The Fog - James Herbert [133]
But Sergeant Stanton had been foolhardy in his contempt for the crowd, for as he had shot at them, taking his time, picking off the more dangerous looking of them, one had climbed around behind him to the top of the twin tunnels; madmen have a special kind of cunning. The man picked up a solid rock of concrete from the many scattered around the top of the bridging structure of the tunnels, and, almost nonchalantly, hurled it down at the unsuspecting Sergeant. Even the tough helmet could not prevent Sergeant Stanton’s head from caving in under the impact. The grey-clad figure crumpled and the mob surged forward again, screeching with delight, grabbing the dead body and holding it aloft, throwing it high into the air and letting it drop to the ground with boneshattering thuds. Then they stripped it of its clothing and ran into the tunnel with it, holding it high above their heads.
Holman heard the noise of the crowd behind him. He listened for gunshots but when none came, he knew what had happened; they’d got the Sergeant.
He was in total, frightening darkness now, halfway down the tunnel he guessed, but both ends out of sight because of its many curves. How he prayed to see that patch of grey light ahead that would mean the tunnel’s exit, for the blackness made him feel as though he were in a void, without a body, inside his own mind, his fears intensified because his imagination had no barriers of vision now. At least earlier that day (God, had it been the same day, it seemed like an eternity away) in the Underground tunnel, he’d had a torch; he had been able to relate to what he actually saw, but now he only had the touch of the rough concrete wall and the feel of the road beneath his feet to tell him he still existed as a living person. He barely took his groping fingers off the wall for fear of it not being there when he reached for it again. He moved along at a careless speed, trusting to chance that he would not meet an unexpected obstacle in the dark. Ryker had said the tunnel was clear, but then he had been travelling in the vehicle.
He could hear the frenzied mob behind him, sounding much closer than he knew they actually were because of the confined space, but, nevertheless, he increased his pace. He felt the wall curve gently and the road begin a subtle ascent. Were his eyes playing tricks, or was the blackness really less solid to the right of his vision? He blinked his eyes, knowing he had only by the flexing of his small eye muscles. Yes, there was definitely a greyness ahead. There would be another bend, the incline would become steeper, and there, at the end, would be daylight! He was breathing heavily and the muscles of his thighs ached abominably, but the effect of the dull light and anticipation of the brighter light to follow gave him new stamina. His fatigue wasn’t overcome; it was just ignored.
It took him another five minutes to emerge from the tunnel, the cries of the demented mob behind and the promise of daylight ahead continuing to keep his weary legs pumping away, refusing to slacken their cruel pace. The fresh air, fog-filled though it was, managed to revive him a little, which was fortunate, for the final slope leading on to the motorway above ground, was the most exhausting. He was almost at the top when the radio hanging from his shoulder began to crackle into life again. Several times, in the tunnel, he had been tempted to dump it as an unnecessary encumbrance, but now he was glad he hadn’t.
‘Can you hear me, can you hear me?’ a voice asked urgently.
He pressed the transmit switch. ‘Hello, yes. This is Holman! I can hear you. Ryker? Peters?’
‘Thank God,