The Fog - James Herbert [17]
‘What’s the matter, John?’ Casey asked, alarm in her voice.
‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. The fog – it seems familiar.’
‘John, the papers said a cloud of dust or smoke came from the eruption; they thought it had been caused by a blast beneath the ground. This isn’t a normal fog we’re in. Could this be it?’
‘No, surely not. It would have been dispersed by the wind by now, not hanging around in a great lump.’
‘How do you know? If it came from deep underground, how do you know how it would act?’
‘All right, maybe it is. Anyway, let’s not sit here discussing it, let’s try and get clear first.’ He wound up the side window, hoping the action would not throw any fear into her. ‘At the rate it’s moving, I reckon it will be easier to try and go on through it rather than turn back.’
‘Okay,’ she answered, ‘but please be careful.’
He edged forward, his eyes peering ahead into the gloom. They had made a hundred yards’ slow progress when they came upon the coach lying half in a ditch alongside the road. They had nearly run into a small group of boys who had been standing at the rear of the coach before Holman jammed on his brakes. Fortunately, they had been travelling so slowly they were able to stop almost immediately.
‘Now come along, boys, I’ve already told you to keep to the side, away from the road,’ they heard a voice bellow.
Holman opened his door and climbed out of the car, telling Casey to remain inside. The slight but distinct odour of the fog disturbed him again as he closed the door behind him.
‘Is anyone hurt?’ he asked the spectral shape of the man he assumed was the boys’ master.
‘A few bruises here and there among the boys,’ came the reply as the figure approached him, ‘but I’m afraid our driver has suffered a nasty blow on the head.’
When the teacher was only three feet away Holman saw he was a tall, gaunt-looking man, with a hooked nose and deep-set eyes. He had only one arm, his right ending just above the wrist. The teacher went on, in a lower tone of voice. ‘Mind you, it was all his fault, the idiot. He was so busy joking with the boys he didn’t even notice the fog until he was in it and then he hardly slowed down even though I warned him.’ He looked down at the pupils who had now clustered around him. ‘Boys! I told you to get to the side of the road. Now the next boy who disobeys me gets a flogging. Move yourselves!’
They scattered, enjoying the fun now that they’d got over their initial shock.
‘Let’s have a look at the driver,’ said Holman, ‘maybe I can help.’
They walked to the front of the coach where they found the driver sitting on the grass beside the ditch nursing his head in his hands. He held a bloody handkerchief to his forehead and occasionally moaned as he rocked backwards and forwards. A group of boys stood around him, watching him both anxiously and curiously.
‘Now, Mr Hodges, how are we feeling?’ asked the teacher, hardly a trace of sympathy in his tone.
‘Fucking awful,’ came the muffled reply.
The boys tittered and hid smiles of delight behind shaking hands.
The teacher cleared his throat and stiffly ordered his pupils to go to the back of the coach and stay out of the road. ‘Yes, well, let’s have a look at the cut, Mr Hodges, and perhaps we can do something about it.’
Holman bent down and brought the hand holding the bloodstained handkerchief away from the damaged forehead. The gash looked worse than it probably was. He took out his own handkerchief and pressed it to the cut, telling the driver to hold it in place.
‘I don’t think it’s serious, but we’d better get you to a hospital right away.’
‘There’s a doctor’s surgery in the town ahead. I’m sure they’ll look after Mr Hodges,’ said the impatient teacher. ‘The only problem is getting him there.’
‘We’ll take him and inform the police at the same time. They’ll soon get a breakdown lorry to you and arrange other transport for the boys. Are you sure none of them are hurt badly?’
‘Yes, quite sure, thank you. It’s really very kind of you. I do