The Fog - James Herbert [99]
Soon he reached the garage and turned into it, an occasional giggle jerking his body. He didn’t ask himself why the depot was empty, why there was no inspector to check him out, why there were no cleaners preparing to leave, why there was no crewmate waiting impatiently for him. He asked himself no questions.
He just climbed up into his cabin, still grinning, occasionally giggling, and started his engine. Then he moved the bus slowly forward and out of the depot.
Throughout London, people were waking to discover the yellow-grey fog surrounding their homes, some realizing its meaning, some not; many already too insane to care. Thousands had fled during the night, fortunate to have heard the warnings of the loudspeakers or the radio broadcasts. Those had, in turn, informed relatives, friends or loved ones, either by telephone (which, because of the chaos, was the least reliable) or by hurried visits.
But it was a big city, and the thousands who had time to flee were a small proportion compared to the millions who received no warning at all. The huge beacons were lit, but the rolling fog swept right over them, rising from the heat, but immediately descending once it was cleared.
The panic of the night before was nothing compared to the tragic and bizarre pandemonium that was to follow during the ensuing day.
19
Holman steered the Devastation Vehicle cautiously up the ramp out into the fog and away from the huge underground shelter. A man called Mason, gross and misshapen because of his protective clothing, sat in the seat next to him peering through the small, heavy lead-reinforced window, his face intense with concentration.
‘It doesn’t seem to be quite as thick as it was,’ said Holman, still looking directly ahead.
‘It’s probably settled in the London basin and now it’s spreading out a bit,’ Mason replied.
Holman nodded; it seemed logical. London was in a dip, a saucer-shaped bowl, surrounded by hills. The fog would have drifted into it and come to rest at its base, then sprawled out, filling the town. Its probable way out, unless there was a strong wind, was east along the Thames, through the flat country of Essex.
‘Go left along the Embankment,’ said Mason, checking the instruments on a panel before him. ‘If we follow the road into the City, it’ll take us towards it.’
Holman turned left, using the pavement as a guideline. He could just about see the opposite pavement now, something he hadn’t been able to do earlier that morning as he had made his way to the secret shelter. He shuddered inwardly, remembering the eerie journey through the fog-filled streets.
Even as he and Casey had been looking out at the fog, still in a state of shock and dismay, tentacles of despair spreading through them, the telephone had begun its persistent, strident ringing. He’d broken away from the mesmeric spell the fog was casting to answer it, as though it were some sort of lifeline, a straw to be clutched at.
It had been Douglas-Glyne, the Defence Under-Secretary, at the other end and he’d snapped out instructions, not allowing Holman to argue or dissent. He was to make his way to Westminster Bridge where he would be picked up by a vehicle resembling an army scout car, only larger and much heavier and fitted with various antennae.
From there he would be brought to a secret rendezvous, the whereabouts of which could not be revealed to him just yet. He was to avoid becoming involved in any incidents that might occur on the way; his sole purpose was to get to the rendezvous point unharmed and as quickly as possible. He was to protect himself even if it meant killing or hurting others to do so; one or two lives were nothing compared to the millons he could help save if he himself remained unhurt. The girl was to remain where she was for now; it was too risky for both of them to make the