The Fog - James Herbert [136]
He sat back against the wall, his hands hanging loosely over his raised knees, staring into the sky, waiting for the first clear blue patch to appear.
22
Holman had moored the small launch beside the jetty near Westminster pier. He had left the lead container in the boat; they could send men in protective suits from the underground headquarters to collect it, he was too exhausted to attempt bringing it to dry land. He had waited by the tunnel exit for more than an hour before summoning up his reserves of power to make the journey back. He’d gone through the tunnel again, this time using the narrow catwalk at its side, slightly above the level of the road, intended for motorists whose cars had broken down, using its rail as a guide, ignoring the moans of torment and pain from the people in the darkness below him. On the other side he had found the trampled body of the boy who had come forward from the crowd, lost and afraid, wondering what had happened to the world around him. Holman’s mind had gone back to the beginning to the little girl he had rescued from the earthquake in the village, the first victim to die from the disease. He tried to contain the sorrow for there was more for him to do.
He had found the container where they had left it and he led it towards the river. There, he had soon found a small row-boat which he had used to reach a motor launch moored further down. Starting the launch had caused no great problem for it had a self starter and by the simple trick of touching wires and completing the circuit, the engine had soon been running. With satisfaction he had noted its tanks were half full, more than enough for his purpose. He had run the mobile container off the dockside on to the deck and it lay there on its side, undamaged and, for him at least, immovable.
As he had guided the launch out into midstream and begun his journey up the long, winding river, the sun had been breaking through the patchy grey sky above, its rays, where they managed to strike the brownish water, reflecting schools of bobbing silver light shards. He could see both banks of the river and knew an enormous hole was being created in the fog. The fire behind him raged, its blazing column still rising and its base spreading outwards. The fire would last for days, consuming more lives, more property but, most important, the fog. Then it would burn itself out, finally subdued by its own ferocity.
All along the river banks, he could see people staring towards it, white-faced, shocked by its enormity, the sight filling their sick minds to the exclusion of all else. The blaze would be seen for miles and he hoped it had the same paralysing effect on many more; at least this way they had no thoughts of harming themselves or others. He avoided the floating bodies in the water where he could, but others were knocked aside by the launch, their stiff, puffed-up limbs turning lazily in the water.
The fog had been thicker near Westminster, but not as thick as before. He had left the launch and found his way back to the underground car park. They had seen him coming through their television scanners, but had not recognized him at first because of his scorched hair, his blackened and bruised face, his tattered and bloody