The Fog - James Herbert [95]
As the fog swept over the countryside, it grew larger. It passed through the smaller towns, then through industrial estates which belched out their filthy fumes even during the night, and it welcomed the polluted air, drawing it to its poisonous womb, growing with it. It reached the suburbs and its size began to make the wind less effective. It drifted inwards towards the city.
The scattered army was regathered and the troops sped ahead of the fog, loudspeakers blaring out their ill-timed warning. They realized it was virtually useless, that by the time the people had rubbed their blurry eyes and the message registered, it would be too late, the growing fog would already be on them.
But they tried. Or at least, two-thirds of the forces tried. The remaining third raced into London to perform other tasks.
Janet Halstead was aroused from her sleep by one of her assistants. She slipped on her robe and went through to the office adjoining her private sleeping quarters. Picking up the phone, she asked the switchboard to put through the call that had been waiting for her. She listened in silence, her expression never changing, only her eyes betraying a sad weariness.
When she finally put down the phone, she stared at it for a few seconds longer. Then her body seemed to draw itself together and she began to snap instructions at her bewildered assistant for the immediate evacuation of the Research Centre. All equipment, notes – anything useful that could be dismantled – were to be moved to another location. A secret location. Transport was already on its way to take them there.
Stan Reynolds, a middle-aged security guard, strolled along the lush carpeted corridor towards his favourite room at the very top of the giant oil company building that towered over the black River Thames. It contained the largest boardroom table he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a few over the years in the various companies he’d been employed in as a guard. It was made of the deepest oak and was reputed to have cost over six thousand pounds; sixty people could be comfortably seated round it. He opened the heavy boardroom doors that reached the ceiling and stepped into the room, switching on the lights as he did so.
Walking the length of the table, he stopped behind the magnificent leather chair that belonged to the chairman. He sank into it, removed his boots and placed his feet on the table. With a contented sigh, he lost himself in a colourful reverie of big business deals and boardroom power games.
His nightly dream fulfilled, he swung his legs off the table, put his boots back on and strolled towards the huge windows that looked south across London. It was a view that always filled him with immense pride in the vast city, the lights shining like star clusters on a black velvet universe.
But on this occasion, the view was different. There was an orange glow in the sky and he drew in his breath as he realized the cause of it. He saw a line of fires stretching across South London, huge fires at regular intervals, their flames red and frightening. For a moment, his mind travelled back in time and it was the war and the blitz, the fires caused by the bombs of the enemy.
Then the flames seemed to lose their brightness as though they were being covered, one by one, by a semi-transparent blanket, leaving only a red glow shining dully through.
He thought he heard the sound of a loudspeaker coming from somewhere in the distance, but it was too indistinct and he was too puzzled by the phenomenon before him to concentrate on its message.
He stood and watched