The Fog - James Herbert [80]
It was only with an extreme effort of will that Holman tore his eyes away from the eerie spectacle and knelt down by the machine at his side. He remembered his oxygen mask and placed it over his mouth after removing the smog mask. He drew in several deep breaths and his head immediately became clearer, making him wonder if the fog itself also had a slight drugging effect. Detaching the metal tubes from the vacuum container, he began to screw them together, becoming even more nervous with the action he now had to take.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the courage to approach the glowing mass, the mass that looked pure but was in fact made from the deadly, growing mutation, so he closed his mind to it. The moment of truth would be on him soon enough and he would either walk towards it or run like hell away from it. Either way, whichever direction, the movement would be spontaneous, not carefully considered. He concentrated on the rods.
He became aware of their presence more by sensing it than hearing or seeing them. They appeared as three dark shapes in the fog, standing about five feet apart, just beyond reasonably clear visual range, unmoving, silent. He looked from one hazy form to another, their stillness more frightening than if they had been moving, for mobility would have at least given them some form, something he could identify.
He rose, apprehensively clutching the section of rods he’d managed to put together before him. One of the shapes moved forward and with some sense of relief he realized it was the figure of a man. But the head was different.
Holman took a step back in horror and raised the metal tubing in defence. As the figure drew nearer, he almost laughed with relief. It was a man, and his head looked so strange because he was wearing a grotesque World War II gas-mask. He held in his hands a long, black candlestick, its wicked-looking point, the point on which the base of a candle should have been pressed, exposed and aimed towards Holman.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Holman asked uncertainly, removing his oxygen mask to make himself understood. There was no reply as the man stepped before him.
‘This fog is dangerous, you should have cleared out with the rest,’ Holman continued, his eyes not moving from the point aimed at his chest. He watched, almost mesmerized, as the candlestick was slowly raised and drawn back, ready to strike.
Holman waited no longer. He jabbed the metal rod hard into the man’s stomach and as he doubled up, brought it swiftly down on his exposed head. The man collapsed in a heap.
Holman raised the rod again, ready for the other two. But they’d vanished.
He looked around, his head darting from left to right, the figure at his feet moaning and squirming on the hard, stone floor. He knelt beside him and turned him over on to his back. ‘Poor bloody fool!’ he muttered. He must have thought the gas mask would be protection against the fog and seized the opportunity to help himself to some of the valuables of the deserted town. But what were he and his companions doing in the cathedral and why had the man attacked him? Had the disease affected them already? Or did they just see him as a threat to their freedom?
He pulled the ugly mask from the groaning man’s face and saw that his eyes had the slightly glazed look he’d seen in Casey’s; he had been infected.
The sound of a footstep warned him of the second man’s approach from behind. He whirled around to face him but a glancing blow sent him sprawling back, causing him to lose his grip on the rod. The figure loomed over him and began to laugh,