The Fog - James Herbert [79]
Summoning up his courage, Holman turned into the street that would lead him into the lawns surrounding the cathedral. The street was narrow and as he passed by the shops he noticed the window of one had been smashed. Further along, he discovered another had been broken. Looters? Was it possible that there were still people in the town, an unscrupulous few who didn’t realize the danger they were in? The public had had to be told of the consequences of contact with the fog; surely no one would risk entering it now for the sake of robbing the unoccupied shops? Perhaps it had been an accident; an army lorry unable to manoeuvre comfortably in the narrow street, or perhaps someone had fallen against it in the rush to leave the town. But two windows? He looked more closely at the shop. It was a jeweller’s. Well, that confirmed it. Someone had stayed behind to scavenge, ignoring the risk, heedless of the warnings. Was he, or were they, still around or had they fled having accomplished their robbery? He shrugged; it wasn’t his problem.
The yellowness was even more dense now as he drew nearer to the historic building and the extent of his vision became even more limited. He passed through the opening to the lawns which housed their few important gravestones and surrounded the cathedral, his eyes constantly narrowed, peering into the murk, trying to make out the path that led to the very doors of the ancient place of worship. Where was the glow? Surely he should have come upon it by now? He would have to make a circuit of the building, they’d insisted the centre was in this particular area. It could have moved on, of course, but there was very little breeze to stir it.
But as he approached the cathedral’s entrance, he noticed a faint half-glow.
He stopped dead. Was it possible? Was the nucleus, the heart of the disease, housed within the great church. Could it have drifted into Winchester Cathedral and become trapped inside its ancient but solid stone walls?
Another, more disturbing thought jarred Holman’s mind.
What if it hadn’t drifted in by accident? Could it possibly be self-motivated? It was an incredible idea and he tried to dismiss it from his mind. It was too fantastic, too much like science-fiction. But then everything that had happened was too fantastic.
The thought persisted.
He walked on, a coldness creeping through his body, his steps noiseless and cautious. He tried to fight the chill that enveloped him, reassuring himself with the thought that the sinister circumstances, the loneliness and the lack of clear vision were all working together, attacking his imagination, allies to fear.
He saw that the glow – or was it just a brighter tone of yellow? – was definitely coming from the open doorway. Had he the nerve to confront its source lurking inside?
‘Fuck it!’ It was a soft spoken war cry. He went on.
Lingering at the entrance, he peered into the brighter mist. The air was much harder to breathe in, the acidity burnt his nostrils and throat. He reached for the oxygen mask looped over his shoulder and was about to remove the smog mask when something flickered in the corner of his vision. He froze and studied the spot in the fog from where the movement had come. Imagination again? He saw nothing, only the patterns made by the swirls of the mist. He listened and heard nothing but the imagined beating of his own heart.
Holman looked towards the source of the glow. It was at its strongest at the centre of the cathedral’s vast interior, near the altar. It seemed to have no definable