the scream if a man or a woman had been hit, but at that stage he couldn’t have cared less. The crowd froze, then fell back, scrambling over one another to get clear. It was the noise of the rifle shot that had frightened them more than anything else.
‘Quick, sir, make a break for it!’ he heard the mechanical voice of Sergeant Stanton call out.
In a flash Holman was on his feet and, using one hand for support, cleared the iron balustrade that ran along the road overlooking the ramp, dropping six feet on to the incline. He fell forward on to his knees, but the Sergeant allowed him no time to pause. ‘This way, sir, quickly,’ he shouted, and another shot rang out.
Holman sprang to his feet and ran towards the grey-suited soldier. ‘Thank God you hung on to your gun,’ he gasped.
‘After what I’ve seen today, mate, I wouldn’t go anywhere without it.’ He fired into the crowd again. ‘Not very accurate in this get-up, but with this mob, who needs accuracy.’ He raised it again and fired. ‘Quick now, into the tunnel. I won’t be able to keep up with you, so you go ahead, get to the Captain. I’ll be able to hold them as I beat a slow retreat.’
It was pointless to tell him what had happened at the other end of the tunnel so he said, ‘I’ll stay with you, I’ll help you.’
‘What you gonna do, spit at them?’
‘I’ve got a gun.’ Holman showed him the revolver.
‘They’d have to be on top of you for that squirt to work, and if they’re on top of you, well that’s not going to help much, is it? No, you go on, sir, I can hold ’em. Look at ’em now, cowering like animals. They won’t come any nearer.’ To show Holman what he meant he raised the rifle and shot at the nearest figure, a woman who was crawling towards them on all fours. As she screamed, the crowd moved several feet back. ‘You be on your way, mate,’ he said, and Holman could almost imagine him grinning beneath the mask.
He was staggered by the soldier’s cruelty: he knew they were in a dangerous predicament and his feelings for the demented people were becoming less and less sympathetic by degree, but he could not understand the Sergeant’s inhumanity. He was taking pot-shots at the mob as if they were diseased sheep that had to be slaughtered. Had the madness touched him, too?
‘What about the container?’ was all he could manage to say.
‘That’ll be all right. They can’t harm it and they can’t move it. We’ll collect it later when we come back in the vehicle. Now for the last time: will you get into that fucking tunnel . . . sir?’
Holman turned, and with one last look at the intimidated, but