The Fog - James Herbert [78]
He watched the grotesque figures turn and disappear into the yellow mist, leaving him with a feeling of utter loneliness so acute that he had to fight the urge to call after them. But they had taken a risk bringing him this far; they knew the outer fringes of the fog were weak but just how weak, they hadn’t yet ascertained.
Holman turned away from the point where they had been swallowed up and faced the direction he himself had to take, remembering the street plan he’d studied during the night. He thought by now he could walk the streets blindfolded and still find his way.
The tiny oxygen tank on his back was uncomfortable but deemed necessary in case the mist became too choking. He pressed the button controlling the trolley and moved forward again, feeling ill at ease and claustrophobic. The test had been positive. They were fairly certain he was immune; certain enough to consider it worth the risk, at any rate. But they had left the choice to him; nobody could force him to enter the fog again.
Of course, there was no choice really. What else could he do? If they couldn’t destroy the fog, then millions could die from it. The only answer was the serum. And he was the only suitable person available. It was no good damning the army for their stupidity, the crass stupidity he had suspected all along; now was the time for constructive action. But my God, would they know about it when it was over! If it was ever over.
The small amount of blood containing the disease they had drained from a still-living, but completely insane victim of Bournemouth, had been absolutely rejected and destroyed by his own blood cells when introduced into his system. Whether that small amount was enough to judge the test conclusively or not, they did not know, but in a crisis of this proportion, chances had to be taken. And it was he who had to take them.
He thought of Casey. She had looked so pale last night, so still and incredibly beautiful in her trance-like state. He didn’t want to lose her! He’d rather die himself now than be left without her. Was it just her illness that had brought his love to this crushing, fearful peak? No, he answered himself. It had just made him realize her value, his own incompleteness without her. To lose her now would be the ultimate irony.
He stopped. For a moment he thought he had seen a shadow moving in the fog. Or was it just the swirling mist playing tricks on his eyes? He started walking again, keeping close to the sides of the streets so he could see the buildings and where they ended to allow for other turnings, but he stayed off the pavements because of the contraption trailing behind.
The transfusion on Casey had been successful: this morning it would be the turn of therapeutic radiology, the radiation burning out the badness, the angle of the X-ray constantly being moved so as to damage as little as possible of the healthy tissues. He prayed that it would work, expelling from his mind the frightening thought that it might not.
He dreaded the moment he would have to tell her of the death of her ‘father’. Simmons had passed away during the night, never having regained consciousness since leaving the house. He had died alone. Holman would never tell Casey she had killed the man she thought to be her father – it might destroy her. And he still wasn’t sure if he would tell her of the man’s dying confession to him. Would it help diminish her loss? He thought not. It would only confuse her emotions. He walked on through the fog that was becoming thicker, more yellow.
Now, let’s see, he thought. This must be the shopping arcade. If I turn right now, it should lead me to the cathedral. He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. He was sure it was more psychological than the fact that the fog was restricting his breathing; he was involuntarily inhaling as little of the surrounding air as possible even though he knew he would be able to use the small oxygen tank strapped to his back if he really needed to. They had told him