The Fog - James Herbert [32]
Holman thumped the side of the lift with the soft underside of his fist as it began its slow ascent. Surely Casey would be all right. She had stayed in the car during the incident with the fog so it may have had no effect on her at all. And what about himself? He felt okay and he’d been fully exposed to it. But Spiers? He’d said he’d run into some fog when he’d been down to visit him. Could it have been the same fog? Then he remembered the slightly acrid smell, the tinge of yellow in the mist; it had seemed familiar at the time, and now he began to remember his experience in the fissure. The mist that had risen from the depths of the crevice – yellow, sharp smelling. Was it the same? Had it caused his madness? Or was he still mad?
The lift jerked to a stop and he gave the slow-moving door a helpful shove, sliding through when the opening was wide enough. He reached the door of his flat, fumbling for the key, trying to calm himself, only too willing to appear foolish if she was perfectly all right. He opened the door and a chill ran through him as he saw the place was in darkness. Perhaps she was still sleeping and had not bothered to draw the curtains. No, he had drawn them open himself that morning. He stood in the doorway and called out her name, not too loudly, not wanting to alarm her. He walked to the half-open door to the lounge. Pushing the door wider, he reached in and switched on the light. The room was empty. Everything was as he’d left it except for the closed curtains. He tried the kitchen. Empty. He walked softly to the bedroom door, grasped the handle, and gently pushed it open.
‘Casey?’
Silence.
He could see the bed through the gloom but could not tell if its ruffled blankets covered a sleeping body. He stepped into the room and walked towards it.
Only the harsh, dry chuckle he heard behind him saved his life. He whirled around at the sound, the movement causing the kitchen knife Casey was plunging down towards his back to miss and slew through the material of his coat sleeve. He gasped with pain as the blade cut a fine line across the muscle of his arm, but the shock caused him to fall back and so avoid the knife on its return journey. She stood before him, familiar, but a stranger. Her eyes were cold, her mouth was drawn back in a grimace that resembled the frozen smile he’d seen on dead animals. Her brown-blonde hair hung limply across her face as though she’d been caught in the rain, there were long scratch marks on her cheeks where she’d raked them with her fingernails. A stream of saliva glistened on her delicate chin. She held the knife above her head and the dry, harsh chuckle came again from her throat. She plunged down once more with the knife, but this time Holman was ready. He stepped back and tried to grab her wrist, but missed. As the knife swept up again, the long wicked-looking blade aimed at his stomach, he caught her arm and moved in towards her, his other arm encircling her waist.
Their heads were close together, almost touching, and suddenly she sank her teeth into his cheek, biting deep and hard. He wrenched his head away, feeling the skin tear, but oblivious to any pain. They fell backwards, on to the bed. Snarling noises came from her lips as they struggled for the knife and the fingernails of her free hand tried to rake his face. He twisted her wrist, trying to make her release the weapon, but her strength was incredible. He got his other arm underneath her chin, not wanting to hurt her but knowing he had no choice. He pushed up, forcing her head back, stretching her neck, causing her to choke. As she emitted an almost animal