OUT OF THE YELLOWISH FOG A MAN EMERGED.
HIS EYES WERE FIXED STRAIGHT AHEAD
AND HIS LIPS WERE FROZEN IN A SMILE.
IN HIS HANDS HE CARRIED THE
STILL-BLEEDING HEAD OF HIS WIFE....
In an exclusive private school, students sexually assaulted and mutilated their 
teachers, then savagely turned on one
another. In a lonely room, an old lady was shredded and eaten by her beloved pet 
cats...in the streets of the city, mass
copulation and insane slaying spread from block to block...
From the depths of the earth the fog had come- to poison the deepest recesses of 
the human mind and soul. A group of
scientists in an insulated underground laboratory worked around the clock to 
find out what the fog was and how to stop it, but time was running out for 
mankind...
1 5769
o""71162"00450""2ISBN O-MSl-lSTbT-'l
1 A DISASTER FROM WHICH THERE WAS NO ESCAPE
An earthquake where no quake had ever been before shattered the small town, as 
the gaping crack in the earth swallowed up buildings and people.
In the terror of that moment, the yellow, foul- smelling mist oozing from the 
fissure was barely noted. It rose into the air and floated off, doubtless to be 
dissipated in the atmosphere.
But the fog did not disappear. Instead it grew larger, denser, as it moved over 
the countryside. Even more strangely, it seemed to be seeking out the areas of 
the highest population density, as though it were a living thing, a hungering 
beast of prey.
Then the effects of the fog began to be realized, as reports of murder, pillage 
and insanity flooded into the authorities. And now there was no escaping the 
knowledge of the horrendous danger spreading over the earth ... no escaping. . . 
.
The Fog
2 
3 
© SIGNET
(0451)
CHILLING HORROR by James Herbert
? THE DARK. From the blackest pits of hell, insatiable evil creeps forth to 
claim men's minds and souls. It came like a malignant shadow numbing people's 
minds with icy tendrils of blackness and seductively whispered promises of 
infinite power. All over the city--in private homes, quiet parks, a jam-packed 
soccer stadium, madness raged as the lights began to fade. (155424--$4.95)
? THE SURVIVOR. The soul-chilling novel of gruesome horror from beyond the grave 
... It began with a faint whispering, then a low evil chuckle. It had been one 
of the worst crashes in airline history, killing over 300 people, and leaving 
only one survivor. Now the dead were buried and the town of Eton tried to 
forget... until they were forced to face the shocking, dreadful truth about what 
was buried in the old graveyard....
(156552--$3.95)
? MOON Somewhere on the spinning, shadowed earth, a full moon was glowing, 
energizing a lunatic whose rage could not be sated as it struck again and again 
in an unending bloodletting of hideous savagery.... "VIVID HORROR ... TAUT, 
CHILLING, CREDIBLE .. ."--The New York Times Book Review. (400569--$4.50)
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A SIGNET BOOK
PUBLISHED BY PENGUIN BOOKS CANADA LIMITED
5 Copyright ©1975 by James Herbert
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6 
ONE
The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and come to life. Slowly 
because nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire; a mood of 
timelessness carefully cultivated by the villagers over centuries prevailed. 
Newcomers had soon fallen into the leisurely pace and welcomed the security it 
created. Restless youngsters never stayed long but always remembered, and many 
missed, the protective quiet of the village. The occasional tourist discovered 
it by accident and delighted in its weathered charm, but within minutes its 
quaintness would be explored to the full and the traveler would move on, sighing 
for the peace of it, but a little afraid of the boredom it might bring.
Jessie opened her grocery shop at precisely 8:30 as she had been doing for the 
past twenty years. Her first customer, Mrs. Thackery, wouldn't be in till 8:45, 
but to break the routine of early opening would never be considered. Even when 
Tom, her late husband, had died, the shop had still been opened on the dot of 
8:30 and two days later when he'd been buried it was only shut for an hour 
between 10:00 and 11:00. Jessie enjoyed her morning chat with Mrs. Thackery, who 
always called whether she needed
7 to buy something or not. She'd been a great comfort since Tom had died and 
never missed her morning cup of tea with Jessie. They never got bored by each 
other's gossip; one topic could last two weeks and a death in the village would 
get them through three.
She waved to Mr. Papworth, the butcher across the street who was sweeping the 
pavement outside his shop. Nice man, Mr. Papworth. Much nicer since his wife had 
left him. That had caused a stir in the village and no mistake, when she'd 
walked out after six years of marriage. She hadn't been his sort anyway. Much 
too young for him, too flighty; couldn't stand the quiet life. He'd brought her 
back from his holiday in Bournemouth and after all the years, when everybody had 
thought him a confirmed bachelor, had announced her as his bride. It could never 
have lasted, they all knew that at the outset, but he had tried. Still, all that 
was in the past. His visits from across the road were becoming more and more 
frequent and the whole village knew what was in the wind and that the butcher's 
and grocery shop would eventually become a combined family business. There was 
no rush; things would take their course.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bundock!"
Her reverie was interrupted by two young voices in unison. She looked down and 
smiled at little Freddy Gravies and his even smaller sister, Clara.
"Hello, you two. Just off to school?"
"Yep," replied Freddy, craning his neck to look at the jars of sweets on the 
shelves behind her.
"And how are you, Clara?" Jessie beamed at the five-year- old who had only 
recently started school.
"Fine, thank you," came the shy reply.
"I'm surprised to see you two today. Saturday's usually your pocket-money day, 
isn't it?"
"Yep. But we polished all Daddy's boots yesterday, so he gave us a special 
treat," was Freddy's bright-faced reply. Their father was a policeman whose 
station was in the next town. He was a gruff-spoken but pleasant man who adored 
his two children, but dealt with them strictly. I "Well, what are you going to 
buy?" Jessie asked, knowing they wouldn't have much to spend. "You'd better 
hurry or you'll miss your bus."
Clara pointed at the Penny-chews and Freddy nodded his head in agreement. "Three 
each, please," he said.
8 
"Well now, Penny-chews are cheaper on Mondays. You get four for sixpence today."
They beamed up at her as she reached for the jar and took out the sweets.
"Thank you," said Clara as she put three in her pocket and began to unwrap the 
fourth. Freddy gave Jessie the money, took his four, and followed his sister's 
example.
"Bye-bye, now. Have a nice day!" she called after them as they ran from the 
shop, Freddy clutching Clara's hand.
"Morning, Jessie." The postman was leaning his bike up outside the door.
"Hello, Tom. Something for me?"
"Airmail, 'spect it's from your boy," he replied, entering the shop. "S'going to 
be another lovely day today. Beautiful clear sky out." He handed her the blue 
and red envelope, noticing the shadow of sadness that seemed to pass over her 
face. "Been in the army nearly a year now, hasn't he?"
She nodded, studying the stamps on the envelope.
"Ah well, Jessie, it was only to be expected. Young boy like that. Couldn't stay 
cooped up in a village like this all his life, could he? Needed to see places, 
did Andy. Always liked to get about, always up to some mischief. Having the time 
of his life now, I reckon."
She nodded again, sighing as she began to open the envelope.
"Yes, I suppose you're right But I do miss him. He was a good boy."
The postman shook his head once, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, see you tomorrow, Jessie. Must be off."
"Yes. Bye, Tom." She unfolded the thin blue writing paper and began to read the 
letter, a smile spreading across her face as Andy's natural boisterousness shone 
through the written words.
Suddenly she felt giddy and lurched against the counter.She put her hand to her 
forehead, alarmed at the strange stomach-rising feeling. Then she heard a deep 
rumbling noise, a sound that came from below, under her feet. The floor began to 
quiver, causing her to clutch at the counter again; the quiver became a 
trembling. Jars began to rattle on their shelves, cans began to tumble. The 
rumbling grew louder, deeper. It began to fill her head. She dropped her letter 
and clapped both her hands to her ears. The ground
9 shook. She lost her balance and fell to her knees. The whole shop seemed to be 
moving. The large glass window cracked and then fell in. Shelves collapsed. The 
noise became deafening. Jessie screamed and stumbled toward the doorway; every 
time she tried to rise she was thrown to her knees. She crawled to the entrance, 
terror of the building's collapsing in on her forcing her on. Vibrations ran 
through her body, at times the shaking almost making her lose contact with the 
floor.
She reached the door and looked out at the road that ran through the village. 
She couldn't believe what her eyes told her.
The postman stood in the middle of the road holding on to his bike. A huge crack 
appeared at his feet and suddenly,as the ground opened up, he disappeared. The 
crack snaked along the length of the street to where young Freddy and Clara 
stood transfixed, clutching at one another, and on toward Mrs. Thackery, who had 
been making her way to Jessie's shop. Suddenly it seemed as though the whole 
village had been wrenched apart. The road disappeared as the ground opened up 
like a gigantic yawning mouth.
Jessie looked across the road and just caught sight of the terrified face of Mr. 
Papworth as he and the whole row of shops and houses on his side were swallowed 
up by the earth.
10 TWO
John Holman wearily changed gear to take the car around the bend in the narrow 
country road. He was unshaven and his clothes were still damp from the morning 
dew. He'd spent half the night trying to sleep inside a thicket out of sight 
from the army patrols that practiced their maneuvers on a large but secluded 
part of Salisbury Plain. The area was owned by the Ministry of Defense and 
trespassers were severely dealt with if caught. The grounds could never be 
entered by accident; high fences and many warning notices took care of that. The 
fences traveled many miles around the territory's perimeter and a heavy screen 
of trees and undergrowth successfully concealed what lay beyond.
Holman shook his head in disgust at the danger and discomfort he'd had to go 
through to maintain secrecy when he himself worked for the same government. It 
was idiotic that the two departments, the Ministry of Defense and the Department 
of the Environment, couldn't work hand in hand, but held back information, 
guarded against intrusion, as if they were two different countries. He had been 
recruited into a new office specially formed by the Department of the 
Environment to investigate anything from
11 polluted rivers to outbreaks of disease. It was a special unit because nearly 
all the investigations were carried out secretly. If a company was suspected of 
illegally dumping dangerous waste products, be it into the sea, into a river, or 
into a lake, but no proof could be found by direct methods, then Holman was sent 
in to probe further.
He usually worked alone and often under a cover; more than once he'd taken on 
manual labor to get inside a factory to find the information needed. Hospitals, 
a mental home--even an experimental home-range factory farm; he'd worked in many 
places and, often as not, in government institutions to get at the source of 
suspected malpractice. His one big frustration was that the transgressions he 
unearthed were not always acted upon. When politics--business or 
governmental--became involved, he knew the chances of prosecution against the 
offenders were slim. At thirty-two, Holman was still young enough to be angered 
by the seeming lack of resolution shown by his superiors when he himself had 
taken great risks to ferret out the proof they had asked him to provide.
However, he could also be quite unscrupulous in achieving his aims and more than 
once had seriously infringed the law, causing alarm among the few superiors who 
knew about his activities. At the moment his project was to investigate land 
owned by the Ministry of Defense, used by them for military purposes and 
protected for them by the Official Secrets Act Vast areas of land, much of it 
appropriated during the Napoleonic Wars and more recently, World War II, was 
used as a training ground for the army. Most of it was in the south because of 
invasion fears. Holman knew that much of it was going to waste, areas of great 
natural beauty, rich arable soil being allowed to spoil. At a time when good 
land and open spaces were becoming more and more scarce, valuable country could 
not be allowed to be misused. The Ministry of Defense was holding tightly on to 
over 750,000 acres for training or test purposes and his department was 
demanding at least 30,000 of those acres be handed back to the people. There was 
every reason for the Ministry of Defense to retain a good part of this private 
land, but suspicions were that only a fraction of it was necessary.
The Ministry had been approached, but a tight security net had been drawn over 
any inquiries. So Holman had
12 been given the job of seeing just how much land was being used and if for 
valid purposes. The war between different government departments was ridiculous 
in his eyes, but he accepted it as a fact of life.
He had spent two rigorous days dodging patrols, taking photographs, gathering 
information about the enormous woodland area owned by the Ministry on Salisbury 
Plain. Had he been caught the consequences could have been quite severe, but he 
knew the risk involved and even enjoyed it. His employers knew this and played 
on the streak in his character that demanded risk, an element of danger, a 
gamble.
Now, as he rounded the bend, he saw a village ahead. One of the small, 
barely-known villages that dotted the Plains, he decided. Maybe I'll get some 
breakfast here.
He drew nearer and suddenly became aware of a strange vibration running through 
the car, then of a deep rumbling noise as the vehicle began to shake. By the 
time he reached the main street ninning through the village his vision was 
becoming too blurred for him to travel farther. And what he could see, he found 
hard to comprehend.
A gigantic crack appeared directly ahead of him then grew longer and wider, 
reaching toward him in a jagged, fast- moving line. His shocked brain just had 
time to register two children and a woman, and beyond them a man with a bicycle, 
before the ground opened up and they disappeared into the black chasm it 
created. The shops on his left began to collapse into the widening hole. The 
noise was deafening as the earth was wrenched apart, climaxing into a sound like 
an explosive thunderclap. Through his horror he realized that the ground below 
his car was beginning to split. He opened the door but too late--the car lurched 
forward and began to fall. The door was forced shut and Holman was trapped 
inside.
For a moment the car was stuck, but as the hole widened, it slid forward again. 
Panic seized him. He cried out in terror. Down it plunged at an acute angle, the 
rough sides of the earth preventing it from free-falling. After what must have 
been only a few sickening seconds, the car became wedged again and he found 
himself pressed up against the steering wheel, staring down into a frightening 
black void. His body was frozen, his mind almost paralyzed with the horror of 
what was happening. Slowly, his brain began to function. He
13 must be at the end of the opening, where the sides were narrowest. If it 
widened further, the car would plunge into the black depths below. He tried to 
look up toward ground level but couldn't see through the swirling dust.
Panic drove him into action. He frantically pushed himself away from the 
steering wheel but the sudden movement caused the car to slide a terrifying two 
feet farther down. He forced himself to keep calm, his breath coming in short 
gasps, the sounds of falling masonry, glass, and dislodged earth filling his 
ears. More cautiously, he began to edge himself over into the back seat. He 
froze as the car shifted again, but this time the movement was fractional. He 
kept his position for a few tense moments then started to ease himself back 
again.
Gaining the back seat, he turned around into a position where he could wind down 
a rear side window. He saw there was just sufficient gap between the car and the 
side of the chasm for him to squeeze through. Loose earth fell through the open 
window adding more weight to the precariously balanced vehicle.
Abandoning caution, he scrambled through and clung to the crumbling wall of rock 
and earth, expecting to hear the wrenching sound of the car tearing itself loose 
to fall into the depths below. For a full five minutes he stayed there, his head 
tight against the earth, clutching desperately to the treacherous surface.
The unsettled dust began to clear slightly and he looked around him fearfully. 
From the jagged outline above, heguessed the eruption was at least five hundred 
yards long. The sides seemed steady now although shales of earth still showered 
down into what seemed a bottomless pit He peered into the darkness below and 
shuddered at the awesome sight. It was as though the very bowels of the earth 
had opened up; the blackness seemed infinite.
A slight tremor made him bury his hands and face into the earth again, his heart 
pounding wildly, expecting at any moment to be dislodged from his insecure 
perch.
A sudden cry forced his eyes open once more. He peered through the disturbed 
dust and saw what looked like a tiny figure lying on a narrow sloping ledge 
about fifty feet away on the opposite wall of earth. With shock, he realized it 
was one of the children he'd seen in the street above. The little
14 girl. Of the boy who'd been with her, there was no sign. She began to whimper 
piteously.
Holman knew he had to reach her or she would soon slide down the incline into 
the deep chasm. He called out to her, but she didn't seem to hear. He looked 
around, wondering how he would cross the gorge to get to her. She was about ten 
feet above him and thirty feet below ground level. Climbing to her shouldn't be 
too difficult providing he took great care; the sides were full of protuberances 
and old roots. The problem was to get across--and quickly.
Another thought struck him; what if the gap should close? The thought of being 
crushed to death as though in a giant nutcracker spurred him into action.
The car would have to act as a bridge. Two steps and he would be on the other 
side. It was dangerous but the only course of action he could take. Tentatively 
he placed a foot on the roof of the car. It held. He put his weight on it, still 
holding onto the wall on his side. The roof slanted downward and the thought of 
slipping on its smooth surface terrified him. Before he could allow himself to 
think further he took two bounds across the gap, almost willing himself to fly.
But the second step caused the car to lose its grip on the sides of the walls 
and it slipped forward and down, taking Holman with it. Desperately he grabbed 
at the side he had been making for and, with more luck than judgment, managed to 
grasp a dead tree root. It cracked and broke, but thin tendons held it together 
and swung him inward.
The child looked up at the sound of the crashing car and screamed when she saw 
the man hanging there. Rivers of earth, disturbed by her feet, ran over the 
ledge and showered into the gaping hole. She buried her head in her hands and 
sobbed, calling for her lost brother.
Holman hung there, thin strands of rotted wood between him and death. His feet 
sought support from the crumbling earth and one hand grabbed at solid rock. He 
managed to find a hand-hold and eased his weight from the broken root He raised 
his feet until they found a more solid rest. Gulping in lungfuls of dusty air he 
looked toward the little girl.
"It's all right," he shouted across. "Stay perfectly still and you'll be all 
right. I'm coming to get you!"
He didn't know if she heard him or not but he knew she would not last long on 
the precarious ledge. Again the thought of the ground closing up drove him on. 
He inched
15 forward, testing every handhold, every foothold, and gradually came within 
eight feet of her and found himself on a fairly solid outcrop of rock. He didn't 
know how much time had elapsed; it could have been hours, but more likely it was 
no longer than minutes. Surely help would come soon, someone would try to see if 
anyone was trapped in the hole. He looked for a way to reach the girl.
There was a narrow crack running along the wall almost from where he stood to 
four feet below the ledge the girl was on. If he used it for footholds and used 
his hands to cling to the rock above his head, he should be able to reach the 
ledge, lean over it from the side, and grab her. Her little body shook from the 
sobs but she didn't look up.
Carefully, he began to feel his way along, keeping his eyes on the girl, ready 
to warn her not to move. As he drew nearer, her sobbing stopped and she looked 
up at him, her tiny face a mask of sheer horror. God, what must he look like 
coming toward her like this? With all the terror she'd been through, now to see 
this shape, filthy with dust, eyes wide and staring, clambering toward her.
"It's okay, it's okay," he said, softly but urgently. "I'm coming to help you. 
Don't move."
She began to back away.
"No, no, don't move!" he couldn't help but shout.
She began to slide down, and, realizing her predicament, dug her hands into the 
soft earth, crying out in fright.
Holman took a chance and lurched forward, hoping the side of the ledge would 
hold his weight. One foot stayed in the crack, the other dangled in space, one 
hand shot toward the girl, the other grabbed at the rock face. He managed to 
grab her outstretched hand and prevent her from sliding further. Her legs were 
over the edge now, her feet kicking at the empty air. His left hand found a 
crevice in the wall and he clung to it grimly, knowing if he lost his grip, both 
he and the girl would plunge to their deaths. She was screaming now but her hand 
grabbed his as she realized the danger behind her.
For a few moments, all he could do was cling there, looking into her frightened 
face, clutching her struggling limbs. He whispered to her to be still, kindly, 
trying to keep panic from his voice. Slowly, her struggles died down and her 
body went limp, as though she knew nothing more could happen to her, her young 
mind going blank to protect her. He began to
16 pull her up, her slight body no weight, but difficult because of his awkward 
position. Finally, she was completely back on the ledge, but still he dragged 
her toward his chest.
"Hold on to me, sweetheart," he told her gently. "Put your arms around my neck 
and hold tight."
He pulled her down between the ledge and his body, telling her to put her legs 
around his waist. Numbly she complied, her short legs resting on his hips.
"Now don't let go and everything will be fine," he whispered, easing himself 
back along the crack, the shape of the girl pushing him outward. His arm and leg 
muscles were rigid with the strain, but endurance was one of his assets.
Finally, exhausted, he reached the more solid outcrop of rock. He sank to his 
knees, still holding the child close, his shoulders heaving with the exertion. 
Turning slowly, still clutching the girl, he leaned back against the cliff wall 
and rested his aching limbs.
For a few minutes his brain registered no more than the blessed relief from 
exertion but as his strength returned and his breathing grew more even, he began 
to wonder at what had happened.
He remembered entering the village and then--and then the ground, the very earth 
opening up. First the crack snaking its jagged way along the concrete, then the 
noise, the deep rumble, the build-up to the cracking stone, and then the 
incredible sight of the ground opening up, the enormous split in the earth. The 
two sides moving apart, its edges crashing inward, down, down into God knows 
where. The sight of the two children, the man and his bike--had he seen a woman 
too?--disappearing into the hole. The shops collapsing--he remembered seeing the 
shops on one side collapsing--but then the ragged mouth reaching toward him. The 
tilt of the car, the lurch as it slid forward.
It all seemed to have happened in slow motion. And yet it had all happened so 
fast. He stroked the girl's head, trying to still her sobs, reassuring her that 
they'd be all right, but the cries for her brother stung his heart.
He looked up toward the daylight, hoping he would see someone up there, someone 
looking for survivors. Survivors? Survivors of what? The question exploded in 
his brain. An earthquake? It was incredible. Earthquakes had occurred in England 
before, and minor tremors were frequent. But an eruption of this size? The 
incredible, the unbelievable, had
17 happened. In a crazy world, the most crazy thing had happened. Wiltshire had 
suffered an earthquake! He laughed aloud at the thought, startling the child. He 
pulled her raised head back to his chest, gently, and rocked her comfortingly.
What had caused it? It certainly wasn't any gas-mains explosion; not with this 
devastation. The hole was too deep, too long. No, it had certainly been an earth 
tremor, not as serious as those suffered in other countries, of course, but of 
just as great a magnitude because it had happened in England! Why? Had the 
nearby military installation been testing some underground explosives? He had 
evidence of some pretty strange goings-on from his discreet weekend visit, but 
doubted they had anything to do with this. A chain reaction, perhaps, from one 
of their experiments. But probably nothing to do with them; after all, they had 
vast ranges of British- occupied wasteland in far-off countries to carry out 
their tests in. England was no place for experiments of this kind. It was more 
likely a freak of nature, a disturbance below that had been building up for 
centuries, probably thousands of years. And today had been the day for it to 
erupt.
But still the doubt lingered.
Just then Holman noticed movement at his feet. At first he thought it was just 
dust caused by the disturbance, but then saw it was billowing up from below. It 
was like a mist, slowly rising in a sluggish swirling motion, slightly yellowish 
although he couldn't be sure in the gloom. It seemed to spread along the length 
of the split, moving up toward his chest, covering the girl's head. She started 
to cough, then looked up and her whimpers became stronger when she saw the mist 
He lifted her higher so her head was level with his shoulder. Then the mist 
reached his nostrils. It had a slightly acidy smell to it, unpleasant but not 
choking. He got to his knees, wondering what it could be. Gas? A ruptured main? 
He doubted it--gas was generally colorless, this had some substance to it. It 
was more like--well, a fog. It had body, the yellowish tinge, a slight but 
distinct odor. A vapor probably released by the eruption from deep underground, 
trapped for centuries, finally finding its way to the surface.
It was above his head now and he found it difficult to see through it. He got to 
his feet, lifting the child with him. Once above the rising cloud, an immense 
fear overcame him. For some reason his horror of the swirling mist was more 
intense than the horror he'd just been through. Perhaps it was be
18 
cause this was happening slowly, whereas everything else had been so fast, 
leaving so little time for thought. This somehow seemed more evil, more 
sinister; he didn't know why, but it filled him with a great sense of 
foreboding.
"Help! Is there anybody up there? Can anyone hear me?" He called out urgently, 
no panic in his voice yet, but he could feel hysteria rising. There was no 
answer. Maybe it was too dangerous to approach the edge of the hole. Perhaps 
there were too many injured up there, anyway.
"I want you to get on my back darling, and put your arms around my neck," he 
told the girl, lifting her chin so he could look at her face. "We're going to 
climb up now."
"I--I want my brother," she whimpered, no longer afraid of him, but still not 
trusting.
"I know, darling, I know. But your Mummy and Daddy will be waiting for you up 
there."
She burst into tears again, burying her head into his shoulder. The thick 
blanket of fog was now up to his chin. Moving her around to his back, he took 
off his belt and tied her wrists together just below his neck, tucking her legs 
around his waist He began to climb.
As he did so, moving slowly with the added weight and because the going was 
treacherous, the mist kept pace with him, finally overtaking and swirling above 
his head.
The people above heard the cry for help coming from the huge hole that had 
wrecked the village. They'd assumed that anyone who had plunged into it must 
surely be dead, but now gained new heart at the sound of a voice, a chance to 
react against the tragedy. The policeman whose children were thought to have 
been lost in the eruption was lowered over the edge of the crack. He would not 
give up. He had searched the rubble, and still half-collapsed, potentially 
dangerous buildings, but hadn't found his youngsters yet. When they heard the 
cry for help, he was already tying a stout rope to his waist to be lowered into 
the hole to search for survivors.
When he emerged five minutes later, he held a small unconscious girl in his 
arms. He laid her on the ground to be taken care of by the elderly but competent 
doctor, he kissed her once, tears from his eyes falling on her face, then dashed 
back to the hole and was lowered again. This time, he brought up a man. A man 
covered from head to foot with dust and dirt A man who gibbered and screamed, a 
man
19 who had to be restrained by four others from running back and throwing 
himself into the black depths. A man who was insane.
The villagers watched the mist rise from the hole, not billowing over the edges, 
but rising in a densely packed steady column, seeming to glow faintly--or was it 
merely the strong sunshine shining through it?--rising high into the air to form 
a heavy, yellowish cloud. It looked like the aftermath of a hydrogen bomb, only 
a much smaller mushroom shape, the lower column finally ending and joining the 
cloud in the sky. It was soon forgotten when the winds blew it away; not 
dispersing it, but moving it in a huge, almost solid-looking mass, across the 
sky, away from the ruined village.
20 THREE
The Reverend Martin Hurdle trudged across the fields with a heavy heart His 
thoughts were on the nearby village that had suffered the great disaster, the 
peaceful little village that had virtually been demolished by the freak 
earthquake. It had been the main story in the newspapers all that week. The 
great shock was that it had happened in England, not some far-off, remote 
country that people had scarcely heard of. This was on their own doorstep, the 
British people could relate to it, not viewing it distantly through the news 
media and the press, thereby finding true sympathy hard to arouse. This had 
happened to their own kind. For the people of his village, they were neighbors, 
relatives; for the people in the rest of Britain, they were fellow countrymen. 
This would be the basis of his sermon today: that through this tragic event they 
could now perhaps truly understand and feel compassion for the plight of other 
nations all over the world who suffered misfortune as a normal part of their 
lives. People were concerned too much with their own mundane, day-today 
problems: money worries, job worries, affair-of-the-heart worries, disputes with 
family, with neighbors, with life itself
21 
--all petty, insulated, but only shown to be so when some major disaster 
happened.
This tragic event would force people to look outward, to see what was happening 
in the world around them, to realize just how insignificant their selfish, 
introverted problems were. If only he could use this distressing event to show 
his congregation just how big life was, that the world did not revolve around 
individuals but around the great mass of humanity itself. This was the very 
reason that one had to help not just oneself, not just one's neighbors, but that 
every person had to help everybody, help them to exist, to survive. That the 
catastrophe had happened to their neighboring village proved it could strike 
anywhere at any time; no one, no community, no nation was immune.
The words ran vigorously through his mind. He knew just how he would tell his 
congregation that Sunday morning, just when his voice would soften almost to a 
whisper, to allow him to build up to a loud, heart-stirring climax. After thirty 
years as a clergyman he now knew the subtle inflections his voice could use, and 
the times he had to boom out to reach his parishioners. At fifty-two he had not 
yet quite despaired of human nature. There was good in the worst people, just as 
there was hypocrisy in the most devout, but sometimes 
He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He usually enjoyed his early Sunday 
morning walk across the fields, his pace brisk, his mind running through the 
sermon he would deliver that day, but he supposed the tragedy of the eruption 
still bore heavily on him. Having heard the news, he'd driven to the village to 
try to help, to administer the Last Rights to the dying, to comfort the injured. 
The last war had been the only experience he'd had of death and injury in these 
proportions and he had believed he'd gotten over the horror of it, but old 
memories had been resurrected, scars he'd thought healed were opened freshly.
He looked up from the ground abruptly, realizing he'd walked into a mist. Early 
morning mists were familiar to him but this seemed different. It had a yellowish 
tinge to it and was thick, suddenly very thick as it swept over him. Strange 
smell, too. Goodness, he thought, better retrace my steps and get clear of this. 
Wouldn't want to get lost and be late for service.
He walked back in the direction he'd come, for some reason becoming nervous as 
his steps didn't bring him clear of
22 the dense mist. No, this wasn't a mist, he thought. It was fog. How strange 
to run into fog on a summer morning as brilliant as it had been when he'd set 
out. This was as bad as some of the old London "pea-soupers." He looked skyward 
and could just make out the faint haze of the sun. He wondered now if he were 
walking in the right direction.
"Goodness," he muttered aloud, "I'm lost!" What was that? His heart pounded as a 
dark, nebulous shape approached him.
It was large, not as tall as he was, but bulky. And silent
It seemed to drift toward him suspended in mid-air, its size increasing as it 
drew nearer. Then, oh God!--another, Another joined it, seeming to dissolve into 
it, becoming one huge shape, still approaching, almost on top of him. It, 
whatever it was, knew he was there! He backed away steadily, his mouth opening 
and closing but not soundlessly. He began to move faster, not turning but 
walking backward, afraid to take his eyes off the shapes that loomed larger 
before him.
Suddenly, he bumped into something solid. He whirled, falling to his knees in 
his fright. Another black shape hovered over him, menacingly silent.
And then he laughed. Tears of relief ran down his face and he pounded the earth 
in near-hysterical amusement.
He had walked into a herd of cows. He laughed louder, occasionally choking as he 
breathed deep mouthfuls of the murky air, the cows observing him in dumb 
vacuity, an occasional restless ululation their only comment.
It took him a full five minutes to recover his wits and admonish himself for his 
foolishness. Frightened by a herd of cows! Old George Ross, who owned them, 
would roar with laughter when he told him the story. No wonder he thought the 
shapes had been floating above the ground. The fog was so thick one could hardly 
see the cows' legs!
Yes, he'd learned a lesson himself today. The unknown was always more fearful 
than the reality.
It took him another twenty minutes to find his way clear of the fog.
The man crouched low in the bushes when he heard a rustle of leaves to his left 
Human or animal? Tom Abbot had to be careful. If he was caught poaching on the 
Colonel's land again, he'd be in serious trouble. Colonel Meredith had caught 
him red-handed last time and given him a "sound
23 thrashing" as the Colonel liked to boast in the village pub, then warned him 
if it ever happened again he'd "march him off to the police station, toute 
suite." Toute suite! Him and his fancy language. Well, he'd never catch Tom 
again. Last time it had only been because heed lingered too long into the 
morning on account of his poor catch in the early hours. The Colonel had spotted 
him hiding in the bushes and crept up on him, then used his thick walking stick 
to beat him about the head and shoulders. Too surprised and hurt to offer 
resistance, he'd been dragged along by his collar as though he were riff-raff 
and booted off the estate with the threat of police action and "another bloody 
good hiding" if he set foot on that land again.
Well, Colonel Meredith, you won't get old Tom again, he repeated to himself. Too 
wily for the likes of you, with your fancy house and fancy cars and fancy 
friends. Nice little pheasant I've got here and I'll get myself another before I 
leave. It's still too early for you to be about. I've got a good hour before 
you're up and around. Three months I've laid off, fooled you into thinking you'd 
frightened me off, but oh no, old Tom don't give up that easy. Nice price I'll 
get for this pheasant and no questions asked.
The poacher crept forward again, still cursing the landowner in his mind, 
peering into the bushes ahead. He froze. Yes, there was something there and not 
a man. He kept perfectly still, not wanting to frighten it away, to let it come 
out in its own time, whatever it was. Another pheasant, I'll warrant, Tom told 
himself. Woods were full of them, all under the sanctuary of bloody Colonel 
Meredith. Well, Tom had patience. Tom would wait for it to show itself. Tom 
could wait for nearly an hour without so much as twitching a muscle. Come on, my 
beauty, take your time, Tom can wait.
He crouched there for a full ten minutes before he became aware of the yellowy 
tentacles of mist creeping around his legs. My Gawd, that's all I need, he 
cursed silently. He looked behind him and was surprised to see a solid blanket 
of fog almost on top of him. Queer, he'd never experienced fog here before. 
Well, he'd wait a while longer in the hope that whatever was in the bushes would 
make a move and show itself before the fog grew too dense.
Soon, he was completely enveloped in it and began to curse, realizing if the 
bird or animal didn't make a move soon he wouldn't be able to see it anyway. 
Still nothing happened
24 and the heavy mist crept forward till eventually he couldn't even see the 
bush. Only then did he hear a rustle and the sound of something scampering away. 
He cursed aloud this time and stood up, kicking at the ground in disgust.
Ah well, one was better than nothing at all. He turned back and walked deeper 
into the fog. It didn't bother him, he knew the area so well he could find his 
way back blindfolded.
The Reverend Martin Hurdle prepared himself for his Sunday morning service. As 
he donned his cassock he smiled at the thought of the panic he'd been in earlier 
when he'd got lost in the fog. Usually one of the joys of the week, his early 
morning walk had almost turned into a nightmare. He couldn't explain the lift 
he'd felt when he'd emerged again into the sun, the sense of relief, the delight 
of being released from that sinister cloud. He had a slight headache now but 
otherwise he'd got over the unpleasant experience and no doubt would chuckle 
when he recounted the story to his friends.
The church was fairly full today, the pleasantness of the weather helping, but 
the tragedy of the neighboring village accounting primarily for the large 
attendance. The vicar greeted his parishioners at the door of the church as they 
went in, chatting briefly with some, smiling and nodding at others. When it was 
time for the service to begin, he entered through a side door into the sacristy, 
hurried his altar boys along, and walked briskly with them into the church.
The service began as normal, pleasurable to some, boring to others, but today, 
because of the tragedy, meaningful for most. A few people near the front noticed 
the vicar occasionally put his hand to his forehead as though he were tired or 
had a headache, but the service continued smoothly enough.
They sat and looked up at him when he climbed the steps to his pulpit, anxious 
to be comforted by his words in their time of sadness. He looked down at their 
upturned, expectant faces, eyes focused on him, eager for him to speak.
Then the Reverend Martin Hurdle, Vicar of St Augustine's for eighteen years, 
lifted his cassock, undid his trousers, took out his penis, and urinated over 
his congregation.
"Now where have those blessed cows got to?" George Ross asked himself aloud, a 
frown wrinkling his already multi
25 wrinkled, weathered face even more. "Bet they've got through that gap again."
The farmer was used to his herd breaking through the fence of bushes and trees 
that surrounded their meadow and wandering off into the next. He plodded down 
toward the spot they'd most likely have broken through. "As if I haven't got 
enough to do without chasing those silly creatures all mornin*. I'll give 'em 
what for!" he cursed angrily.
He reached the gap and pushed his way through. "Now where are yer?" He stood 
looking around, then his mouth dropped open at the sight of the fog at the other 
end of his field. "Well I'll be! Never noticed that." He scratched his bristly 
chin, puzzled.
He began to walk toward the murky cloud and grinned as he saw his cows emerging 
from it. "Trust you!" he shouted at them. "Trust you to get yourselves lost in 
that Stupid bloody creatures!"
Funny, having a fog down here, he pondered. Too heavy to be a mist. All this 
bloomin' p'lution. "Come on, me beauties!" he called out as they trudged toward 
him. The fog, he noticed, was drifting off into the adjoining field. Strange 
that he could see the edges of it, like a solid block of smoke moving across the 
countryside, not at all like the normal widespread blanket of gray.
The cows were up to him now and the leaders passed him.
"Come on now, up to the sheds!" he bellowed at them, slapping one hard on the 
rump as it passed.
It stopped and turned its head toward him. "Move yourself," the farmer said 
gruffly, slapping it again. The cow stood silently watching him.
George cursed it more loudly, then turned to see what progress the rest of the 
herd was making. They had all stopped and were turned toward him, watching.
"What's this, then?" For some inexplicable reason, he had begun to feel nervous. 
There was a tension about his herd that he couldn't understand. "Move 
yourselves. Get on 'ome!" He waved his arms at them, trying to startle them into 
movement. They watched him.
Then they began to close in on him.
He realized he was surrounded by the cows and the ring was drawing tighter 
around him. What was happening? He could not understand the menacing air. these 
dumb, gentle animals had taken on. He felt himself jostled from behind.
26 
He turned and lashed out at the cow he'd slapped before. "Get back!" he shouted, 
logic telling him his rising fear was unreasonable.
He heard a pounding of hooves and again felt himself pushed from behind, this 
time more violently. He fell to the ground.
"Get away, get away!" He scrambled about on his hands and knees trying to rise, 
but every time he raised himself, he was knocked off his feet again. Suddenly, 
one of the cows turned and kicked out with its hind legs, catching him an 
agonizing blow to the ribs, sending him flying forward.
He began to scream as he received more kicks., They seemed to be taking it in 
turns to run forward and lash out at him. One kick caught him full in the face, 
breaking hisnose, blinding him for a few seconds. When he could see once more, 
it was like opening his eyes to a bad dream.
The cows were racing around him, their eyes bulging almost out of their sockets, 
froth and slime running from their mouths. They trampled over him. If he rose, 
they crushed him with their bodies. They used their heads to knock him off his 
knees. They began to bite him, snapping off his fingers as he raised his arms to 
protect himself. A scream ended in a gurgling, choking noise as a kick broke his 
jaw and blood ran down his throat.
When at last he lay sprawled semi-conscious on the muddied grass, they herded 
together and crushed the life from his battered body with their hooves.
The poacher gazed at the house from his hiding place in the undergrowth. He'd 
emerged from the fog but instead of returning to his ramshackle house on the 
outskirts of the village he'd walked along the main road toward the gates of the 
Colonel's huge country home. He'd skulked up the long, winding drive and hidden 
in the bushes, waiting and peering through the leaves at the house. After a 
while his eyes, strangely glazed, looked from left to right. He rose and crept 
stealthily toward the back of the building. He knew where to go for he'd done 
casual work for the Colonel's head gardener years before. That was how he knew 
the grounds so well, the best places to poach, the best places to hide. He 
walked down toward a wooden hut at the end of the long garden. He pushed open 
the door, his eyes now developing a fixed stare, no longer worrying about the 
noise he was 
27 making, his movements controlled, steady. He reached for an axe, rusted with 
time, but the blade still sharp. As he turned to leave the hut, his gaze fell on 
a box of three-inch nails used for fencing. He scooped up a handful and put them 
in his pocket.
He walked back up the garden, not bothering to hide, walking in a straight line 
toward the house. As he reached the back door, the Merediths' cook was just 
opening it to let the steam from her kitchen escape. She'd just cooked the 
Colonel and his wife breakfast and the maid had taken it up to them. Now it was 
time for her morning tea before she started to make preparations for their 
lunch. There were lots of guests coming, so there was much to do.
She had no chance to scream before the axe hit her, only a fleeting look into 
the eyes of a madman, a chance for fear to begin to rise but never to reach its 
peak, for in the next instant she was dead.
Tom Abbot entered the kitchen and climbed the stairs that led to the hall. He'd 
never been in the house before and only the sound of voices drew him toward the 
dining- room. He opened the first door he came to and went in, not stopping till 
he was in the middle of a large sitting- room, bigger than the whole of the 
ground floor of his tiny house. He stood there, gazing ahead.
The sound of footsteps passing the open door caused him to turn and retrace his 
steps. He heard the sound of voices again and walked toward another door.
The maid hummed to herself as she descended the stairs to the kitchen, holding 
her tray with half-eaten grapefruit and crusts of toast aloft so that she could 
see the steps beneath her.
"Put the kettle on, Mrs. Peabody," she called out as she approached the kitchen 
door. "Let's have a nice cuppa' while they're noshing their bacon and eggs."
Discovering the kitchen empty, she looked around curiously. The kettle was 
already steaming away. She put down her tray and walked over to the gas stove to 
turn the kettle off. The door to the garden was open so she assumed the cook had 
stepped outside for a breath of fresh air or to empty some food scraps into one 
of the dustbins. She walked around the large center table to the door so she 
could call for her. A scream broke from her lips as she saw the body, lying 
there just outside the doorway, its skull cleaved open
28 to the bridge of the nose. Before she fainted, she realized it was the cook, 
recognizable only because of her build and clothes, her face covered in blood, 
her features in a frozen grimace of terror, bearing no resemblance to the face 
it had once been. As she collapsed, the maid's brain just registered the other 
scream, the scream from upstairs that pierced the still air.
When she regained consciousness, she couldn't at first recollect what had 
happened. Then her body stiffened as she remembered. She saw the corpse, her 
foot almost touching it, and she backed away shuddering, trying to call for help 
but her vocal cords paralyzed with fear. She somehow got to her feet and 
staggered toward the stairs, clambering up them, falling and sobbing, nothing 
preventing her from getting away.from that kitchen. She gained the hallway and 
ran down it toward the dining-room, gasping for air, trying to call out.
She stumbled through the open door and stopped short at the sight confronting 
her.
Her mistress lay sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, only a few tendons of 
her neck holding her head to her body. It lay parallel to her left shoulder, 
grinning up at her. The Colonel lay spreadeagled on the huge dining table, long 
nails through the palms of his hands and the flesh of his ankles to pin him 
there. A man stood over him, an axe dripping with fresh blood in his hands.
As the maid watched, dumb-struck, unable to move with the horror of it, the man 
raised the axe above his head and brought it down with all his strength. It 
severed a hand and splintered the wood beneath. The man struggled to free the 
weapon from the table and raised it again. By the time he'd cut off the other 
hand, the Colonel was unconscious. By the time he'd hacked off both feet, the 
Colonel was dead.
The maid finally began to scream when the man with the axe turned his head and 
looked at her.
29 FOUR
-Hello, John."
John Holman looked up at the girl and smiled. "Hello, Casey."
"How do you feel?"
"Okay."
He was sitting on the steps of the hospital, unwilling to wait inside. He found 
hospitals depressing.
"They said you'd need at least another couple of weeks." She sat next to him on 
the steps.
"No, I'm all right now. Any longer in there and I'd have gone mad again."
She flinched at the words, remembering how he had been the first time she'd 
visited.
The news of the eruption had stunned the country, spreading alarm, causing 
dismay among geologists, panic in the neighboring towns and villages. She hadn't 
even known Holman was in that area for he was very secretive about his job; she 
wasn't even sure of his department All she knew was that he had an "assignment" 
for the weekend, that no, he couldn't tell her where he was going, and no, she 
definitely could not go with him. Had she known he had been in the
30 village that suffered the earthquake, she--she refused to think about it. It 
had been bad enough when she had rung his office the following day to find out 
why he hadn't called her on his return, and had learned of his involvement. The 
department knew he'd been in the area and as they hadn't heard from him since, 
assumed he either couldn't get back because the roads leading to the disaster 
were completely blocked by rescue and medical services and the hordes of curious 
sightseers--the usual ghoulish element that flocked to any disaster--or he had 
stayed to help. They didn't reveal to her that they were concerned that perhaps 
he was being held by the military on their Salisbury Plain base and they were 
now anxiously expecting the Ministry of Defense to come roaring down their 
necks. She was asked to ring back later when no doubt they would have some news 
and was advised not to make the trip down to Wiltshire because of the mounting 
traffic and the impossibility of finding him anyway.
The rest of the day had been spent in a fear-ridden daze. She rang her employer, 
an exclusive antique dealer in one of the side streets off Bond Street, and told 
him she felt too ill to come in. A fussy little man who considered women 
necessary only for business purposes, he brusquely hoped she would be well 
enough to do her job tomorrow. For the rest of the day she wandered listlessly 
around the house, afraid to go out in case the phone rang. She barely ate and 
listened to the radio only to find out more news of the earthquake.
Casey had known Holman for nearly a year now and was becoming more and more 
aware that if he ever left her, she would be lost. Her dependence on him was now 
stronger even than her dependence on her father had been. When her mother had 
divorced her father eight years ago, she had turned to him to provide the 
comfort and guidance every child needs from a mother, and he had coped 
extraordinarily well. Too well, in fact, for by overcompensating for the lack of 
his wife, he had tied the daughter almost irrevocably to him. Holman had begun 
to break the bonds between them, unconsciously at first, but when he realized 
just how strong the ties were he began to gently, but purposefully, draw Casey 
away from her father. He did this not so much out of love for her, but because 
he cared about her as a person. He knew she had a strong mind and a will of
31 her own, but she was too tightly enmeshed in her father's domineering love. 
If the relationship developed any further, then she would never be free to live 
her own life. Besides, the closeness between father and daughter, made him feel 
uneasy.
Holman had tried to get Casey--her real name was Christine, but he had invented 
the nickname for reasons he hadn't told her of yet--to leave her father's house 
and get a flat of her own. This she would have done had he allowed her to live 
with him, but there he'd drawn the line. After two previous disastrous affairs 
he had resolved never to become too entangled with one person again. He had been 
near to it many times and even proposed marriage once, but the girl backed out 
because she knew, and realized she had always known, that he didn't love her. 
That had been years before, and now he wondered if he were really capable of 
love. He had gradually lost most of his cynicism on that topic during the months 
he had known Casey. He still resisted, but guessed he was fighting a losing 
battle. Maybe he was getting old, resigning himself to the fact he needed a 
companion, that although he'd never been quite alone, he hadn't shared for a 
long, long time.
Casey was breaking down that barrier just as he was breaking down the closeness 
between her and her father. The process was gradual, but inevitable. Still, each 
of them offered resistance. She would not leave her father without the assurance 
of someone taking his place; he refused to be that someone, the move had to come 
from her before she had the guarantee of someone to run to. Holman was older 
than Casey, but had no intention of becoming a father- figure. At the moment, it 
was a deadlock.
Now, in her anxiety, as she waited for the phone to ring, Casey knew she would 
do as he asked. She understood his reasons. It would hurt her father terribly, 
but it wasn't as though she would never see him again. And perhaps when he 
realized she was determined, his iciness toward John would begin to thaw. If it 
didn't, then she knew she would have to go through the agony of choosing again, 
but this time for keeps. And she knew it would be her father who would lose.
She waited till three p.m., then rang Holman's office again. This time they had 
some news. They apologized for not having let her know sooner but all hell had 
broken loose in their department because of the earthquake. These things
32 just weren't meant to happen in England! A man identified as John Holman, 
whose papers showed he worked for the Department of the Environment, had been 
taken to St. Margaret's Hospital, Salisbury, where he was in an extreme state of 
shock. When Casey pressed them for details, her heart pounding, her thoughts 
racing, they became elusive, but assured her that John had suffered no physical 
damage. Again, they advised her to keep clear of the area and promised they 
would keep her informed of any developments.
. Casey thanked them and replaced the receiver. Then she rang the hospital 
itself. The operator apologized, told her that the hospital was jammed with 
calls, and suggested she try later.
Numbed, she scribbled a note to her father, looked for the town on a road map, 
and hurried out to her bright yellow sports car, a present from her father. She 
avoided driving through London by going north and then around on the North 
Circular.
She bypassed Basingstoke and Andover, taking minor roads, knowing the towns 
would be jammed with traffic. On the outskirts of Salisbury, she ran into heavy 
traffic being held up by the police. Drivers of cars were being cross- examined 
as to their destinations, and unless their reasons for travel were genuine and 
not just to satisfy ghoulish curiosity about the earthquake, they were turned 
back. When it was Casey's turn, she explained about John and was allowed to 
continue her journey with the understanding that on no account would she try to 
travel beyond the town on to the disaster area. On their advice, she parked her 
car on the outskirts of the town and walked to the hospital, which she found in 
a state of turmoil. Having inquired about Holman, she was asked to wait with the 
many other anxious relatives or friends who had come to the hospital for news of 
victims of the catastrophe.
It was not until eight that evening and after several attempts to obtain news of 
Holman that a weary-looking doctor came down to see her. He took her aside and 
told her in a low voice that it would be better if she did not see John that 
night; he was suffering from shock and had sustained an injury that, although 
not too serious, required him to be given a blood transfusion and, at that 
moment, he wasunder heavy sedation. Observing the girl was in a highly
33 emotional state, he chose not to explain the nature of John's sickness at 
that time. Tomorrow, when she'd calmed down, would be time enough to explain 
that her lover, boyfriend, whatever he was to her, had gone totally mad, and at 
that moment was strapped to a bed, even though he was under sedation, so he 
could not harm himself or anybody else. It was strange how the man had been bent 
on killing himself. He'd had to be tied down in the ambulance on the way to the 
hospital, and once there he'd broken free, smashed a glass window and tried to 
drive a long, knifelike shard of glass through his neck. Only the intervention 
of the burly ambulance driver, who now suffered from a broken jaw caused in the 
ensuing struggle, had saved him from cutting himself too deeply. Holman had gone 
completely berserk and two porters and a doctor had been injured before he could 
be restrained and finally sedated. Even then he was fitful and had to be 
strapped down. No, the doctor decided, now was not the time to tell her. 
Tomorrow she could see for herself.
Casey spent the night in a hotel crowded with journalists and people who lived 
near the wrecked village and who thought it wise to be a little farther away 
from the area. By careful listening Casey learned more details of the 
earthquake. At least a third of the village's tiny population of four hundred 
had been killed, at least another third injured. Many of the old houses and 
cottages that were not even near the enormous split in the earth had been 
demolished, killing or maiming their occupants. The most remarkable story was of 
the little girl and the man who had been rescued from the very jaws of the 
eruption. They'd been discovered alive inside the gigantic hole and had been 
pulled to the surface, the girl unconscious, the man in a state of shock, but 
nevertheless, very much alive. Only much later did Casey realize they had been 
talking of John Holman.
The next morning she went back to the hospital and was told she would be able to 
see him later on in the day, but to be prepared for a shock. The doctor she'd 
seen the night before explained quietly to her that Holman was no longer the man 
she had known, that he had gone uncontrollably insane. When the girl broke down, 
the doctor hastened to add that the illness could be short-term, that the 
experience he'd suffered may have only temporarily snapped his mind and given 
time it could heal itself. She went back to the
34 hotel and cried her way through the day until it was time to go back to the 
hospital. They advised her not to see him but she insisted--and then regretted 
her insistence.
The doctor had been right--he wasn't the man she knew. And loved. He was an 
animal. A Foul-mouthed, raging animal. Heavy leather straps tied him to a bed. A 
bed in a special room for it, containing only the bed; there were no windows and 
the walls were covered in a soft, plastic-like material. Only his head, hands, 
and feet could move, and this they did in a constant violent motion, his head 
thrashing from side to side, his throat bandaged, thick wadding secured in his 
mouth to prevent him from biting off his own tongue, his hands clenching and 
unclenching, like claws. And his eyes. She would never forget the manic look in 
those enlarged, staring eyes. He had worked the wadding in his mouth loose and 
began to scream. She couldn't believe the obscenity she heard, that any human 
being could harbor the thoughts that flowed verbally from his lips. Although his 
eyes looked at her, he didn't see her. A nurse ran forward and once again 
stuffed the wadding back into his mouth, carefully avoiding his snapping teeth.
Casey left in a wretched daze, tears blurring her vision. At first, she hadn't 
been sure if it even was John, his physical appearance had seemed so different, 
and now she wanted to tell herself that it hadn't been. But it was useless to 
pretend. She had to face up to the facts if she were to help him recover, and if 
he didn't? Could she go on loving the thing she'd just seen?
She returned to the hotel, her mind in a turmoil, her emotions confused. A 
conflict began deep inside her. After hours of weeping, of fighting the 
repulsion she felt for his madness, she began to lose the battle. She rang her 
father. He urged her to come home immediately and she had to resist the impulse 
to agree to it; she wanted his protection, his comforting words, the words that 
would take the responsibility away from her.
But no. She owed it to John to stay near him while there was a chance--the 
flimsiest chance. The illness couldn't destroy what had been, the closeness that 
had been theirs. She told her father she would stay until she knew about John 
one way or the other. She reiterated that he shouldn't come down, that she would 
come home only when satisfied John was beyond help.
35 Casey's wretchedness increased that evening when she visited Holman again. 
The doctor felt that she should know about the young child rescued with him who 
had died that afternoon without ever coming out of the unusual coma she'd been 
in since the eruption. They now thought she'd been affected by gas released from 
below the ground. It was possible that Holman also had been affected and this, 
in some strange way, was the cause of his madness. The next few days would tell 
if the brain damage was permanent or would pass. Or if the effects were fatal.
She hardly slept that night. Now that death had to be considered, her emotions 
had become clearer: if he lived, even if he were still insane, she would never 
leave him. Reality told her that her love could not be the same as before, that 
it would be a different kind of love, a love born out of his need for her. If he 
died--she forced her mind to accept the words--if he died, then she would forget 
the creature she had seen these last two days and remember only what he'd been, 
what they'd shared. In the early hours of the morning she finally fell into an 
exhausted and dream- filled sleep.
When she returned to the hospital the following morning, dread in her heart but 
still hopeful, Holman was completely sane. Weak, ashen-faced, but totally sane. 
And one week later, he was ready to go home.
Sitting on the steps next to him, Casey took Holman's hand. He kissed her cheek 
and smiled at her. "Thanks," he said.
"For what?"
"For being here. For not running away."
She was silent.
"The doctors told me how I was," he continued. "It must have been frightening 
for you."
"It was. Very."
"They're still trying to work out how a complete maniac could become normal 
again so quickly. They say the gas, whatever it was, must have been responsible. 
It temporarily affected the brain, then wore off. I was lucky. It killed the 
little girl." He stared at the ground, unable to hide his grief.
She squeezed his hand and asked, "Are you sure it's all right for you to leave 
the hospital so soon?"
"Oh, they wanted me to stay. Wanted to do more tests, find out if there'd been 
any permanent damage. But I've had
36 enough. Reporters, television interviewers--they've hounded the survivors 
that are well enough, and I've been a prime target. Even Spiers came down 
yesterday to interrogate me."
Spiers was Holman's immediate boss at his Ministry, a man he both admired and 
hated. Their many disputes arose mainly after Holman's various assignments had 
been completed, when he had provided all the evidence he could lay his hands on, 
presented all the facts to Spiers who had engineered the assignment, and then 
the man would take no action against the offenders. "It will go on file," he 
would say. What Holman never knew was the battle his superior went through to 
get action taken, but his power was limited against the overriding strength of 
wealth and politics.
"What did he want to know?" asked Casey.
"Whether I'd completed my weekend's assignment." He couldn't tell her Spiers had 
come to find out if he had found any evidence that could connect the earthquake 
with experiments being carried out on the military base. Holman thought it 
unlikely and had no such proof anyway.
"Fat little toad! I don't like him," said Casey.
"He's not really too bad. A bit cold, a bit hard--but he can be okay. Anyway, 
I've got to report to him tomorrow " he put up his hand at her protests, "just 
to give
him a debrief on the weekend job, then I'm on a week's leave."
"I should think so too, after all you've been through."
"Yes, but honestly, I feel fine now. Throat's still a little sore, but they tell 
me I was lucky--the cut wasn't too deep --and God knows, I've had a good enough 
rest in here. Come on, let's leave before I go out of my mind again."
He laughed at her frown.
It was just before Thruxton that they ran into the fog again. The roads had been 
fairly quiet, the weather fine. They kept to the smaller roads purposely, not 
wanting to rush back to London but to enjoy the passing countryside, the 
peaceful warmth of the summer morning.
When they saw the heavy cloud ahead of them it was about half-a-mile away, 
looking depressingly ominous. They could see its outermost edges quite clearly, 
but its top was more like the usual fuzzy-edged fog shape.
"Strange," said Holman, stopping the car. "Is it smoke or just a mist?"
37 "It's too heavy for mist," replied Casey, staring ahead. "It's fog. Let's go 
back, John, it's creepy."
"It's too much of a detour to go back. Anyway, it isn't much of a fog, we'll 
soon pass through it. Funny, it's just like a wall, the sides are so straight."
They both jumped at the sound of a horn as a coach sped past them heading toward 
Thruxton. Six small boys stuck their tongues out and waggled their hands at them 
from the back window as the school bus swung back into the proper lane.
"Bloody fool," muttered Holman. "He's heading right into it." They watched it 
disappear down the road and then get swallowed up by the fog. "He must be bloody 
blind!"
They suddenly realized the fog had crept much nearer to them. "Christ, it moves 
fast," said Holman. "Come on, then, let's go through it. It'll be okay if I take 
it easy."
He put Casey's car into first and drove on, unaware that the girl at his side 
was becoming unnaturally nervous. She couldn't rationalize her apprehension, it 
was just that the black cloud somehow seemed pregnant with menace, like the 
heavy dark clouds just before a storm broke. She said nothing to Holman but her 
hands gripped the sides of her seat tightly. Very soon, they entered the fog.
It was much thicker than Holman had anticipated. He could barely see the road 
ahead. He drove cautiously, keeping in second, using dipped headlights. He 
leaned close to the windshield for better vision, occasionally using his wipers 
to clear the heavy smog from the glass, keeping his side window open to look 
through now and again. The fog seemed to be tinged with yellow, or was it just 
the throwback glare from his headlights? As the slightly acrid smell reached his 
nostrils, a tiny nerve twitched in his memory cells. It was something to do with 
the earthquake the week before. He still couldn't remember much about it--the 
doctors informed him this was perfectly normal, a certain part of his mind was 
still in a state of shock--but somehow the smell, the yellowish color, the very 
atmosphere stirred something inside him. He broke into a cold sweat and stopped 
the car.
"What's the matter, John?" Casey asked, alarm in her voice.
"I don't know. It's just a feeling. The fog--it seems familiar."
"John, the papers said a cloud of dust or smoke came from the eruption; they 
thought it had been caused by a
38 blast beneath the ground. This isn't a normal fog we're in. Could this be 
it?"
"No, surely not. It would have been dispersed by the wind by now, not hanging 
around in a great lump."
"How do you know? If it came from deep underground, how do you know how it would 
act?"
"All right, maybe it is. Anyway, let's not sit here discussing it, let's try and 
get clear first" He wound up the side window, hoping the action would not throw 
any fear into her. "At the rate it was moving, I reckon it will be easier to try 
and go on through it rather than turn back."
"Okay," she answered, "but please be careful."
He edged forward, his eyes peering ahead into the gloom. They had made a hundred 
yards' slow progress when they came upon the coach lying half in a ditch 
alongside the road. They had nearly run into a small group of boys who had been 
standing at the rear of the coach before Holman jammed on his brakes. 
Fortunately, they had been traveling so slowly they were able to stop almost 
immediately.
"Now come along, boys, I've already told you to keep to the side, away from the 
road," they heard a voice bellow.
Holman opened his door and climbed out of the car, telling Casey to remain 
inside. The slight but distinct odor of the fog disturbed him again as he closed 
the door behind him.
"Is anyone hurt?" he asked the spectral shape of the man he assumed was the 
boys' teacher.
"A few bruises here and there among the boys," came the reply as the figure 
approached him, "but I'm afraid our driver has suffered a nasty blow on the 
head."
When the teacher was only three feet away Holman saw he was a tall, 
gaunt-looking man, with a hooked nose and deeps et eyes. He had only one arm, 
his right ending just above the wrist. The teacher went on, in a lower tone of 
voice, "Mind you, it was all his fault, the idiot. He was so busy joking with 
the boys he didn't even notice the fog until he was in it and then he hardly 
slowed down even though I advised him to." He looked down at the pupils who had 
now clustered around him. "Boys! I told you to get to the side of the road. Now 
the next boy who disobeys me gets a flogging. Move yourselves!"
They scattered, enjoying the fun now that they'd got over their initial shock.
39 "Let's have a look at the driver," said Holman. "Maybe I can help."
They walked to the front of the coach where they found the driver sitting on the 
grass beside the ditch nursing his head in his hands. He held a bloody 
handkerchief to his forehead and occasionally moaned as he rocked backward and 
forward. A group of boys stood around him, watching him both anxiously and 
curiously.
"Now, Mr. Hodges, how are we feeling?" asked the teacher, hardly a trace of 
sympathy in his tone.
"Fucking awful," came the muffled reply.
The boys tittered and hid smiles of delight behind shaking hands.
The teacher cleared his throat and stiffly ordered his pupils to go to the back 
of the coach and stay out of the road. "Yes, well, let's have a look at the cut, 
Mr. Hodges, and perhaps we can do something about it."
Holman bent down and brought the hand holding the blood-stained handkerchief 
away from the damaged forehead. The gash looked worse than it probably was. He 
took out his own handkerchief and pressed it to the cut, telling the driver to 
hold it in place.
"I don't think it's serious but we'd better get you to a hospital right away."
"There's a doctor's surgery in the town ahead. I'm sure they'll look after Mr. 
Hodges," said the impatient teacher. 'The only problem is getting him there."
"We'll take him and inform the police at the same time. They'll soon get a 
breakdown lorry to you and arrange other transport for the boys. Are you sure 
none of them are hurt badly?"
"Yes, quite sure, thank you. It's really very kind of you. I do hope we won't 
have to wait too long, this damp fog won't be good for the boys."
As they helped the injured Hodges back to the car, the teacher explained the 
coach journey to Holman. "We're from Redbrook House, a private boarding school 
in Andover. We were just on our way back from a nature ramble on the Plain, you 
know. It was a beautiful morning and the boys get so restless toward the end of 
term, I had to get them out into the fresh air. I cannot for the life of me 
imagine where this fog came from."
40 
Holman cast an anxious eye around him. The fog seemed as dense as ever.
"Of course, many of the boys' parents wanted me to send them home when that 
dreadful earth tremor occurred," the master continued, "but I was insistent that 
they remain and finish off the term. Freaks of nature, I told them, happen only 
rarely, perhaps once in a lifetime, and Redbrook certainly was not going to 
close down because of hysterical howlings of overanxious parents. A few of them 
persisted, of course, and I had no choice but to let their offspring go--but I 
can tell you, they took a very stiff letter with them."
Holman smiled to, himself at the prattling of the one- armed teacher. The old 
die-hard, traditionalist teachers still flourished despite the new wave of 
long-haired, liberal- minded younger educationists. Well, there was good and bad 
to be said for both sides.
As the trio approached the yellow car, easily visible in the murky fog, Holman 
saw Casey's white face apprehensively watching them through the windshield. She 
opened her door and made as if to get out to help them.
"No, stay there, don't get out!" he shouted at her.
Puzzled, she remained where she was, half in, half out
"Close the door," he told her, less sharply. She complied, the puzzled 
expression still on her face.
He opened the door on his side, pulled the seat forward and helped the injured 
driver to climb through into the back. Then he turned back to the teacher.
"If I were you, I'd get all the boys back into the coach and keep the door and 
windows closed."
"Whatever for?" the teacher asked.
"Let's just say the fog can't be good for them. I'll get someone back to you as 
soon as possible, so just sit tight" He got into the car and turned the 
ignition. Before he closed the door he reiterated his advice. "Keep them inside 
and close all the windows."
"Very well, Mr., er... "
"Holman."
.. . . Holman, but I'm sure we'll be warm enough and a little fog can't do too 
much harm." Oh can't it? thought Holman as he gunned the engine and cautiously 
moved off. I wonder? He still wasn't quite sure of his uneasiness about the fog. 
The doctors had said his breakdown could have
41 been caused in some way by released gas from the cracked earth. It was a 
pretty far-stretched possibility, but that smell had seemed familiar somehow and 
he knew he'd never experienced it before the eruption. It was more instinct than 
judgment, but he had learned to trust his instincts implicitly. A groan from 
behind interrupted his thoughts. "Ooh, 'ave I got a headache," Hodges moaned 
loudly. "We'll soon get you to a doctor," Casey reassured him, reluctantly 
taking her eyes off the murky road ahead to examine the unfortunate coach 
driver.
"I'll get the blame for this," he went on woefully. "Summers'll make sure of 
that, miserable bastard. Oh, sorry, miss," he excused himself.
Summers, they assumed, was the teacher they'd just left with the boys.
"Never did like me. Didn't like the way I got on with the boys." "Is Redbrook 
his school?" asked Holman. "Nah! He's only Deputy Head, but the way he carries 
on you'd think it was. The kids call him Captain Hook." He laughed and winced at 
the effort. "It was all his fault, any road."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I was driving along, 'having a bit of a laugh with the boys, y'know, 
showin' off a bit I suppose, and 'e starts snappin' at me like I was one of the 
kids. Well, I turns "round to give 'im the right answer, and wallop--we're in 
the ditch. Lucky I Didn't go right through the windshield, I can tell you. 
Anyway, I blacks out and the next thing I know, I wake up, blood pourin' down me 
face, and 'e's still going on at me. Ain't right, is it?"
Holman chuckled and said nothing. His amusement soon vanished when he realized 
the fog was becoming thicker. He slowed down to a crawling pace and leaned even 
farther toward the windshield.
"John, what's that?" Casey clutched at his arm, her eyes staring across him at 
something to his right.
He looked through his side window but saw only the swirling mist. "What? I can't 
see anything."
"It's gone. It may have been nothing but I thought I saw a glow. Something 
white, shining through the fog, but it vanished almost immediately. I think a 
heavier bank of fog must have swept by. I can't see it anymore."
42 'It might have just been a clear patch, the sun getting through somewhere."
"Yes, maybe."
Their attention was drawn back to their passenger as he began cursing again.
"Bloody weather. Bright one minute, fog the next. Goes with the times, it does."
"What d'you mean?" Holman asked.
"Nice peaceful summer we've had, couldn't 'ave been better. Then what happens? A 
bloody earthquake, of all things. Here in Wiltshire!" He rocked forward in pain 
as his voice rose. "And then yesterday. Did you hear about yesterday?"
Holman shook his head, still concentrating on the road. Casey replied, "You mean 
the axe murders?"
"Yeah. In all the papers this mornin'. 'Appened fairly near the earthquake 
village, an'all. Rich bloke, Colonel something-or-other, murdered with 'is wife 
and all 'is staff, cook and a maid, I think. Done in with an axe. And the bloke 
they reckon done it chopped at 'is own wrists 'till he bled to death. Party of 
people came over to see this Colonel and found all the bodies just lyin' around. 
I dunno' what it's comin' to, one thing after another."
"Yes," said Holman, "it's like you said. Sunny one minute, dark the next."
"And now I suppose I'm goin' to lose me job over this."
"No, I'm sure you won't," Casey said sympathetically.
"Oh, you don't know old Captain Hook. Never 'as liked me. Still, I know a few 
little secrets about him." Hodges groaned again. "How much farther?"
For another painfully slow fifteen minutes they were immersed in the dense fog 
then, suddenly, they were clear. It was like passing through a door, the change 
was so abrupt
"Christ," muttered Holman in surprise. He'd been squinting into the mist and 
just had time to register its becoming slightly lighter when at once they were 
driving in bright sunlight. He and Casey looked over their shoulders at the 
thick yellowish-gray blanket behind them. Hodges was too busy nursing his own 
pain and grievances to take any notice. As they watched, it seemed to move away 
from them like a dark shroud being drawn across the countryside. Casey shivered 
and Holman smiled at her with a reassurance he hardly felt
43 
"It isn't natural," the girl whispered.
Holman shook his head, but had no answer to give. He switched off the car lights 
and moved forward again, picking up welcome speed as he went. The village was 
soon reached and Hodges directed him to the police station. He ran up the steps 
and quickly told them what had happened to the coach. The police sergeant 
couldn't quite understand Holman's anxiety when he learned that none of the boys 
was seriously hurt. He was surprised and almost disbelieving about the fog, it 
certainly hadn't passed through the village and he'd had no reports of it from 
around the surrounding countryside. Nevertheless, he reassured Holman, he would 
get in touch with the garage and send one of his men out there right away. He 
gave him directions for the doctor's office and thanked him for the trouble he'd 
taken.
When Holman left the police station he had a faint feeling of dissatisfaction. 
Perhaps he was making more of it than the situation warranted, after all, fog in 
England certainly wasn't unusual although at this time of year it was a little 
strange. It was difficult to conjure up the menacing atmosphere of the cloudy 
yellow-grayness in his mind now that he was in the bright sunshine. The fog 
seemed unreal, as though it had never really happened. Could it be he wasn't 
well yet? Was his mind still a bit "disturbed"? He knew Casey had also been 
uneasy about the experience they'd been through, but was that merely the 
transference of his fears? He knew how easy it was for tension from one person 
to be passed on to another until a whole group of people were infected. He 
needed to relax. The strain of the past hour had already drained him, left him 
feeling agitated and restless. Why hadn't he wanted Casey to get out of the car? 
Did he really think this fog had something to do with his own recent illness? He 
wasn't at all sure of his motives, but hadn't wanted her to be subjected to too 
much of the smokelike substance. Maybe the feeling of apprehension would pass 
once his body--and his mind--had fully rested.
They drove the still grumbling Hodges to the doctor's office, left him in 
capable and friendly hands, then drove on to London.
44 FIVE
A few hours later, after stopping for a pub lunch on the way, they reached 
Holman's flat in St. John's Wood Road, opposite Lord's cricket ground. He parked 
the car in the forecourt and wearily they took the lift to his flat at the top 
of the old but well-kept building. His flat was sparsely furnished, uncluttered 
but comfortable. A few original paintings hung on the walls but otherwise the 
decorations were kept to a minimum. In one corner stood a tall, long-stem of a 
plant, completely bare in its length, but thick rich foliage sprouting from its 
top. He claimed laughingly that it had climbed over the wall of the London 
Botanical Gardens and found, its way to his flat because it was looking for 
someone to love. The truth was Holman had stolen it one night many years before 
on a drunken raid on the Gardens with some likewise inebriated friends. He had 
no idea of the correct name for it so he called it George.
His bedroom window looked out onto a flat roof where he had spent many a 
peaceful summer's evening just gazing at the stars, a contrast to the side of 
him that demanded excitement, to be involved in trouble. The one big luxury he 
had allowed himself to indulge in was his bed. He liked to
45 sleep, he liked to make love; when he slept he hated to feel cramped by a 
partner; when he made love, he hated to feel cramped by a bed. So it was logical 
his bed should take up most of the space in his medium-sized bedroom. On first 
seeing it, Casey had giggled; on sharing its luxury, she had become immensely 
jealous of Holman's past. But in the time she had known him, she had matured 
enough to accept the life he had obviously once led.
She made him coffee while he slumped in a chair, pulling his shoes off for 
greater comfort. She brought the cups in and sat at his feet placing the coffee 
on the floor.
"How do you feel now, John?" she asked gently.
"Oh, a little bit tired, that's all. Post-hospital depression, I think it's 
called."
She rubbed the soles of his feet abstractedly. "I've decided to leave Theo." She 
always called her father by his first name, another habit Holman unreasonably 
found irritating.
"Leave him?" He sat up in surprise, studying her face as if her expression would 
confirm or deny her statement.
"Yes. I discovered a lot of things about myself when you were in hospital, John, 
the most important being that I love you more than I could have imagined 
possible. More than Theo. More than anything. I nearly gave up, darling. I 
nearly left you there when I thought you were beyond help."
He leaned closer to her, taking her face in his hands, saying nothing.
"The way you were," she continued, "things you said. It frightened me--I 
couldn't believe it was you."
"It wasn't really me, Casey," he said softly.
"I know, John. But it was like a nightmare. Not knowing if you'd ever recover, 
ever be close to me again--ever hold me like this. I went home and rang Theo. I 
was going to leave you, to go home. But as I spoke to him I realized I couldn't. 
And when I went back to the hospital the next day and they told me there was the 
possibility that you could die--I realized I'd be nothing without you. My father 
could never mean as much to me again, he could never take your place."
"Casey..."
"Believe me, John."
"Casey, listen. Give it a couple of weeks; don't decide now."
"I don't need to. I know."
46 "All right, do it for me then. You've been through too much recently. I want 
you to be absolutely certain of how you feel for both our sakes."
"And what about you, John? Are you certain of your feelings?"
He lay back heavily in the armchair. "Don't ask me yet. Too much has happened 
for me to be sure of anything at the moment."
"Is that why you want me to think about it--because you need more time?" She bit 
her lip, now uncertain of his love.
"Partly, yes. I need to sort myself out, too."
Tears began to form in her eyes as she rested her cheek on his knee, not wanting 
him to see her weeping. He stroked her hair and they sat in silence for a few 
moments, then she looked up at him and said, "John, let me stay tonight."
"What about your father?" he asked.
"I've told you, he doesn't matter. I still love him, I could never lose that, 
but it's you now. I don't want to leave you. Let me stay for at least tonight."
"Okay, Casey, why should I fight you off?" he answered, trying to lighten the 
mood.
"I'll ring Theo later and explain." She knelt, bringing her face close to his. 
"I don't need more time, John, but I'll take it. I want you to be sure, too, and 
if you should decide you don't really want me that badly . . ." she hesitated, 
forcing herself to say the next words, "... I'll go away."
He kissed her lips, suddenly laughing at her sorrowful face. "Okay, Casey," he 
said, "you've got a deal!"
They drank their coffee, both lost for a while in their own thoughts. Gradually, 
Holman began to relax. He pushed thoughts of the earthquake, the fog, and now 
Casey's decision from his mind. He never walked away from a problem, but 
occasionally liked to bury it and dig it up later. His moods changed as easily 
as traffic lights, a quality the girl sometimes adored, sometimes hated. This 
time, because she too needed some relief, she was gladly susceptible to it.
"You know, a week in that hospital, and not seeing you the weekend before . . ." 
he looked down at her, a hint of a leer in his smile.
"Yes?" She smiled back at him.
"Well, I feel a bit like a monk. Celibate."
"It's good for you."
47 "I could go blind."
She laughed and said, "I thought you needed rest."
"Quite right. Let's go to bed."
"Promise me one thing."
"Anything." He began to unbutton her blouse, becoming impatient as the second 
button stuck. She undid it for him.
"Promise me you'll come back tomorrow after seeing Spiers. You won't get 
involved in another assignment."
"You must be joking. I'm taking the rest of the week off even if the whole 
country cracks in half."
He pulled her blouse free of her skirt and cupped her breast with his hand, 
sliding one finger inside the lacy material of her bra.
"What about you?" he asked. "You won't be able to get any more time off, will 
you?"
"Oh, yes I will," she answered, now unbuttoning his shirt "I've been sacked."
His restless hand rested.
"What?"
"When I rang the boss and informed him I was staying near you for the week he 
politely told me not to come back, I would be replaced."
"The little bastard," Holman cursed.
"It's a relief," she laughed. "He was too jealous of my clothes, anyway; I think 
he thought they'd look better on him."
Holman got to his feet, discarding his unbuttoned shirt "I think you need 
comforting," he said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.
Holman strolled along Marsham Street enjoying the bustle, glad to be among 
normal, active people after the subdued confinement of the hospital. They flowed 
into their offices like ants into cracks beneath a stone, regretfully leaving 
the bright morning sun for the artificial glare of fluorescent tubes, allowing 
their personalities to emerge once again after brief hibernation during their 
journey to work. Holman entered the gloom of the large Environment building and 
took the lift to the fourth floor. He greeted Mrs. Tribshaw, a middle-aged 
fluttery secretary he shared with a colleague, assuring her he was in the best 
of health after his misadventure with the earthquake, entered his office, and
48 closed the door on her excited queries as to the extent of his injuries.
"Hello, John." His colleague, a cheerful Scot with only a trace of accent, 
looked up and greeted him with a quizzical grin. "What the hell happened to 
you?"
"It's a long story, Mac, I'll tell you over a drink when we get the chance."
McLellan continued to stare at Holman, still grinning inanely. They had often 
shared the same assignment and knew they could depend on each other in a tricky 
situation. He was slightly older than Holman, but a little more idealistic. 
Although he pretended to envy Holman's bachelor lifestyle, he secretly relished 
his own family life. Three kids--two boys, one girl--a fiery-tempered but 
good-natured redheaded wife, and a semi-detached in the better part of 
Wimbledon; not a lot he had to admit, but enough to keep him content. His one 
release was his job. Although Holman handled the more risky assignments, 
occasionally he was sent on one requiring subterfuge, a little deviousness. But 
on the whole, his tasks were fairly routine, yet even these he rarely found 
boring. He often_ laughingly explained to Holman it was the fact that he, a 
little Jock from Glasgow, could help to bring the arrogant, money-conscious, 
filth-disposing capitalists into line. Or that he, modestly paid, 
underprivileged civil servant, could find a flaw in the land-destroying schemes 
of his own government, his own bosses. True, his information was not always 
acted upon, in fact, he would grudgingly admit, in fifty percent of the cases it 
was not acted upon, but he got a great kick on the occasions he succeeded. 
Holman called him a Communist infiltrator and he would laughingly admit it was 
true, although both knew it was far from the truth. When they worked together 
they enjoyed each other's company immensely, McLellan because he had the chance 
to lead the bachelor life for a brief time, Holman because he liked the Scot's 
dry sense of humor.
"Spiers has been calling for you," Mac finally said, having satisfied himself 
that physically, at least, Holman seemed okay. "He rang down about half-past 
nine wanting to know where the hell you were."
Holman walked around his desk and sat down, quickly looking through the memos 
that had piled up during his absence.
"Nothing changes, does it," he observed, sifting through a
49 stack of gray report pages. "You're away for a week and you think 
everything's altered in that time; you come back feeling a stranger and within 
five minutes you've caught up with everything and you're back in the old 
routine."
"Yes, well, if I were you, I'd get back into the old routine of seeing Spiers 
right away."
"Right. I'll see you later, Mac, then I'm off for the rest of the week."
"Lucky bleeder," Mac grinned, and then his smile faded for an instant. "I'm glad 
you're okay, John. Spiers didn't say much about it, but I gather you went 
through a rough time. You take it easy."
"Sure, Mac. Thanks."
Holman winked at Mrs. Tribshaw as he strode through the outer office, raising 
his hand to still her fretful questions, and climbed the stairs to the fifth 
floor to Spiers's office.
"Is he in?" he asked the secretary, who stopped typing and looked up, startled.
"John! Are you better?" He felt slightly embarrassed at her obvious joy at 
seeing him.
"I'm fine. Is he in?"
"What? Oh, yes, you can go right in. What happened, John? We heard you were 
involved in that awful earthquake."
"Tell you later." He knocked on the door and entered the inner office.
Spiers looked up from his papers, peering at him through thick-lensed glasses. 
"Ah, John. Feeling okay? Good. Take a seat I'll be with you in a moment."
Holman sat, studying the bald head his chief presented to him as he continued to 
read through his papers. Finally, Spiers shuffled them together and put them 
neatly to one side of his desk.
"Well, John," he said, staring at Holman with eyes that penetrated yet seemed to 
see nothing. "I've had your films processed and examined the contacts. There do 
seem to be a few strange items among them but they really Don't affect us in any 
way. Now, the shots of the countryside within the perimeter are very 
interesting, but well get to that later. First, I'd like you to tell me again 
about the earthquake, right from the beginning; leave nothing out"
Holman told him as much as he could remember, but his
50 
mind went blank as he reached the point where he had rescued the girl.
Spiers leaned forward on his desk. "John, try to think. Did you hear an 
explosion before the ground opened?"
"No, definitely not. I heard the rumble, that's all, and then the crack as the 
ground split, but I'm sure there wasn't an explosion."
Spiers slumped back in his chair, taking off his glasses and polishing them with 
his handkerchief. He cleared his throat sharply and rubbed the bridge of his 
nose with finger and thumb, as though tired. He replaced his glasses and leaned 
forward again. "You see," he said, "a cloud of smoke was reported rising out of 
the ground just after they'd brought you up."
"You think there was an explosion then?"
"Possibly."
"Connected with the military base?"
"No, no. We've absolutely no grounds to suspect anything like that. You said you 
thought it was unlikely yourself."
"Yes, I know, but I'm beginning to wonder now. Who knows what they're doing out 
there? On the way back yesterday, I ran into fog. Fog--on a hot summer's day! 
Are they using some new kind of smokescreen device that they've just let drift 
off their patch into the rest of the countryside?"
"Oh, come now. That could have been caused by anything --a change in 
temperature, a factory nearby. I ran into some fog myself when I came down to 
see you. Salisbury Plain is full of mists at any time of year; we can't blame 
the military for everything, you know."
"But you think they had something to do with the eruption?"
"Certainly not. I know there are certain aspects of the Ministry of Defense 
which we both dislike, but you can be sure they would never be as irresponsible 
as to have caused a disaster like this."
"What about the photographs? They show some pretty strange things. You saw the 
dome?"
'They prove nothing!" Spiers was becoming angry and realized it. Once again he 
slumped back in his chair and went on more quietly, "Anyway, I've had them 
destroyed."
"What?"
"Do you realize the trouble you could be in--the department
51 
could be in--if it was discovered we held photographs of secret military 
installations?"
"But what was the point in going down there?"
"To take photographs, yes! But not to be used by us. I merely wanted proof for 
myself, so that I knew there was rich land being wasted, acres of arable soil, 
beauty spots, so that I was in a stronger position to argue that the area should 
be given back to us. My God, we could be put away for years for the sort of 
photographs you took!"
A seed of suspicion was planted in Holman's mind. "You suspect something, don't 
you?" he asked Spiers quietly.
Spiers spoke wearily: "Look, I've been on to the Ministry of Defense. There is a 
massive clamp down in security--I don't know if it means anything, and I'm 
powerless if it does. I have a meeting arranged for this afternoon with the 
Defense Minister and Sir Trevor Chambers, and we hope to get some answers." Sir 
Trevor Chambers was their department's Parliamentary Under-Secretary, a gruff, 
forceful man who indeed liked to get answers. "Needless to say, this is strictly 
between you and me."
"And if you do discover the army is involved?"
"We shall have to wait and see."
"Oh yes, the usual answer. I suppose it'll go on file, will it?"
"Damn your belligerence! Just who do you think you are? I think . . ." He began 
to falter and without thinking Holman took advantage of the break in his words.
"For once, let's slay them! If they are responsible, let's break their bloody 
arse, let's "
Spiers seemed to regain his composure and said, "Let's remain calm. There is 
nothing to gain . . ." Once again, his voice trailed off in midsentence.
Still unaware in his anger of the change that seemed to be taking place in his 
chief, Holman raged on, until finally there was no ignoring the strange, vacant 
look that had come into the eyes of Spiers behind the heavy glasses.
"What's wrong?" Holman asked, concerned. "What's "
He broke off as Spiers rose from his chair, staring over Holman's head. Spiers 
turned and walked to the window; Holman was still too puzzled to move. Spiers 
opened the window and turned again to look at the surprised younger man, his 
eyes for a second almost losing their blankness, a flicker of recognition 
returning to them but lost again in an
52 instant. Then he turned back to the window, climbed onto the sill, and before 
Holman could make a move toward him, jumped out
Holman was stunned. He sat rigid, his mouth open, unable to take in what he had 
witnessed. Then, shouting Spiers's name, he rushed to the window. He saw the 
crumpled figure lying on the pavement five floors below, a pool of blood 
spreading swiftly from beneath the smashed head. From that distance, he could 
just make out one hand curiously raised in the air, the elbow resting on the 
ground, the fingers of the hand clenching and unclenching in a twitching, 
spasmodic motion. Then the whole body arched upward in a violent jerk and just 
as suddenly collapsed again, this time to lie perfectly still, the twitching 
hand finally resting.
Holman drew in a long, uneven breath and leaned against the window frame. People 
were rushing toward the broken body, others keeping well away, averting their 
eyes. Holman turned back in toward the room and saw Spiers's secretary standing 
in the doorway, a frightened look on her face.
"He--he jumped," Holman managed to say at last.
She backed away from him into her own office. The door burst open behind her and 
several people rushed in. "What's happened?" one of the men demanded to know. 
"Who was it?"
Holman sank into the chair Spiers had occupied only moments ago, strangely, 
perversely, noting it was still warm. He didn't answer the people who crowded 
around him; he just sat staring at the desk top. What had happened? Why had he 
jumped? What had unhinged his mind so suddenly? The feeling came over Holman 
again. The sense of his skin crawling, the feeling he'd had when they'd entered 
the fog. It couldn't be, there was no reason to it. But his brain needed no 
reason, the feeling was enough. He sprang to his feet and pushed past the 
startled people crowding into the office. He had to get to Casey.
53 SIX
Redbrook House stood in its own grounds in one of the quieter roads in Andover. 
A long gravel drive with trees on either side separated it from the outside 
world, the large red- bricked building looming frighteningly for any young 
newcomer taking his first journey down to it. Though built long before, it was 
established in 1910 as a school for only the privileged classes. It flourished 
successfully until the 1930s when it suddenly fell out of favor with the very 
rich who had begun to notice that some of the boys admitted were not quite as 
well-bred as their own offspring, though the parents were obviously wealthy 
enough to afford the exorbitant fees the school demanded; but then, money was 
not just a matter of inheritance anymore. The school declined in stature over 
the next fifteen years until the arrival of an eager, energetic and young deputy 
headmaster who managed to sweep away the old traditions and teaching methods 
maintained from Lord Redbrook's days and introduce new, more exciting ways of 
training, more vigorous approaches to the old and often boring subjects. Within 
five years he had established himself as headmaster and rejuvenated the school 
into a modern, forward-looking college, still private, but not quite
54 as exclusive. His name was Hayward, and now, after nearly forty years, the 
very methods he had introduced were the old, tired ways.
Five years before Hayward had taken on a deputy headmaster in hope of breathing 
new life into the school, knowing his methods were out of date but loving the 
old place too much to leave it himself. And, after all those years, perhaps too 
afraid to leave. The Governors of the school had, over the last few years, 
frequently urged him to retire, but felt too much compassion for the old man to 
make it a directive. It was they who had suggested he take on a new deputy head, 
the old one having died two years before and never been replaced. Hayward would 
have considered a much younger man for the job, a man perhaps in his late 
twenties as he had been when he had joined the school, fresh-minded and eager to 
experiment, but such teachers were hard to find for a school like this. The 
younger men were more ambitious. They sought the more outward-going 
establishments where they could reap the glory without a long, uphill struggle. 
And Mr. Summers came highly recommended by one of the Governing Committee's 
members.
Summers had been a captain in the army during World War II and had lost an arm 
in the course of it. He never talked about his injury or how he had acquired it. 
Indeed, he rarely spoke of his war-time exploits at all, and even less of his 
career as a schoolmaster. Although Hayward was disappointed by his assistant's 
narrow-minded educational theories, he had to admit the man was generally very 
competent. Disliked by the boys, he was sure, but he did show an extreme 
interest in and devotion to the school and would no doubt take" over his 
position as head eventually.But his constant carping was becoming increasingly 
irritating.
Summers had turned the business of the crashed coach into a major issue, 
condemning poor Hodges out of hand, demanding his instant dismissal. The blame 
belonged entirely to Hodges, he had informed the headmaster, for speeding in 
such dangerous weather and showing off in front of the boys. He was too friendly 
with the boys anyway.
When Hayward had confronted the wretched-looking driver, who acted as janitor, 
gardener, and performed countless other tasks around the school, he had admitted 
it was true, but had gone on in a surly tone to imply certain notions 
55 about the deputy head. It was because of these implications that Hayward had 
decided to sack Hodges, not because of the misadventure in the fog. He could not 
allow the man to go around spreading these allegations against one of the 
members of his staff, particularly as he could provide no proof of them. As for 
Summers, Hayward wouldnot even question the man; it would be too embarrassing 
for both of them. But he would certainly keep an eye on him.
Tomorrow Hayward would send for Hodges and tell him of his decision to let him 
go and warn him, warn him forcefully, not to spread any malicious slander which 
would cause him to end up in court. He thanked God the crash itself hadn't been 
serious; none of the thirty-six boys taken along had been hurt badly, a few 
bruises here and there, nothing to worry about. Only the unfortunate Hodges had 
sustained a nasty knock on the head, but even he, after a good night's rest, 
seemed physically sound. It was such a pity he had to get rid of the man, 
thought Hayward with a sigh, but good teachers were harder to replace than 
odd-job men.
Hodges sat on the old broken armchair in the basement storeroom he called his 
office and sipped at his strongly brewed tea. He poured some Scotch into the tin 
mug, swirling it around to mix with the hot liquid. He grunted several times as 
he stared into the thick brew, shrugging his shoulders and clucking his tongue.
That's cooked his goose for 'im, he told himself with a grin. Thought 'e'd got 
me in trouble, did 'e? Oh, yes, well I soon turned the tables on 'im, didn't I. 
He sniggered aloud. He wasn't at all drunk; the whisky with his tea was his 
usual mid-morning break. Old Captain Hook is really goin' to pay for it this 
time. Didn't recognize me when 'e first came to the school, did 'e. But I 
recognized 'im all right. I was just a corporal then, 'e was a smart-arsed 
captain, but word gets around on an army camp. Oh, yes, we knew about 'im.
He thought back to the old days: to the huge army installation at Aldershot, the 
rough training ground for thousands of raw recruits. There had been tension in 
the air in those days; the war was in its third year, every week more and more 
soldiers were being shipped abroad, and each week they seemed younger, less 
experienced. Hodges was a corporal in the workhouse and was content to idle away 
the
56 war as such. He knew of Captain Summers, had heard the rumors about him, 
sniggered with his cronies each time they saw the thin, waspish figure march by, 
saluting but wriggling their little fingers at him when he had passed. But 
Summers hadn't been the only one; in a camp that size and with so many raw young 
men, homosexuality was not too unusual. It was sneered at, true, despised by 
most, but many had secretly indulged in its illicit pleasure. Hodges had even 
tried it himself once, but found it painful and "too much like bloody hard 
work." for his liking. The rumored "bromide in the tea" didn't seem to do much 
good. He used to chuckle to himself when on night duty at the thought of all 
those pricks raised secretly toward the stars, pumped by thousands of hands all 
over the camp.
But Summers had propositioned the wrong new recruit one day. He had looked 
fresh-faced and girlish enough, but too late, the Captain discovered he had been 
conscripted with a bunch of his mates from North London. The boy had told him 
what he could go and do with himself and then applied some threatening blackmail 
to gain himself and his friends special privileges as well as the odd quid or 
two.
After only a few months, when the boy learned he was going to be shipped abroad 
and suspecting that Summers had something to do with the arrangement he and 
three of his bunch had waited one night on a quiet stretch of road leading to 
the camp, knowing that Summers would be returning alone on his bike. He often 
had assignations with young men from the town or arranged to meet a soldier 
there, always returning alone, always using the secondhand bike he had bought 
himself rather than taking the bus or begging a lift from one of his 
motor-possessing fellow officers. The group waited patiently, drinking beer and 
giggling as they described what they would do to the Captain when they got hold 
of him.
And then, after an hour's wait they caught sight of him coming toward them along 
the dark road. They waited for him to draw level and then pounced, restraining 
their shouts of glee and anger for fear of being heard by anyone elsewho might 
be coming along in the distance. They began to beat him viciously, giving him no 
chance to recognize any one of them. His cries of fright and pain were cut off 
by a vicious kick to his throat. He drew his legs up and covered his head with 
his arms to protect himself, but the constant kicks
57 and punches forced him to try to crawl away. Suddenly, over the screams of 
the terrified man, they heard the roar of an approaching lorry and saw the side 
lights in the not-too-far distance.
Taking advantage of the sudden break in their assault, Summers scrambled to his 
feet and staggered across the road, falling rather than jumping over a fence 
before they realized what had happened. With a shout, two of them chased after 
him, the other two deeming it wiser to take the opposite direction and hide in 
the bushes until the lorry had passed. The aggrieved boy was one of the pursuers 
and he had no intention of allowing the officer to escape so lightly.
Summers stumbled across the open field, panic lending him speed, the dull thud 
of boots on grass behind him giving him strength. Without seeing where he was 
going, or caring, he ran headlong into a barbed-wire fence. He did not see the 
warning signs spaced at regular intervals along the cruel wire fence, nor would 
he have understood them if he had--his terror was greater than his rationality. 
His cry of pain as a barb gashed his cheek brought renewed shouting and cursing 
from behind. He climbed through the fence, ripping his uniform, wickedly tearing 
his flesh, and ran headlong into the minefield.
The boy behind, ignoring the warnings in his rage, followed him through, pulling 
a knife from his trouser pocket, knowing he would soon catch up with his quarry. 
His companion called after him, warning him of the danger, shouting for him to 
come back, but he was too close to Summers now. The Captain had fallen to his 
knees and had raised one arm toward the boy as though to ward him off, 
blubbering like a baby, pleading.
The boy grinned. It didn't matter that the queer had recognized him. He hadn't 
intended it to go this far, but now he decided. He would be overseas soon, 
probably killed in this fucking war, so the Captain was going to pay. No one 
would know who'd done it, he was a known poof. It could've been anyone. He 
raised the knife so the officer could see it clearly, enjoying the new paralytic 
fear in the other's eyes. He grinned nastily as he walked toward the officer.
The explosion killed the boy instantly, throwing his body into the air as though 
it were a leaf blown by the wind. The Captain was knocked back by the blast and 
when he
58 tried to sit up, his right arm would not support him. When he tried to see 
why, he dully registered that part of his arm wasn't there any longer.
They found him a little later, sitting in the middle of the minefield, holding 
the bloody stump of his right arm, still wondering what had happened to the rest 
of it.
Everyone in camp knew what had happened all right even though it had been hushed 
up. It had caused quite a stir and Hodges had relished every minute of it along 
with a thousand others. Summers had been discharged, of course, but on medical 
grounds; a one-armed captain was no use in a war. Hodges himself, to his regret, 
had been shipped off abroad a few months later and had soon forgotten the 
incident, his dim mind concentrating only on survival. It was not until five 
years ago when he'd shown the new deputy head into Mr. Hayward's study that he'd 
remembered. Summers hadn't recognized him, of course, but the one arm, the thin 
waspish figure, had brought it all back. He debated with himself whether he 
should inform the headmaster or not; a man like that shouldn't be around young 
boys. He decided not to, feeling that somehow the knowledge might be put to his 
advantage eventually. Well, he had been right about that--today had proven it. 
Occasionally, he had enjoyed himself by hinting to Summers that he knew of his 
past. Nothing direct, of course, just a seemingly casual remark about his army 
days, about the war, the "queer" things that had happened. Hints as subtle as a 
kick in the groin, but Summers would merely look at him as though he were 
something the dog had neglected to bury.
He drained the brownish tea, took a swig from the whisky bottle for good 
measure, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and picked up the garden 
shears with the intention of trimming the hedges outside the front gate. He 
ignored the headache, blaming it on the blow on the head he'd received the day 
before. He went upstairs.
Summers sat in his study engaged in writing a full report of the coach accident 
for the school governors. He implicated Hodges, the driver, as wholly 
responsible because of reckless driving in extremely adverse weather. He finally 
put down his pen and sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile, quickly 
scanning his report, then picking it up again to add a few words here and there, 
occasionally deleting a sentence,
59 
adding another, until he was sure that he was completely vindicated from any 
blame. After all, it was the headmaster's idea that he should take his form out 
to the Plain in the first place. End-of-term restlessness, indeed. If he had had 
his way, the boys would have had a twenty-times-around- the-playing-fields trot 
to work off any restlessness they might feel. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, 
blinking rapidly when he took his hand away. Dratted headache! Throughout the 
morning, he'd felt a sharp pain across his eyes, only lasting a few seconds at a 
time, but nevertheless, extremely painful.
He shuffled the pages of his lengthy report together, now completely satisfied 
that it was ready to be typed by Miss Thorson, the school's secretary and 
administrative clerk. Only the fact that it would be signed by the headmaster as 
well as himself prevented him from adding a few derogatory comments concerning 
other matters relating to the running of the school. However, he could always 
filter these through verbally to the Board via his personal contact.
And that my friend, he smiled to himself as he rose from his desk, is your goose 
cooked at any rate. He walked to the window, thinking of the despicable coach 
driver, Hodges. He was sure he had known the man years ago when he'd been in the 
army but could not remember from which camp. Something in the man's manner 
disturbed him, the seemingly casual remark, the sly look that crossed his face 
when he mentioned the war. Did he imagine he could intimidate him in some way? 
What exactly did Hodges know of his past? Well, whatever the loathsome man knew 
or did not know, he was a reminder of the past And the past was something 
Summers wanted desperately to forget
He raised the stump of his arm, the sight of it reviving memories of pain and 
humiliation. Had Hodges known the full story? Had his crafty comments alluded to 
the terrible incident and the reason for it? No, the army had been discreet. The 
few brother officers that had known of his weakness, and indeed, some of whom 
had shared it, had covered up the affair as only the services could. He himself 
could not remember much about that night but even now, thirty-odd years later, 
he could still feel the pain in his hand as though it were still there. The 
nights he had lain awake because of the dull, throbbing ache in a nonexistent 
limb,
60 the pain not coming from the healed-over stump but from below it, where there 
was nothing.
And the damage had been much greater than just the maiming of his body. The 
maiming of his mind had caused him even greater suffering. Although the desire 
had still been there for a while after the accident, he discovered his body 
could no longer fulfill his needs. The discovery had frightened him, filling him 
with suicidal despair. But to kill himself required more courage than he would 
ever possess, so he had survived the mental torture and the physical wound, not 
because he was courageous, defiant to adversity, but because he was afraid to 
die.
Then, mercifully, after a few years, even the desire began to fade as though his 
mind had accepted the disability, not just compromised, but given in completely 
to the impotence of his body. He felt no yearning toward the young boys he 
taught, or attraction for the young men he came in contact with, although he 
still liked to be around them. The sight of youthful bodies no longer stirred 
him but he could appreciate their beauty, like a man with no sense of smell 
could continue to appreciate the sight of a rose.
Out of the corner of his eye, Summers caught sight of a figure lumbering along 
the driveway toward the main gate. Hodges. The hunched, shuffling gait was 
unmistakable. Summers smiled to himself, feeling a sense of agreeable pleasure 
in the knowledge that soon the man would no longer be an annoyance to him. He 
noted the bandaged head, glad that the injury had been inflicted. You deserve 
worse, he thought to himself, and that's just what you are going to get. Old 
Hayward was too soft, but this time he would not be able to dismiss his 
recommendation that Hodges be sacked. The report would have to go before the 
Governing Committee and they certainly would not tolerate the irresponsible 
actions of the driver-cum-odd-job man.
He turned from the window abruptly and glanced at his watch. Time to do a round 
of the school before his next lesson. He often did a quick tour of the school in 
his free period, feeling it was his duty as deputy head to make a regular 
inspection of the classes while lessons were in progress, even visiting the 
empty dormitories to insure the boys had left them neat and tidy, beds made, 
side-lockers carefully packed. Many a boy had been punished for leaving a 
discarded sock under a bed. He secretly enjoyed going
61 through their lockers, seeking out pornographic photographs or books, various 
items that could be confiscated, even sniffing at dirty handkerchiefs for signs 
of masturbation.
The boys, from bitter experience, knew of his quirks and were careful not to 
leave any incriminating evidence lying around. One had foolishly left a drawing 
of a one-armed man, crudely resembling Summers, on his knees peeping through a 
keyhole, the caption reading: "Beware, beware, Captain Hook is always 
there--especially if you are bare." The culprit had been severely dealt with by 
Summers personally, the headmaster not even being informed of the matter.
Summers left his study, ignoring the sudden pain again before his eyes, carrying 
the report under his arm. As he walked along the corridor he listened at each 
classroom door, almost wishing to hear the sounds of rowdiness. When he reached 
the headmaster's outer office he handed over the document to the busy Miss 
Thorson. Satisfied with her guarantee to type it before lunch, he continued his 
round of the school. His own form, he knew, would be in the gymnasium, a 
comparatively new addition to the old school, a building that stood across the 
small playground away from the main building itself. They had all fully 
recovered from their shakeup of the previous day, a few proudly displaying their 
bruises to the other boys in the school who had not been on the outing to the 
Plain, and all glorifying the event beyond the facts. As Summers crossed the 
playground, unconsciously eager to see the boys performing their physical 
exercises, he hummed a tune to himself.
Hodges had almost reached the main gate when he suddenly stopped. He stood there 
for several minutes before he sank to his knees, dropping the cutting shears, 
holding his hands to his face. He rocked backward and forward for a few moments 
then fell forward so that he was on all fours, staring at the ground. The shears 
lay beneath him, glowing dully in the shadow of his body. He crouched back on 
his knees and grasped the handles bringing the implement up before his eyes, 
staring at the shears without comprehension. He opened and closed them with one 
sharp snapping movement, then slowly rose to his feet He turned and walked back 
toward the school, holding the shears before him with both hands as though they 
were a water diviner. He entered the main entrance to the old building and 
passed the open
62 doorway to the headmaster's outer office. Miss Thorson barely gave him a 
glance as she busily tapped away at her typewriter. As he walked down the 
corridor toward the rear of the school he caught sight through the open doorway 
to the playground of a black-gowned figure walking briskly toward the gymnasium. 
The thin, waspish figure, the stump of one arm swinging at his side, told him 
who the figure belonged to. He followed.
The boys had stopped halfway through the P.E. exercises leaving Osborne, their 
burly physical training master, jumping on the spot alone, arms and legs 
snapping in-out, in-out. One boy had ceased jumping first, then all the others, 
as one, had followed suit. They stood rigid, staring at the energetic teacher, 
their arms at their sides, no words passing between them, but somehow mentally 
in tune with one another. Osborne finally stopped his prancing and glared at the 
boys.
"Who told you to stop?" he thundered at them. "Well?"
The boys just stared.
"Get Cracking right away!" He began jumping on the spot again but stopped as he 
realized they were not following his example. He marched angrily toward the boy 
nearest to him, unable to understand this sudden attitude, suspecting he might 
be the victim of some practical joke. Although a big bluff man who liked to 
shout and always reacted swiftly and roughly to any insolence, he was popular 
among the pupils and to some, a kind of hero. His prowess at all forms of 
athletics and sports had won him the respect even of his fellow teachers.
"What's the game, Jenkins?" he demanded of the blank- faced boy before him. The 
boy's lips moved but no sound came from them. He pushed roughly past him to the 
next boy.
"Come on, Clark, what's this all about, eh?"
Clark, one of his personal favorites because of his promising ability as a 
sportsman, said nothing, but stared at the teacher as though he'd never seen him 
before.
"All right, all right, you've had your little prank, but I'm going to give you 
five seconds to get weaving again!" He strode into the middle of them. "One ..."
He failed to notice Clark, now behind him, walk toward
63 a cricket bat lying on one of the benches at the side of the
gym- .'-,..
". .. two . .. I'm warning you, boys, you're all going to be
punished for this! Three ..."
Clark picked up the bat and walked back with it toward the angry teacher.
"Four. This is your last chance . .."
As his lips formed the word "five," Clark raised the bat high and brought it 
crashing down on the back of Osborne's head. The teacher staggered forward as 
the hall filled with the crack of the impact between wood and skull. Clutching 
the back of his head, bent double, almost blind with pain, he turned in time to 
see the heavy bat swinging down toward him again. He cried out in horror, the 
look of questioning on his face barely registering before it was erased under 
the impact of the second blow.
He sank to the ground, still conscious but painfully stunned. He sprawled 
forward as the bat landed again, blood now running down his neck, staining his 
blue tracksuit The boys surged forward as one, shouting in a wild fury, stamping 
on the limp man's sneakered feet. They tore the trousers of his tracksuit from 
his body and turned him over onto his back, grabbing and kicking at his exposed 
testicles. Several tore off their own shorts and vests and began rubbing at 
their own already enlarged penises. One of the smaller boys jumped on the 
teacher and tried to enter him as though he were a woman, but was dragged off 
and beaten to the ground by the others. They pulled the top half of the 
tracksuit off so Osborne was completely naked, then dragged him toward the wall 
bars. The bars were of the type that swung away from the wall when in use, so 
that climbing ropes hung from the tops of their frames.
The boys lifted Osborne and viciously pushed him back against the bars, two 
climbing either side of him to loop the hanging ropes through the wooden bars 
and lashing his wrists to them high above his head. Then his feet were pushed 
through the lower rungs so that they were trapped by the ankles.
While some spat kicked, punched, or just jeered at the hanging man, others ran 
toward the huge sports chest and brought out wicket stumps, skipping ropes, more 
bats. One boy struggled with a heavy medicine ball. Their laughter and shouting 
stopped as they formed a semicircle around
64 the moaning figure. Blood from Osborne's head wounds spread down his body as 
he writhed feebly in his agonizing position. Then, in turn, they began to beat 
him with the wicket stumps, lashing him with the wooden ends of the skipping 
ropes, striking him with the bats. His genitals were crushed by one of the 
stronger boys who systematically hit at Osborne's knee caps and private parts. 
Clark took the medicine ball and aimed it at Osborne's head, making it crack 
back against the wall bars under the impact of the throw. The boys all bore the 
same animal look of madness on their faces, their eyes wide, their mouths slack 
and drooling, the insane excitement of their actions making them scarcely human. 
All except one. One small boy crouched shivering in a far corner, too terrified 
to run away, too paralyzed to take his eyes off the incredible scene taking 
place. A boy who had not been allowed to accompany the others on their coach 
trip the day before because he was recovering from an illness. He crouched there 
in a tight ball, his legs drawn up, clutching them with his arms, his nose 
buried into his knees--hoping, praying that the others would not notice him.
Summers reached the entrance to the gymnasium and paused; the pain in his head 
was becoming more severe. He dabbed a handkerchief to his forehead, wiping away 
the beads of sweat that had broken out. Perhaps I'm coming down with something, 
he thought. Perhaps the crash yesterday had more effect on me than I imagined. 
Oh well, it will soon be end of term and then I'll have a couple of months to 
rest and forget about these wretched boys for a while.
He opened the door and stopped again, this time with shock. His mouth dropped 
open in a soundless scream, his legs almost gave way beneath him. The boys, most 
of them naked, were milling around something red and pink hanging from the wall 
bars. It looked like a carcass, a bloody, butcher's carcass--and then he 
realized it was Osborne. Surely dead; the head hung loosely down toward his 
chest, the hands hung limply from the ropes that bound them. He saw now that the 
body was a mass of bruises and contusions, blood flowing down from a head wound. 
He could see that some of the boys' feet were red from the pool that had formed 
on the ground. They turned to stare at him as he stepped forward, still unable 
to speak. He saw that some of
65 the boys lay on the floor writhing in their own private ecstasy as they 
masturbated, and others were coupled together. He saw the damage they had done 
to the obscene- looking body, the beating they had dealt it He saw the boys 
watching him, his boys, so pure in their innocence, so evil in their deviation. 
Standing before him, magnificent in their nakedness!
He suddenly felt a stirring. A stirring in a region that had lain dormant for so 
many years. He looked down, amazed at the thrusting bulge from between his legs. 
A cloud seemed to haze over his eyes and he shook his head jerkily. Then a smile 
formed on his lips.
He strode forward toward the silent boys.
"Yes," he said urgently. "Yes, yes!"
Hodges walked across the playground, still holding the shears before him, his 
eyes focused only on the door ahead. He reached it and pushed it open. There was 
no reaction on his face as his eyes fell upon the bizarre scene before him, and 
only a dull reaction in his brain. Two men were tied to the wall bars on the far 
wall; one hanging still and quiet his body now hardly recognizable as that of a 
man, the other writhed and squirmed and moaned, not with pain, but with the 
pleasure pain brought. One arm was tied by the wrist to the wooden struts of the 
wall bars, the other was tied between the shoulder and elbow because there was 
no wrist His feet were trapped inside the lower rungs, bent slightly at the 
knees so that the pelvis was thrust forward. Both men were naked so Hodges could 
see the huge, erect penis of the one who appeared to be alive. The boys were 
beating at the organ with wooden sticks, while others were lashing at the man 
with ropes. The man was Summers. His eyes gleamed with the excitement, his head 
twisted with ecstasy.
"Captain Hook," said Hodges aloud.
All eyes turned toward him. Even Summers stopped his squirming to look. He 
walked forward, brandishing the large garden shears, snapping them open and shut 
"Captain Hook, Captain Hook," he repeated over and over again as he walked 
toward the helpless figure, an evil grin spread across his features.
Summers also smiled as Hodges stood before him, saliva running from his mouth. 
His breath came in short, sharp heaves as he looked expectantly at the odd-job 
man. Hodges'
66 
eyes traveled down the bare torso before him until they reached the huge, 
swollen penis. He grasped it with one hand and chuckled throatily, the laugh 
becoming insanely loud. Summers grinned back at him, his head nodding in a 
seemingly meaningless gesture.
Hodges released the throbbing member and slowly raised the shears, so that it 
was between the two sharp blades.
"Yes, yes," Summers cried, his whole body now quivering with excitement.
The boys watched in silence as the two blades snapped together and the scream 
echoed around the gymnasium.
67 SEVEN
Holman impatiently stabbed at the lift button. He was breathing hard, having 
left the taxi in which he'd raced back to St. John's Wood, trapped in the 
inevitable traffic jam. The taxi driver's look of astonishment had turned into 
one of delight as he clutched the couple of pound notes Holman had hastily 
thrust into his hand. Fortunately the snarl-up had not been far from Holman's 
flat, but the sprint down the road had left him breathless and with a painful 
stitch in his side. He jiggled with the button, knowing it wouldn't make the 
lift come any sooner, but unable to stand there inactive. It finally arrived 
just when he was considering using the stairs and he abruptly pushed past the 
middle-aged, blue- haired woman who emerged. She gave him a look of disgust as 
the door closed, telling the Pekingese at her heels that rude young men like 
that should be birched and made to sweep the streets.
Holman thumped the side of the lift with the soft underside of his fist as it 
began its slow ascent. Surely Casey would be all right. She had stayed in the 
car during the incident with the fog so it may have had no effect on her at all. 
And what about himself? He felt okay and he'd been fully 
68 exposed to it. But Spiers? He'd said he'd run into some fog when he'd been 
down to visit him. Could it have been the same fog? Then he remembered the 
slightly acrid smell, the tinge of yellow in the mist; it had seemed familiar at 
the time, and now he began to remember his experience in the fissure. The mist 
that had risen from the depths of the crevice --yellow, sharp smelling. Was it 
the same? Had it caused his madness? Or was he still mad?
The lift jerked to a stop and he gave the slow moving door a helpful shove 
sliding through when the opening was wide enough. He reached the door of his 
flat fumbling for the key, trying to calm himself, only too willing to appear 
foolish if she was perfectly all right. He opened the door and a chill ran 
through him as he saw the place was in darkness. Perhaps she was still sleeping 
and had not bothered to draw the curtains. No, he had drawn them open himself 
that morning. He stood in the doorway and called out her name, not too loudly, 
not wanting to alarm her. He walked through the half-open door to the living 
room. Pushing the door wider, he reached in and switched on the light. The room 
was empty. Everything was as he'd left it except for the closed curtains. He 
tried the kitchen. Empty. He walked softly to the bedroom door, grasped the 
handle, and gently pushed it open.
"Casey?"
Silence.
He could see the bed through the gloom but could not tell if its ruffled 
blankets covered a sleeping body. He stepped into the room and walked toward it.
Only the harsh, dry chuckle he heard behind him saved his life. He whirled 
around at the sound, the movement causing the kitchen knife Casey was plunging 
down toward his back to miss and slice through the material of his coat sleeve. 
He gasped with pain as the blade cut a fine line across the muscle of his arm, 
but the shock caused him to fall back and so avoid the knife on its return 
journey. She stood before him, familiar, but a stranger. Her eyes were cold, her 
mouth was drawn back in a grimace that resembled the frozen smile he'd seen on 
dead animals. Her brown-blonde hair hung limply across her face as though she'd 
been caught in the rain, there were long scratch marks on her cheeks where she'd 
raked them with her fingernails. A stream of saliva glistened on her delicate 
chin. She held the knife
69 above her head and the dry, harsh chuckle came again from her throat. She 
plunged down once more with the knife, but this time Holman was ready. He 
stepped back and tried to grab her wrist, but missed. As the knife swept up 
again, the long, wicked-looking blade aimed at his stomach, he caught her arm 
and moved in toward her, his other arm encircling her waist.
Their heads were close together, almost touching, and suddenly she sank her 
teeth into his cheek, biting deep and hard. He wrenched his head away, feeling 
the skin tear, but oblivious to any pain. They fell backward onto the bed. 
Snarling noises came from her lips as they struggled for the knife and the 
fingernails of her free hand tried to rake his face. He twisted her wrist, 
trying to make her release the weapon but her strength was incredible. He got 
his other arm underneath her chin, not wanting to hurt her but knowing he had no 
choice. He pushed up, forcing her head back, stretching her neck, causing her to 
choke. As she emitted an almost animal whine, he nearly released her, afraid to 
hurt her too much. Aware of the slight relaxation in his muscles, she brought 
her knee up full into his groin. He cried out at the sudden agonizing pain and 
doubled up, his grip on her wrist weakening considerably. She pulled it free and 
sprang away from him, laughing triumphantly.
She knelt on the bed beside him as he gasped for air and raised the knife above 
her head again, holding it with both hands. The sight made him forget his pain 
and he kicked out at her stomach, viciously sending her crashing off the bed to 
land in a heap on the floor. He struggled up on one elbow, both of them now 
heaving, trying to draw air back into their bodies. The knife lay somewhere in 
the gloom, he couldn't see where. She raised herself to her knees, glaring 
maliciously at him, her teeth bared in a snarl of rage, then leaped toward him. 
her arms flailing, fingers clawing to tear at his eyes. He caught her arms as 
her full weight landed on him, then arched his body to try to throw her off, but 
was only partially successful. They rolled over on the bed,their bodies becoming 
entangled in the bedclothes, restricting their movements. She spat at him, her 
eyes gleaming with fury, muted growling noises coming from deep down in her 
throat. He fought back desperately, still afraid to hurt her but knowing he 
would have to if he were to prevent her harming him and possibly herself.
70 They fell to the floor, taking the bedclothes with them, landing in a 
struggling, mixed-up heap on the floor. She managed to free herself from his 
grasp and raise herself to one knee, the sheets from the bed impeding her 
efforts. He grabbed for her again and caught at her blouse. It tore as she 
pulled herself away, exposing her small breasts, the sight causing Holman to 
hesitate, to freeze momentarily, dangerously. It was as though her sudden 
nakedness, the sight of her soft defenseless flesh made her vulnerable. 
Helpless.
But her laugh quickly swept pity from his mind, and he struggled to free himself 
of the sheets. It was a laugh that chilled him; the empty cackle of a crazy 
woman. He sprang at her.
She dodged his outstretched arms and leaped across the bed with an agility that 
surprised him. He clumsily scrambled after her, his feet still caught in the 
sheets on the floor, and managed to roll to one side as she brought the bedside 
lamp crashing down toward his head. He gasped as it struck his already injured 
shoulder, crying out her name as though it would bring her to her senses. 
Swinging his feet around, dragging some of the bedclothes with them, he crouched 
on the floor before her. She kicked him in the face, catching his jaw, stunning 
him. He fell back against the side of the bed, the restraint of not wanting to 
hurt her now completely gone from his mind. He would have to fight her as he 
would fight a man--or a mad dog. He saw her grab for something on the floor and 
realized it must be the knife. As she came toward him again he pushed himself 
from the bed and backed away, never taking his eyes off her, fighting down his 
emotion for her, regarding her as the crazed stranger she now was. She advanced 
slowly, no longer chuckling, but the smiling grimace still there on her face, 
the look of hatred still distorting her features. Their movements were slow 
measured, the movements of a cat stalking a terrified mouse. Suddenly, she ran 
forward, raising the knife high for the death strike, a scream of anticipation 
escaping from her lips. He ducked beneath the descending arm and was behind her. 
As she whirled, he made for the bedroom door, feeling terror of the blade he 
knew was a few feet from his exposed back. He reached the door, grabbed the 
handle and twisted his body to slam it shut behind him. He heard the thunk of 
the knife as it sank into the wood, then the thud of her body as it followed 
through
71 and struck the door. He immediately pushed the door open again, all his 
strength behind the thrust, the whole action in one fluid movement. It slammed 
into the girl, knocking her back violently, causing her to lose her grip on the 
knife handle. She fell to the floor with a scream more of rage than hurt, her 
skirt rising high to her thighs, the sight exciting Holman despite his 
predicament. He leaped on to her, his whole weight pinning her to the floor, but 
still she struggled, her continuing strength amazing him. Her legs opened in her 
efforts to free herself and he lay between them, his face next to hers, his arms 
pinning hers above her head. He could feel himself growing stiff, the position 
of lovemaking and the excitement of his fright combining to distract his mind 
from the danger toward the more primitive urge of his body. "Casey," he breathed 
as he moved his body against her, "Casey!"
She bit into his already wounded neck, deep and hard, drawing blood and savoring 
it. He cried out and tried to pull away, but she clung to him, her head rising 
with him. He could feel his flesh break again as her teeth sank deeper. He 
released one of her arms, which immediately clawed at his hair, and drew his 
fist back. He punched her hard in her ribs but still she would not let go. 
Desperately, ignoring the pain, he pulled one knee up so it rested high between 
her legs, causing his back to make a hole between their bodies. Then he raised 
his fist again and slammed it low into her stomach.
Her head fell back to the floor and she lay there gasping in air through 
blood-stained lips, her legs drawn up, her free hand clutching her stomach. Then 
he slapped her. A hard, cruel, swiping blow that threw her head to one side. He 
pulled her half to her feet and hit her again, knocking her to the floor once 
more. At the sight of her lying there, moaning, tiny whimpering noises coming 
through tears of pain, his rage vanished.
He knelt beside her and cradled her in his arms, tenderly rocking her to and 
fro.
"Oh, Casey, I'm sorry, darling," he said softly, forgetting her madness, 
thinking only of the pain he had caused her. But even as he held her and her 
breathing became more even, he could feel her body stiffening, her whimpers 
becoming low murmurings. He looked around quickly and caught sight of the 
rumpled sheets on the floor. He lowered her
72 
body, praying she was still too helpless to move, and grabbed for them, pulling 
them toward him. Her shoulders began to heave now, not from breathlessness but 
from insane anger building up. She raised herself on one elbow. Hastily, he 
pushed her down and rolled her over, pulling her hands behind her back. She 
began to kick out but he sat heavily on her to make her helpless. As he tied her 
hands with the rolled-up sheet, she thrashed her head from side to side, 
scraping it on the hard floor, but seemingly oblivious to the pain. Then, 
without warning, her body went limp, her eyes became glazed as though she were 
in a deep cataleptic trance, and saliva, pink from Holman's blood, drooled from 
her once-sweet lips to the floor.
He turned her over and anxiously wiped away the thin layer of moisture from her 
brow. She stared ahead unseeingly. Lifting her gently, he took her over to the 
bed, and laid her on it, propping her head and shoulder up with two pillows. He 
drew the sides of her ripped blouse together, covering her breasts, the proud 
little breasts he had lovingly kissed so often, and arranged her skirt to cover 
her thighs, the soft thighs he had also lovingly kissed so many times before. 
Then he wiped the spittle and blood from around her mouth with the edge of a 
sheet, reminding himself of the wound she had re-opened with her sharp teeth. He 
put his handkerchief to his neck and winced at the pain now that he had become 
conscious of it. There was quite a lot of blood on the handkerchief when he drew 
it away, but he didn't think too much damage had been done.
He sat there in the gloom staring at the girl, one hand with the handkerchief to 
his throat, the other resting lightly on her knee. She was unresponsive when he 
quietly spoke her name. How much had the gas, the fog--whatever it was --how 
much had it affected her? Would she ever be normal again? Would she try to kill 
herself as Spiers had done? Even he, Holman, had tried to throw himself back 
down the fissure and later cut his own throat with glass. The little girl had 
died because of the fog. But she had been heavily subjected to it, as had he, 
inside the hole, and her young mind had been unable to cope with the effects. 
His only hope was that Casey had not been exposed too much. She'd been inside 
the car most of the time. Did it make any difference though? Was such a short 
exposure still as lethal? The next few days would tell. His only hope was to get 
her to a
73 hospital where they could keep her under restraint until she got over it, 
or-- He pushed the thought from his mind. The doctors had told him there was 
little they had been able to do but keep him on drugs to pacify him while the 
struggle had gone on inside his brain, an area they could not enter unless they 
used-drastic surgery, which may have proved fatal anyway. Would her mind be 
strong enough to resist whatever was eating into it?
He was still sitting there in the semidarkness when the police pounded on his 
door ten minutes later.
Holman went to the door quickly, afraid to leave Casey alone for too long. He 
was surprised to see the police and immediately assumed a neighbor had been 
concerned about the sounds of the struggle. There were two, one uniformed, the 
other in plainclothes. He didn't know there was yet another guarding the stairs 
on the ground floor.
"John Holman?" the man in plainclothes asked brusquely.
"Yes. Good thing you came .. ."
He was cut off as the detective pushed his way in, flashing a card in Holman's 
face and pocketing it immediately. "Detective Inspector Barrow, we've been told 
to pick you up."
"What? Oh, Spiers. Look, get an amb "
"We understand that you were the only witness present at, er, an incident at the 
Department of the Environment building a short while ago." The detective was 
young and very unlike Holman's idea of a detective. He wore a polo-neck jersey 
and a long suede jacket; his hair, though not exactly long, was certainly no 
"short back and sides." He glanced around the flat, visibly puzzled by the 
absence of daylight
"Yes, that's right. My boss committed suicide, but..."
"Why did you leave?" The detective was walking away from him, opening doors and 
looking in as he went. Holman turned toward the burly policeman standing in the 
doorway. "Look, we've got to get an ambulance right away," he said, ignoring the 
detective's question.
"Christ!" he heard and turned again to see the plainclothes policeman standing 
at the door to his bedroom, a look of astonishment on his face.
"Hold him, Turner!" he shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared into the 
room. A heavy hand clamped onto Holman's upper arm as he made toward the 
bedroom.
"You don't understand," Holman said angrily. "We've got
74 to get her to a hospital immediately." He wrenched his arm free and ran down 
the short passage. He saw the young detective sitting on the bed untying Casey's 
hands. "No, wait! Don't release her--she's not sane!" The words hurt him to say, 
but he had to make them understand. A rough hand went around his neck and his 
right arm was yanked behind him and up.
"You don't understand!" he managed to gasp.
"Oh, we understand all right," said the CID man, turning to eye him coolly. 
"Your colleagues told us you hadn't been well. Don't give us any trouble, mate, 
I'm just in the mood for a bastard like you." He spoke quietly, but the menace 
was unmistakable.
Holman relaxed his muscles, unafraid of the threat, but realizing there was 
nothing he could do for the moment.
"All right, let's take it easy. But you've got to get her to a hospital," he 
said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I was in the earthquake in Wiltshire last 
week. There was a gas released, it affects the brain .. ."
"It certainly affected yours," said the detective, helping the girl to her feet. 
"I don't know what you've done to her, but look at her, look at her eyes . . ."
"No, no. It wasn't me. It was the fog. Spiers was caught up in it too. It 
affects the brain."
"As far as we know, there've been no reports of gas during any damage at the 
earthquake."
"But I was inside it. Inside the eruption where the gas was!"
"Yes, we heard about a man and a child being rescued. The kid's dead, we'll take 
your word for it that you were the man. But there's been no mention of anybody 
else being down there."
"They weren't down there." Holman was beginning to lose his temper, but fought 
to control it knowing no good would come from a shouting match. "This was later, 
at different times."
"All right, Sergeant, get him out of here. We've got plenty of time for 
questions."
"Wait a minute, there's something else!" Holman resisted the strong arms of the 
policeman holding him. "The school! Listen to me. There was a busload of kids 
caught in the fog. I can't remember the name of the school but it was in
75 Andover. You've got to find it and quickly. God knows what's happened there 
by now!"
Holman impatiently drummed his fingers on the hard top of the bare table in one 
of New Scotland Yard's many "interview" rooms. The stone-faced policeman who 
stood by the door watching him said nothing, bored by his duty, but ready to 
spring into action at the least sign of aggressiveness from his charge.
"What have they done with the girl?" Holman asked him for the third time. As 
before, there was no reply. "You could at least tell me that!" Holman slumped 
back in his seat, knowing it was useless to argue with this zombie. He'd been 
kept at the police headquarters for well over three hours now, wearily answering 
the same questions over and over again. Their disbelief was evident and when 
he'd been left alone with his guard and given time to reflect, he realized he 
could not blame them. He had been the only other person in the office when 
Spiers had jumped and they had been heard arguing beforehand; the police had 
discovered him with a bound and beaten girl in his flat; he'd only just been 
released from hospital after suffering a mental breakdown. The facts spoke for 
themselves and his anger at their repeated questions had not improved their 
opinion of his sanity. The girl was in a state of shock it seemed, unable to 
tell them of her ordeal, but they were sure she would be able to answer their 
questions later. They had finally agreed to check on the schools in Andover; if 
there was some abnormality with the pupils then maybe his story could begin to 
take on some credence.
He looked up sharply as the door suddenly opened and two men walked briskly into 
the room. One was the young detective who had brought him in. He stood back, 
icily regarding Holman, as the other, an older, more genial-looking man, sat in 
the chair facing him on the other side of the table. Chief Superintendent 
Wreford had skillfully interrogated Holman, allowing his younger colleague to be 
antagonistic while he played the more sympathetic role. Holman had soon realized 
this was an act and that the mild-mannered, soft-spoken policeman was in fact a 
shrewd and perceptive interrogator. Wreford had tried to determine whether 
Holman was a dangerous lunatic or a clever liar with some obscure but sinister 
motive. So far, he wasn't sure.
76 "We've been checking on the schools in Andover . paused to study Holman's 
reaction.
"Yes?" said Holman, leaning forward.
"... and found nothing."
Holman's look of frustration was too natural to be forced.
"However," the Chief Superintendent went on, "we've had a report of a serious 
fire in a school just on the outskirts of the town."
"That must be it! It has to be!"
"Well, there's no way of knowing yet. Apparently the fire was in a gymnasium 
adjoining the school and they believe there could have been forty-odd boys 
trapped inside. The survivors are in a state of shock, and can't be questioned 
just yet. We haven't got all the facts, but at least we know the name of the 
school." His gaze became imperceptibly more intense. "It was Crayton's."
Holman looked down at the table and frowned as he tried to remember. "No, no, I 
don't think that was it. The teacher told me the name but I just can't remember 
it. I do remember the teacher only had one arm, but that's not much use to you."
The Chief Superintendent studied Holman's face for a few moments and then said, 
"All right, that wasn't the real name. I'm going to show you a list--let's see 
if you recognize any of the names on it."
He handed a sheet of paper to Holman, who quickly scanned the typewritten list. 
He shook his head and read through it again, this time more slowly. "It's no 
good," he said finally, "I don't recognize any. One or two sound familiar 
but..." again, he shook his head.
'The name of the school is Redbrook. Redbrook House, to be exact. Ring a bell?"
"It sounds right, but I couldn't honestly swear to it."
"I bet you couldn't," the younger policeman broke in harshly.
"Let me handle this, Barrow," Wreford said sharply, becoming a little tired now 
of his subordinate's ruthlessness. Although he often used him as a balance 
against his assumed mildness, he had begun to wonder if Barrow didn't relish the 
role he played just a little too much.
"All right, Mr. Holman," he said, his voice quickly becoming more even, "we'll 
have to hold you for a short time while we're making further investigations."
77 
"Are you arresting me?" Holman's tone was incredulous.
"Certainly not. But you must admit, the circumstances are suspicious, to say the 
least."
"I suppose so. But what about Casey? She'll need me."
"Miss Simmons will be well looked after."
"Where is she?"
"At the moment she's in Middlesex Hospital under sedation. It seems she's still 
in a state of shock."
"But don't you see, that's because of the fog. It's a reaction to it!"
"Whether it is or not, we'll soon find out. And tell me something, Mr. Holman, 
if this fog is drifting around the country sending people mad, why haven't we 
had reports of it? Why aren't all the people living in that part of the country 
raving lunatics?" A slight edge of anger had appeared in the policeman's last 
question.
"I don't know! I suppose it's because the fog doesn't cover such a wide area. 
And don't forget, there's a lot of open land around there. It may be that not 
too many people have come in contact with it as yet And there seems to be some 
sort of delayed reaction. We came in contact with it yesterday, Spiers the day 
before. It must take time to work its way into the system!"
"But you told us you were mad when they dragged you from the hole!" said Barrow, 
annoyed that his superior should even listen to such drivel.
"I was subjected to a massive dose of it! I was its first victim!" Holman 
angrily banged his hand on the table.
"Then tell us, Mr. Holman," said Wreford calmly, "why you are not mad now. Or 
are you?"
There was an abrupt silence in the small room. Three pairs of eyes looked 
intently into Holman's, the three policemen waiting for his reply.
"Look," he said wearily, "I just don't know. I'm not a doctor, I'm not a 
scientist--maybe the Ministry of Defense can tell you."
The two CID men looked at one another. "What do you mean by that?" asked the 
Chief Superintendent quietly.
"They've got military installations down on Salisbury Plain. They conduct 
experiments--dangerous experiments-- in the interest of the nation! Maybe 
they've got some answers,"
78 
"Oh, come on . . ." began Barrow, a sneering grin on his face, but he was cut 
off by the older man.
"Are you saying the Ministry of Defense is responsible for this? That they've 
released some sort of . . ." Wreford paused, ". . . some sort of nerve gas?"
"For God's sake, I don't know! It's a possibility though!"
"Oh, sir, do we have to listen to this?" Barrow looked as though he were ready 
to pounce on Holman.
"No, we don't. If what you say is true, Mr. Holman, then we should know very 
shortly. Until we do, I'm afraid we have to hold you."
"Okay, okay. But see they look after Casey. She's got to be watched constantly."
"She'll be in safe hands, Mr. Holman, I can assure you of that."
79 
Herbert Brown was worried about his pigeons. He drained his whisky and stared at 
the empty glass for a few moments.
"Another one, Herby?" asked the barman, reaching for a new glass, knowing his 
customer would not drink from the old.
"Yes, Harry. Have another one y'self."
Harry knew the offer would come, which was why he was always eager to serve 
Herbert.
"Ta. I'll have a small light," he said, smiling through cigarette-stained teeth. 
He was a runt of a man, insignificant to most of his customers, but always 
treated well by Herbert Brown.
"Nah, have a short."
"All right, Herby. I'll have a gin and tonic." He poured the drinks and took the 
pound note from the bar where Herbert had nonchalantly laid it. He rang up the 
till and swiftly scraped out the change, a tenpence piece finding its way into 
his own pocket.
"Here you are, Herby. Cheers." He raised his glass and sipped his gin. He was a 
good sort, Herby. Always ready to buy a drink. Never checked his change. He 
spent at least
80 three evenings a week in the pub opposite his shop in Hacknew Road, and most 
lunchtimes. Herbert usually rose early, about five or six, and went to the 
market to buy stock for his fruit shop. By eleven, he considered his day was 
done and a trip to the betting shop was always followed by a visit to the pub, 
leaving his hard-working wife to cope with the selling of the fruit. She had 
long ago resigned herself to the fact that Herbert would never change but this 
did not stop her acid-tongued beratement of him. And the more he was nagged, the 
more he drank. And the more he drank, the more he was nagged. The circle was 
never-ending, but neither of them could see it. It was a way of life.
"I shouldn't worry about them, Herb. They'll turn up." Harry leaned forward on 
the bar, a false look of sympathy on his face. He couldn't understand how anyone 
could worry about bloody pigeons, let alone breed them. He'd once been up to 
Herby's coop, a dangerously perched hut built on a side roof at the back of his 
shop. The house itself was large, as were most of the houses along London's 
Hacknew Road, their backyards dropped a floor below road level, providing extra 
habitable basement rooms and giving the houses concealed depth. An extension had 
been built by the shop's previous occupiers, extending most of the length of the 
backyard and reaching the second floor level. The roof, which was flat, could be 
reached from a landing window, and on it, Herbert had built his pigeon coop.
The smell inside the hut had made Harry feel nauseous, and Herbert's drunken 
clucking had filled him with barely concealed disgust. For the life of him he 
could not understand what Herby saw in the fat, cooing creatures. Puffing 
themselves up, messing all over the place. They weren't good for anything--even 
pigeon pie was out of style nowadays. Herby raced them, Harry knew that. But 
he'd never won anything from it. When he'd cautiously broached the subject to 
him, the only reply he'd got was, "Have you ever watched them fly?" Just the 
silly sort of answer you'd expect from an old drunk. Still, apart from his 
stinking pigeons, Herby was all right. Always good for a drink, always good for 
a tap.
"They should've been back before now," Herbert was saying mournfully. "Only took 
them down to Salisbury in the van. Got some new ones, y'see, you've got to go 
easy on 'em at first. Mustn't take 'em too far or they'll never find their
81 
way home. Some of the older ones were with 'em so they should've been all right. 
And Claude never gets lost!"
Harry had to hide a grin as he thought of the ridiculously named pigeon which 
was Herbert's favorite. He'd had it for many years, a scruffy old bird that 
always looked as though it had just escaped from the clutches of a cat. He 
treated it like a baby. The time Harry had been up there, Herby had held it to 
his cheek and spoken to it as though it could understand every word. Not 
baby-talk though, but sensibly, man-to-man. When Harry had held it, it had shit 
in his hand.
"Took 'em on Sunday," Herbert continued, his words slurring slightly. "Should be 
back by now. Trouble is, y'see, they need the sun to guide them."
"Well, maybe they got back earlier this evening, Herb, just after you got here. 
You wait, when you get home, they'll all be sitting up waiting for you." He 
caught another customer's eye and looked heavenward, careful that Herbert didn't 
see. The man, who had been eavesdropping, winked back.
"You taking the piss, Harry?" Herbert's words were challenging.
Harry knew that after a few scotches his friend could quickly turn nasty at the 
slightest hint of sarcasm. "No, no," he said hastily. "I just meant they'll all 
be up there on the roof waiting for you. I'm sure they will. Here, it's about 
time you had one on me." He turned to reach for a new glass and breathed a sigh 
of relief when he heard Herbert's voice droning on, now sentimental again. He 
didn't want to upset Herby.
"Thing is with birds, Harry, they don't demand nothing. You feed 'em, an' that's 
it, they're yours. They're not like dogs or cats that creep around you, begging. 
They're proud, y'see. They come to you for food and that's it. If you don't feed 
'em, sod ya', they're off." He leaned forward and pointed a rigid finger at the 
barman. "But if you look after them right, they'll always come back to you. 
They're loyal, y'see. Independent, but loyal."
He sat back as though satisfied with his statement. Harry placed the whisky on 
the bar before him, nodding his agreement, but annoyed that he'd been forced to 
buy him a drink. The landlord had eagle eyes so he couldn't take too many 
chances with the till. He'd had to pay for it.
"Claude'll bring 'em back, I know he will." Herbert
82 emptied the glass in two swift swallows, causing Harry to wince at the 
thought of the fiery liquid burning its way down his throat to eat away at the 
lining of his stomach. His insides must be made of cast-iron.
"Can't understand why they've been gone so long, though." Herbert stood up, 
swaying slightly. "I'm off, Harry."
"Okay, Herb, see you tomorrow," grinned the barman and added maliciously, "give 
my love to the old lady."
He almost regretted his words when Herbert turned back to the bar and eyed him 
for three long seconds, his befuddled brain unsure of the tone of the last 
remark.
"Fuck 'er," Herbert finally said, and weaved his way unsteadily out of the pub.
Once outside, he leaned against the wall for a few moments. He'd taken the last 
drink too fast and could feel the bile rising inside him. It was the thought 
that his beloved birds might be waiting for him that had suddenly caused his 
haste. He fought down the sickness and lurched across the wide main road, 
stopping in its center to allow a No. 6 bus to crawl slowly by.
His wife watched him from their bedroom window above the shop.
She'd done it so many times before, spending long, solitary hours gazing out at 
the busy main road from the darkened room, driven there not to watch for him 
coming home but by loneliness. She would study the people walking by, the young 
couples, the customers she knew, wondering where they were going, what they 
would do when they got there. The strangers, who were they, what were they doing 
in this neighborhood? Sometimes her mind would go off into strange, often 
sordid, fantasies at the sight of them. There had been a time when the sight of 
one colored person was enough to send her off into a frenzy of fancies, but now 
she was filled only with angry indignation. She could look directly into the 
brightly lit upper decks of the double-decker buses that regularly passed by her 
window. Although the glimpses were fleeting, they filled her mind with 
curiosity. And enhanced her loneliness.
Since the boys had left, she found she had too much time to herself, too much 
time to ponder over her marriage and the hard years this had brought her. They 
had their own lives to make, it was true, but you'd think they would visit more 
often even though they both lived a little way out
83 
now. She loved to see the babies, her grandchildren. It was Herbert who'd driven 
the boys away with his drinking, his belligerence. What affection had he shown 
them? What interest? But his pigeons were another matter. Oh yes, nothing was 
too good for his bloody pigeons! Look how worried he was when he thought they 
were lost, how anxious he'd been the last couple of days. What could he see in 
them?
Look at him now, standing in the middle of the road in a drunken stupor. God, 
how she wished that bus had knocked him down! She was the one who had made the 
business a success; it was all due to the hard work she'd put into it. All 
right, so he did get to the market very early in the mornings,. but why should 
that excuse him for the rest of the day? They could have been well off if he 
didn't squander every penny they made on drink and gambling. And giving it away. 
Oh yes, all his cronies knew where to come when they were short of a few bob! 
Good old Herby-the paupers' friend. Well, she'd sifted a bit away out of the 
takings; she had to, otherwise they'd soon be out on the street if business 
suddenly went bad. It wasn't stealing-how could you steal money you earned 
yourself? But there was no reason he should know about it. Look at him, 
staggering across the road! I just hope none of the customers see him, the 
rotten bastard.
Tears glistened in Lena Brown's eyes, not tears of self- pity or sorrow, but 
tears of hate.
"I wish you'd die," she said aloud, her breath causing the window pane to mist 
up. "I wish you'd fucking die."
Herbert reached the side door to his shop and fumbled for his key. His wife had 
once bolted the door from the inside. Only once, never again. The police had 
been called because of the commotion he'd made, but she'd never dared to lock 
him out of his own house again. He found his key and had no difficulty in 
placing it in its metal womb, turning it viciously, and pushing the door open. 
He closed it loudly behind him, not caring if he disturbed his wife upstairs. 
Not that she'd be asleep. Oh no, she'd be waiting for him no matter what time it 
was. You'd think she'd get sick at the sound of her own voice by now. Well, fuck 
'er! She wasn't important!'
He felt his way along the dark passageway and down the steps to the backyard, 
not bothering to turn on the lights.
84 
Unbolting the heavy back door, he stepped out into the cool night air, breathing 
in great mouthfuls of it. He unzipped his trousers and pissed on the hard 
concrete ground, enjoying the sound as the yellow stream spattered off it. He 
never knew why he did this, their toilet stood directly opposite him and it had 
cost him a small fortune to have the one upstairs put in. But it was one of 
life's little pleasures, he told himself. And it infuriated Lena.
As the stream of urine lost its impetus and retreated back towards his shoes, he 
became conscious of another sound. It was the sound of cooing.
He looked up toward the roof. His pigeons-they'd come back, bless 'em! He 
laughed aloud and quickly zipped up his trousers, getting his fingers wet in the 
process. Wiping his hands on his jacket, he lurched back into the house, leaving 
the door wide open behind him. He staggered up the stairs, cursing as he 
tripped, using his hands on the stairs ahead of him. As he reached the landing 
window, he heard his wife's voice coming from the bedroom.
"You dirty bastard!" she called. "You're a bloody animal! Why don't you use the 
lavatory like any normal man?"
"Shut your noise," he shouted back, reaching one knee up to the windowsill. He 
had to be careful now. More than once he'd lost his grip and gone tumbling down 
the stairs. She always said he'd go walking off the roof one of these nights, 
and good riddance too. But he knew he'd never get that drunk because, if he did, 
he would never be able to get out the bleedin' window.
He scrambled through, his hands resting on the floor of the roof, supporting his 
upper body. He could still hear her voice from inside the house, shrill, 
unpleasant. But he could also hear the cooing now, much louder, and the sounds 
of movement inside the coop as the birds shuffled on their perches, excited by 
the noise he was making.
"I'm coming, my darlings," he called out, drunkenly conscious of the silly grin 
on his face. He was careful to keep well away from the edge of the flat roof; he 
didn't fancy the drop onto the concrete thirty feet below. "I knew you'd get 
back, Claude. I knew I could depend on you. What happened, get lost, did you?"
He struggled with the latch on the door, noticing that some of the newer birds 
were still on the roof of the wooden hut. They always took a little while to 
learn how to get back
85 
inside the coop. They'd soon follow the example of the others. "Claude, come on, 
darling, where are you?" He switched on the bicycle lamp he kept hanging up 
inside the hut, the sudden light causing several of the birds to flutter around 
in panic.
"It's all right, darlings, it's only me. I won't hurt you." Herbert closed the 
door behind him so that none of the pigeons could escape. He had to crouch low 
as the sloping roof of the hut was not high enough to allow a grown man to 
stand. He quickly checked over the birds, counting them, making sure none had 
received any injuries. He finally spotted Claude, perched high in the corner of 
the hut, not moving, but a gentle cooing coming from his throat.
"Hello, old Claude. D'you miss me?" He lurched toward the older pigeon trying 
not to disturb the others. He was unaware of the sudden silence that had 
descended upon them, or that they were not all perfectly still.
"Well, Claude, what have you got to say for yourself, eh?" He reached for the 
pigeon and gently picked it up. Holding it close to his face, he began to stroke 
its breast, making soft clucking noises. "You know who's boss, don't you? You 
know who'll look after you."
The bird's head suddenly shot forward and its beak pecked at Herbert's bleary 
eye. He screamed out in pain and fell back among the perches, releasing his grip 
on his pet bird. The whole hut erupted into a whirlwind of screeching, 
fluttering bodies as the birds flew at him from all sides. He raised his arms to 
protect his face but they pecked at his hands viciously, causing thin trickles 
of blood to run down them. He swiped at them wildly, sending their frail bodies 
crashing into the sides of the coop, several falling to the floor again, unable 
to rise, feebly fluttering their broken wings in a useless attempt to reach him. 
But still the others continued their attack, flapping their wings at his head, 
pecking at his crouched body, finding exposed flesh, drawing tiny dots of blood.
Suddenly, part in rage, part in panic, Herbert grabbed at one of the feathered 
bodies and, with a cry of anguish, crushed its tiny bones with his hands. But 
the movement had left his face exposed and three of the pigeons immediately flew 
at it, one clinging to his neck, the other two striking at his cheeks and eyes. 
He was already half-blinded and now felt his other eye pop as he released the 
dead bird and
86 tried to protect his face again. The shock forced him to his feet, thrashing 
out violently, smashing the birds to the ground,' crushing them with his feet as 
he staggered blindly toward the small doorway. But in the turmoil, in the 
confusion of flying bodies, beating wings, the shrieks of the birds, his own 
cries of fear, his pain, he had lost all sense of direction and crashed into the 
side of the hut, knocking himself to the ground.
As he lay there, arms outstretched, stunned by the fall, the pigeons flurried 
onto his heaving chest and continued their combined onslaught. He kicked out, 
now sobbing with the horror of it, and managed to roll over in the confined 
space, squashing the birds that still clung to him. Raising himself to one knee, 
feeling the sharp pecks at his neck and shoulders, but now almost oblivious to 
the pain, he stretched out one hand toward the side of the coop. His fingers 
curled through and around the wire mesh of one of its windows and he slowly 
pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pigeon that had settled on his hand and 
was biting at his raw knuckles. Some inner sense informed him of the direction 
of the door based on the position of the wire window he clung to. The pain now 
was on its second wave and it broke the protective barrier his fear had set up.
He screamed aloud, shaking, shuddering his entire body, flailing his limbs, and 
lumbered toward the small exit, still covered in feathered, tormenting bodies. 
Unable to see the torch, he sent it flying as he stumbled through the door, his 
brain as well as his eyes blind now.
His wife stared at him from the landing window, her face white in the moonlight, 
her hands clutching the windowsill. She had heard the commotion from her 
bedroom, at first ignoring it, assuming her husband was in one of his fits of 
rage. But then the urgency, the terror in the screams had reached her and she 
had flung herself from the bed, fearful at what she might find when she reached 
the landing window. And what she'd found had left her in open-mouthed disbelief.
A figure had emerged from the coop at the end of the small roof, a figure that 
seemed scarcely human in the moonlight. It moved in crouched, lurching steps and 
was surrounded by wildly beating wings. She drew in her breath in horror as she 
realized it was her husband, just recognizable, and he was being attacked by the 
pigeons he loved. She
87 
stood there, her mouth agape, for once in her life speechless, unable to move, 
unable to help him. His next cry broke the spell and she struggled to climb 
through the window, her heavy body hindering her progress. When she was halfway 
through, her hands on the roof, her buttocks high in the air on the window 
ledge, she looked up to see her husband stumble toward the edge. She opened her 
mouth to scream his name, but no sound came. Her lips silently opened and closed 
twice and only when he stepped off into space did any sound emerge.
"Herby!" she screamed, and the scream covered the squelching thud as his body 
hit the concrete thirty feet below.
She crawled toward the edge of the parapet, sobbing and calling his name over 
and over again. She lay flat and peered into the darkness below. His body was 
barely visible, a dark form lying perfectly still, legs twisted outward at odd 
angles. A sudden movement gave her hope, but she saw it was the weak fluttering 
of a dying bird that had plunged to the ground with him. She knew he was dead.
"Oh, Herby, my poor darling. Oh, Herby," she wept.
Above her, on the roof of the coop, the pigeons had gathered. They gazed down at 
her and were still. The one he called Claude cooed softly.
Much earlier, on that same day, Edward Smallwood had been fishing. He was a 
tall, nervous man, prematurely balding and, at the age of thirty-five, still 
living with his parents. His nervousness was largely due to his domineering 
father, a man much smaller than himself but a man with strict principles and 
harsh ideals, who made no effort to hide his disappointment in his "weakling" 
son. Edward's even smaller mother doted on her son and kindly, but misguidedly, 
tried to shield him from the discordances of life and the severity of his 
father. Nevertheless, both parents loved their gangling, stoop-shouldered "boy" 
in different ways, and both as damagingly. They supervised his life to an 
intimidating degree so that any spark of initiative, any mood of impulsiveness 
had been carefully drained from his nature at a very early age, not maliciously, 
but in a kindly, patronizing way. And because it was done in kindness, albeit a 
stricter kindness from his father, the effects were more lasting. They had 
guided him into his first and only job at the age of sixteen,
88 a job in the bank managed by a friend of the family; a good job, "safe, 
respectable." There he had stayed and worked his way up to the position of 
assistant manager through dogged perseverance rather than natural ability. He 
had refused any transfers that had cropped up from time to time, not wanting to 
move from the busy but pleasant enough town of Ringwood on the borders of the 
New Forest, and knowing his parents would not allow it anyway. He had not even 
felt disappointment when the manager, the friend of his family, had died two 
years before and he had not been offered the appointment. It hadn't even 
occurred to him that he should and was puzzled over his father's beratement over 
the matter.
Edward had never really hated anyone before that; disliked, certainly, been 
afraid of, most definitely, but the feeling of hate had never before intruded 
upon his life. But Norman Symes, the new bank manager, had aroused passions in 
him that had never even been tickled before. Symes's philosophy in life seemed 
to be, if each day I can bring a little unhappiness into the life of Edward 
Smallwood, then that day has not been in vain. Edward had mentioned it only once 
to his parents and the scolding of his father and the twittering sympathy of his 
mother had prevented him from ever doing so again. So he had borne the misery 
alone, a misery only experienced before in his schooldays. He was well aware of 
how others on the staff enjoyed his discomfort in the presence of the manager, 
as did Symes; that was half the trouble. The manager seemed to go out of his way 
to. humiliate him in front of the others, as though his own prestige was 
enhanced by these spiteful remarks. Edward sighed at the thought of the little 
but nasty tribulations the day would bring. With a bit of luck, Symes would be 
on one of his "get out and meet the local businessmen" exercises that day, and 
they would see little of one another.
Edward pushed back the bedclothes and groped for his glasses, hidden somewhere 
on the small bedside table. He tutted as he knocked over the half-drunk cup of 
weak tea his mother had brought up to him earlier. His day had already been 
ruined by the fog that had suddenly descended upon him while he was fishing on a 
remote bank of the River Avon at six o'clock that morning. Twice a week he 
cycled out to his favorite spot to fish, a pleasure of which even his parents 
approved. His doctor recommended early
89 
morning fresh air to help rid him of his constant catarrh, an ailment that 
caused him to snuffle most of his way through the day. He hadn't noticed the 
early morning fresh air relieving his congestion much, but had found great 
pleasure in the quiet solitude of the river bank and it helped him to steel 
himself against the oncoming day. He even regretted catching any fish and rarely 
baited his hook. Now and again he had to, to satisfy the serious inquiries of 
his father, but to pull a life from its watery existence left him with a slight 
feeling of sorrow.
But that particular morning, engrossed in his own thoughts, the yellowy mist had 
stealthily crept around him and it was only when he suddenly realized he could 
hardly see the end of his line that he became aware of the fog that surrounded 
him. A little frightened by the suddenness of it, he had quickly packed away his 
flask and fishing tackle and tried to find his way back to the main road. It had 
taken him a good ten minutes of bumping into trees and becoming entangled in 
low-lying bushes to do this. Fortunately, the fog did not extend as far as the 
main road and, more by luck than judgment, he found himself back in bright 
sunlight. His mother was, as usual, overly sympathetic when he reached home, and 
packed him off to bed for an extra hour's rest before he went off to work. He 
was surprised to find later that he'd actually dozed off for that hour, but the 
fog had left a nasty taste in his mouth which his mother's weak tea did little 
to dispel.
He found his glasses and rubbed his eyes before putting them on, frowning with a 
headache that he had just become aware of. He made his way to the bathroom, 
bidding his father good morning as he passed his door, knowing the old man would 
be propped up in bed reading the Telegraph, munching toast and sipping tea.
"Good morning, Edward!" came the brisk reply, and Edward repeated his "Good 
morning, Father."
After a more thorough toilet than his earlier effort, he went back to his room 
and dressed, putting on the clothes his mother had carefully laid out for him 
the night before. He went downstairs, kissed his mother's proffered cheek, and 
sat down at the table, not feeling very hungry, despite his early morning 
exercise. He made an attempt to eat but had to push the plate away after a short 
while. His mother looked
90 at the remnants of his bacon and eggs and then peered anxiously into his 
face.
"Aren't you feeling well, dear?" she asked.
"I'm all right, Mother, just not feeling very hungry, that's all." He sipped his 
tea, looking down into his cup rather than at her concerned face.
"It's probably that nasty fog, got onto your chest."
"No, I don't think so, Mother."
"You know how weak your chest is," she went on, ignoring him. "Perhaps you 
shouldn't be out in the cold air first thing in the morning after all."
He pulled away as she reached toward his forehead.
"No, really, Mother, it's nothing at all. I'm just not hungry, that's all."
"Have you been to the toilet?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Let me get you some of your father's laxative pills."
"No, Mother, I've been."
"Well, where does it hurt then, dear?"
"It doesn't hurt. I'm just not hungry!"
"There's no need to snap, Edward, I'm only just trying ..."
"I'm not snapping, Mother."
"Just because you're not feeling well, there's no need to take it out on 
Mother."
"But I am feeling well, Mother. I don't feel like breakfast, that's all. I've 
got a bit of a headache."
"Well, why didn't you say so? I'll get you some aspirins, they'll soon shift 
it."
"No, it's not that bad . . ." But she was gone, returning seconds later with two 
white tablets in her hand.
"Now, take those with your tea. You'll soon feel better." She would have 
actually popped them into his mouth had he not grabbed them and swallowed them 
quickly. "Your father thinks it might be wise if you stayed home today in case 
you get worse."
"Oh for goodness sake, Mother, it's only a slight headache!" Edward rose from 
the table, his face going a blotchy red from anger.
"Sit down, Edward."
"Yes, Mother." He sat down.
"You know how frightful you look when you lose your temper."
"I didn't lose my temper," he sulked.
91 'There's no need to make others suffer just because you're not well."
He sat in broody silence now, knowing any further words from him would only 
prolong the conversation and his mother would begin to snuffle at his 
ingratitude.
"Very well, Edward. You may go off to work, but please don't come home 
complaining that you're worse at lunchtime."
"No, Mother."
"Try to eat something in your tea break."
"Yes, Mother."
"A biscuit or something."
"Yes, Mother."
Mrs. Smallwood softened at the look of misery on her son's face. What would he 
do when they were no longer there to care for him? He was so dependent on them, 
needed them so much. She knew she would go first and Father really didn't 
understand the boy too well. Who would comfort Edward when his father scolded 
him? To whom would Edward turn? She bravely fought back the tears of pity and 
reached a hand kindly toward him and patted his head.
"Off you go now, Edward, or you'll be late."
"Yes, Mother." He rose again from the table and buttoned his jacket.
His mother looked up at him, forcing a smile, trying to hide the sorrow she 
felt. "We love you, dear," she said.
"Yes, Mother," he answered.
The dull throbbing in his head increased as he walked through the town toward 
his branch of the Midland Bank. Several people who knew him wished him good 
morning and he returned their nods with a polite but strained smile. He loved 
his parents dearly but did wish they wouldn't fuss so, especially Mother. She 
would worry herself into an early grave if she didn't learn not to fret over him 
so much. He choked at the thought. Goodness, he must remember to buy her a box 
of chocolates on his way home to lunch to make up for this morning's rudeness. 
He knew she would be upset for the rest of the week if he didn't. He thought of 
his father and how, since his early retirement, he'd seemed tohave become even 
more domineering, as though the running of their lives had replaced the running 
of his old office with
92 
the insurance company. Still, Edward knew his father had his interests at heart.
As he stepped off the curb, the beep of a car startled him into reality. He 
jumped back, his heels catching on the curb, and sat down heavily on the 
pavement but managing to cling to his briefcase. Edward stared up at the passing 
car and saw the driver's mouth moving vehemently through the closed window. The 
car's horn sounded angrily again as the vehicle sped onward. He heard the 
sniggers of passersby as he sat there, his knees together, ankles outstretched, 
holding his briefcase in his lap. They turned away as he looked at them, none 
offering to help him to his feet. He stood up, brushing at the back of his 
trousers with his hand, a huge blush sweeping over his face to the top of his 
balding scalp. Making sure the road was clear, he crossed it, his embarrassment 
giving his stride added length.
Damn them, he cursed inwardly, years of bitter resentment welling up inside him. 
Damn them for laughing, damn the driver for swearing at him! Damn the whole 
town! Damn the Midland Bank! Damn Symes!
He saw a man ahead of him stoop to pat the upturned head of a friend's dog. 
Edward strode briskly up to him and gave the offered bottom a hearty kick. The 
man jumped up with an astonished yelp, the dog holding onto his hand with its 
teeth in fright. He yelped again and turned back to the dog, smacking its head 
with the palm of his other hand. Edward marched on, ignoring the confused 
barking and shouting he'd left behind. A trader came out of his shop to see what 
the disturbance was about and as Edward passed him, he whirled and dealt the 
inquisitive shopkeeper a swift kick to his seat.
The man turned, using both hands to rub his smarting bottom, and stared after 
the retreating assistant bank manager, not quite sure of what had happened. 
Edward made his way along the street kicking bottoms at random, his victims too 
astonished to do anything but stare after his tall, foot-thrusting figure. He 
rounded a corner and spotted the most enormous backside he'd ever seen trundling 
along ahead of him. It belonged to a neatly and, of course, expansively dressed 
businessman, whose wide neck bulged over a spotlessly white collar. He was the 
proprietor of one of the costlier hotels in Ringwood, a pompous man and a 
perfectionist in his trade; this morning he was on his way to
93 complain about the quality of yesterday's lamb to the owner of the large 
wholesale butcher who supplied most of the hotels in the area with their fresh 
meat.
The sharp blow to his rear startled him from his irascible thoughts. He turned 
quickly to discover the source of his rude surprise, and to his amazement found 
a tall, bespectacled man glaring challengingly into his face.
The fat man was too dumbfounded to muster up much vehemence in his indignant 
demand. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
Edward did not reply but raised his leg to kick the side of the fat man's thigh, 
his foot curling around in an attempt to reach the ample backside.
"Here, stop that!" The man backed away nervously.
Edward maneuvered himself into a more favorable position for reaching the man's 
rear.
"Stop it!" But the blow had already landed. The hotel proprietor rubbed his 
reddening bottom with both hands, using friction to dull the smarting. "I'll 
have the law on you! Who do you .. ." He half-turned to trundle away, frightened 
of the gleam in the advancing Edward's eye. "Get away!" he spluttered, his fat 
legs increasing their pace, finally breaking into a lumbering run. Edward 
followed, his longer legs easily enabling him to keep up and deal out more kicks 
to the large wobbling target before him.
They left a trail of bewildered onlookers behind them, who stared and then 
chuckled at one another in delight. It made a fine comedy, the contrasting 
figures of the two men --one tall and thin, the other, short and roly--adding to 
the ridiculousness of it.
The hotel proprietor was becoming winded, his bottom sore and bruised. His pleas 
for help from the people he passed met only with incredulity turning to 
amusement. Finally he saw what he had been praying for. A policeman was just 
emerging from a shop and striding across the pavement to his patrol car.
"Help!" the fat man panted. "Help me!"
Fortunately for Edward, he'd seen the policeman too and had slowed down to a 
casual stroll. The fat man grabbed the policeman by the arm and was stabbing an 
agitated finger toward the now-passing assistant bank manager.
"That man! That man has been chasing me!" The policeman calmly turned and looked 
down at the fat man tugging
94 at his shirt sleeve then at the passerby he was gesticulating toward. "Stop 
him!" the fat man went on excitedly, fuming at the policeman's apparent 
casualness. "He's been attacking me! Arrest him!"
The policeman had learned long ago never to accept anybody's word unless there 
were at least one or two unbiased witnesses to back up his story. There were 
plenty of nutcases around who loved to create a scene and involve perfectly 
innocent bystanders and this little fat man didn't seem at all right in the 
head. However, these matters had to be investigated and feelings soothed. "Just 
a moment, sir," he called to Edward.
"That's it, constable," the proprietor said with some feeling of satisfaction. 
"He's a madman. You lock him up."
"Yes, officer?" Edward walked calmly over to the two men, a faint look of 
surprise on his face.
The policeman immediately became suspicious of the fat man still tugging at his 
elbow. It seemed pretty obvious who the madman was.
"Er, this man says you assaulted him, sir," he said, almost apologetically.
"I beg your pardon?" Edward replied, slightly indignant, not ruffled, but as 
though curious about the insinuation.
"He says you attacked him, sir."
"He did. He's been chasing me all the way down the street, kicking me." The fat 
man stood slightly behind the policeman, as though expecting another kick at any 
moment.
"But officer, there must be some mistake," said Edward. "I've never seen this 
man before."
The policeman tried to calm the fat man who was hopping up and down behind him. 
"He's kicked my bottom black and blue. Do something, constable!"
"Kicked his ? Oh, really, officer." Edward smiled
benignly. "I do have to be on my way or I'll be late for work, but if I can 
assist you in any way .. . of
"Er, just a moment, sir." The policeman turned to face the dismayed hotel 
proprietor. "Have you any witnesses?"
"Well, of course, yes!" The fat man pointed at the onlookers. Unfortunately, 
they only chuckled and shook their heads at the policeman.
"I see," the policeman said, putting away his notebook, a weary look on his 
face.
"But he did kick me!" wailed the fat man.
95 "I did not," said Edward calmly.
"Well, I'm afraid, sir, there's nothing I can do unless you have witnesses," 
said the policeman. "Now why don't you go on about your business and let this 
gentleman go on about his." He ignored the outraged spluttering of the 
proprietor and turned back to Edward, speaking in a confidential tone. "I'm 
sorry about this, sir. It often happens with these people. They see a uniform 
and immediately use it to make themselves feel important. He's harmless enough."
"I understand, officer," said Edward, with concern. "It's quite all right. 
Really."
"They want to be noticed, that's all." The policeman smiled. "It's certainly 
original, though, saying you kicked his bottom all the way down the street."
Edward smiled back. "Yes, it certainly is." Both men shook their heads in 
wonder.
"Well, good day to you, sir," the policeman half-saluted. "He won't bother you 
again."
"Thank you, officer. Good day."
As the policeman turned and walked toward his car Edward took two brisk steps 
after him, swung his foot back, and gave him a hefty kick in the seat of his 
pants.
Symes looked up at the clock on the wall for the fourth time that morning. 
Half-past ten and still Smallwood had not shown! The scowling bank manager 
expected the telephone to ring at any moment and Smallwood's distraught mother 
to pour out excuses about the condition of her son's ill health as soon as he 
picked up the receiver. Well, he was coming to the end of his tether with that 
boy. Boy! He was a grown man, but he acted as though he were sixteen! True, he 
was conscientious enough, rarely made a mistake in his figures, but he was so 
godawful slow! And at the slightest sign of illness his mother kept him at home. 
He knew the previous manager had coddled the big, overgrown schoolboy because he 
knew the boy's father, but he certainly was not going to tolerate much more of 
his constant absenteeism, even though it was a treat not to have him snuffling 
around him all day. It was his irritating mannerisms more than his lack of 
initiative that annoyed Symes: the way he chewed on his fingers, the way he 
apologized for everything, the way he bowed and scraped to the customers. And 
the rest of the staff had no respect for him; they regarded him as a joke.
96 Anyway, his being away so often was a good excuse to get rid of him. Balmer 
could take his place, he was a good lad, always quick with an answer, always 
ready to take on more work. And with Symes getting out and about more, meeting 
the people as it were, he needed a good backup man to handle the steady influx 
of routine work. It was a good policy to go out and contact the local 
businessmen and developers personally rather than wait for them to come to him. 
See them in their offices, visit their sites, talk business over a good 
three-hour lunch--that was the way to treat good clients and drum up new ones. 
Now that the word had been whispered down from Head Office that the world of 
banking no longer sat on its backside and waited for the corporations to come to 
them, but went out and searched for promising enterprises themselves, they 
expected the managers of their local branches to do the same. He was sure that 
his own activities would soon come to their notice, and, unlike many of his 
counterparts in other branches, he relished the thought of being called to Head 
Office to build his reputation in the very fountainhead of the bank. Today he 
had some extremely important appointments to keep and the thought of Smallwood 
letting him down again filled him with annoyance.
There was a light tap on the door and his secretary poked her head through the 
smallest gap possible and said, "Mr. Smallwood's in, Mr. Symes. I thought you 
might like to know." She smiled smugly.
Symes looked up in surprise. It was usual for his assistant to be away, but very 
unusual for him to be late. "Is he indeed? Well, would you inform him I'd like 
to see him right away, Mrs. Clark."
His secretary's head disappeared from view and, seconds later, the door opened 
again to reveal Smallwood standing there.
"Come in, come in. Don't just stand there," said Symes, irritably. "Why are you 
so late?"
Edward closed the door behind him and walked up to the manager's desk, not 
answering.
"Well, I asked you a question and I expect an answer."
Edward rubbed his forehead with his hand and looked at Symes as though he'd 
never seen him before. "I--I ran into a little trouble, sir."
The little trouble had in fact amounted to being charged
97 with causing a breach of the peace and assaulting an officer of the law, a 
charge he would have to answer to in court the following morning. A kindly 
police sergeant who knew his parents had advised him to return home and rest, 
knowing there was nothing malicious about him, and putting the morning's event 
down as "nervous exhaustion or something like that." But Edward hadn't gone 
home. He had something to do.
Symes studied his assistant's face and sighed resignedly. He supposed he was 
lucky that Smallwood had turned up at all--he certainly looked rather pale.
"All right, you know I've got a busy day on, tell me later. I've got an 
appointment at eleven and want to go down to the vault before I leave." He 
gathered up some papers and put them away in his drawer. "Reverend Peters made 
rather a large deposit today for his Restoration Fund. The man's an idiot--keeps 
his collections at the vicarage until he has a sizable amount, then deposits it. 
Doesn't like to trouble me too often, he says." He walked around his desk to the 
wall safe. "I've told him so many times he'll get robbed one day. Three hundred 
pounds he brought in today!" He dialed the combination and swung the safe door 
open, reaching inside for a brown envelope and the keys to the vault room. "I 
don't want this lying around while I'm out all day, even though it's safe enough 
in here. You can never be too careful, Smallwood. Besides, as I told Mrs. Clark, 
if all goes well, I may not even be back at all today." He had arranged to meet 
his last client of the day on the golf course.
He closed the safe door again and twirled the dial. Walking toward the door of 
his office he glanced back over his shoulder at Edward, who was watching him 
silently.
"Come along, man, I haven't got all day!"
They descended the steps to the basement room that contained the vault. Symes 
unlocked the heavy metal door and they entered the room full of small lockers, 
each containing confidential papers belonging to the bank's clients. The vault 
itself stood at one end, fairly small but large enough for a bank of that size. 
The bank manager hummed as he walked toward it, anticipating the pleasant day he 
had before him. Edward followed.
"Now, Smallwood," said Symes, handing him the brown envelope containing the 
vicar's money, "you've got a busy day ahead of you and I don't want to find any 
work left
98 over till tomorrow. Get Balmer to give you a hand if you need it." He was 
silent as he dialed the combination to the vault, concentrating on the figures, 
enjoying the position of trust he held. The last numeral clicked into place and 
he stood straight, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He swung the heavy metal 
door open and turned to retrieve the envelope from his assistant. He frowned at 
the blank look on Edward's face.
"I want to have a word with you tomorrow, Smallwood. It concerns your future 
with the bank, so please don't be away."
He turned back and placed one foot inside the vault, crouching slightly because 
of its smallness and reaching for a black box marked "St. Andrew's Vicarage, 
Rev. Anthony Stephen Peters."
"Did you hear me, Smallwood?" came his muffled voice. "I don't know what's the 
matter with you today."
Edward stepped forward and pushed at his employer's back violently. Symes fell 
forward, striking his head on the back wall of the vault, his legs buckling 
beneath him. He was just in time to turn over and through the daze in his head 
see the heavy door swing shut, leaving him in a frightening black void.
Edward twisted the dial several times then leaned his aching forehead against 
the cold metal. The air inside the vault would not last long. Certainly for not 
more than a night.
He walked from the room, locking the door behind him, and climbed the stairs to 
the ground floor. When he passed Mrs. Clark's desk, she looked up inquiringly.
"Where's Mr. Symes?" she asked.
"Oh, he's gone for the day," answered Edward. "He went out the back way to his 
car, said he was late."
"But what about his briefcase?"
"Said he didn't need it."
Mrs. Clark clucked in annoyance. "He kept me late yesterday typing those papers. 
He said they were important for today." She banged her keyboard, huffily.
"Mrs. Clark," said Edward.
She looked up at him.
"I'm going home now. I don't feel well." He walked away from her. "I doubt if 
I'll be back."
99 NINE
"It seems we may owe you an apology, Mr. Holman." Wreford looked across his desk 
at Holman, indicating that he should take the seat opposite.
"You mean you've had more news from the school?"
Chief Superintendent Wreford paused before he spoke, a worried frown on his 
face. "Indeed, we have," he said.
Holman let a weary sigh escape from his lips. It was four a.m. and he had spent 
a restless night in a small detention room, furnished only with a chair and a 
hard bed. He'd been woken from his fitful doze by Barrow, who had brought him up 
to Wreford's office without saying a word. Both CID men looked tired for they 
had spent much of the night talking with various police stations around the 
Salisbury area in an effort to find out if any unusual incidents had occurred in 
their areas recently. And if anyone had reported fog.
The report from Andover concerning Redbrook House had spurred them into this 
activity.
"Tell me what's happened," said Holman.
"From a class of thirty-seven, one boy managed to escape without any serious 
injury from the fire. He was in a state of shock--it was assumed that the fire 
was responsible--but
100 
later, he began to say some strange things." Wreford swiveled his chair so he 
faced away from Holman. "At first, the doctors thought he was hysterical, but 
certain peculiarities about the bodies brought out caused them to listen more 
closely to what the boy was saying."
Barrow broke in. "Some of the bodies were naked; although the fire would have 
burned the clothes there would have still been bits of material charred into the 
skin."
Wreford continued, "It looks as though the fire had been deliberately started; a 
can of petrol was found near one of the bodies--the body of a man. The man had 
one arm. They're sure it was the deputy headmaster, a man named Summers."
Holman felt sick; could he have prevented it?
"It also seems that many of the bodies had been mutilated," said Barrow, grimly.
Wreford turned his chair back to Holman. "From what they can gather from the 
boy, it started out as a normal PE lesson. Then the boys turned on their 
sportsmaster and beat him unconscious. Then the other teacher--Summers--came in, 
and they attacked him. The boy gets hysterical at this point and it's not very 
clear what happened next, but apparently the other boys seemed to have gone 
completely
berserk, beating and " he paused, "and mutilating each
other."
"Oh, Jesus. If only I'd got to you sooner."
"You're not to blame, Mr. Holman. It happened fairly early in the day. You 
couldn't have known."
Holman shook his head. "No, but it was in the back of my head. Something 
disturbed me when we were actually in the fog. But what about this boy--is he 
insane?"
"The doctors think not. Hysterical, yes, and who knows what effect this 
experience will have on him? But they're sure he's not mad. And so are we."
"Why? What makes you think so?"
"Something that helps confirm your story about the fog."
Barrow, sitting on the edge of the Chief Superintendent's desk, spoke: "He was 
ill on the day of the outing. The matrons wouldn't let him go because he was 
just getting over a chill. He was in the gym yesterday, but wasn't taking part 
in the exercises because he wasn't considered well enough. He was sitting at the 
back, watching his friends. Luckily, they
101 took no notice of him, but he witnessed the whole bizarre episode! Poor 
little sod."
The room was quiet for a few moments before Holman asked, "What happens now?"
"We've spent most of the night talking to police stations in the area, trying to 
trace the whereabouts of the fog now, inquiring about any unusual events 
occurring recently on their patches." Wreford held up several sheets of paper 
containing scribbled notes. "There are plenty of strange things that have been 
happening, but then there always are. Ourproblem is which of them we can 
attribute to the fog."
"Then you do believe me?"
"Let's say we don't disbelieve you. We needed more evidence "
"More evidence?" Holman exploded, but Wreford held up his hand.
"We think we have that evidence. A hatchet murder a few days ago: a man named 
Abbot chopped up a wealthy landowner, his wife, and his two women staff, then he 
cut his own wrists. He had a slight grievance against the landowner, we 
understand, but hardly enough to account for this butchery. In the same area, a 
farmer was trampled to death by his cattle, and a vicar ran amok in his church. 
A few other incidents, relatively minor, but nevertheless they could all add up 
to the same thing. We've asked for any further reports to be sent directly to 
us, and we're now trying to locate the fog."
"But it could be anywhere."
"We'll soon find it."
"All right, so what's your next move?"
"We compile all the facts, then I contact the Commissioner with a view to 
presenting the evidence to the Home Secretary."
"But in the meantime, half the countryside will have been affected!"
"No, Mr. Holman. I intend to move fast." He leaned toward Holman and said 
sternly, "But I must have the evidence to show."
"You've got it!"
"I have a few scribbled notes and reports on their way to me."
"Then make a verbal report!"
"I intend to. But I have to have a clear case to get to the Home Secretary!"
102 "A clear case? You're waiting for something else to happen, aren't you?"
"Frankly, yes."
Holman was dismayed. His mouth dropped open in disbelief.
"But that doesn't mean I'm not taking any action," Wreford added quickly. "I've 
alerted all our forces in the West Country "
"Telling them what?"
"Telling them to be on the lookout for a dangerous gas and to move in 
immediately they hear of any disturbances, big or small."
"But the people should be warned. They should be cleared from the path of the 
fog!"
"First we have to locate the fog, Mr. Holman. And then we have to make sure it 
is responsible for these outbreaks."
"But you said you believed me!"
"And so I do, but I have no power to do as you ask. And to get any authorization 
at all, I have to convince my superiors of the danger."
"So you're going to wait for more people to die."
"Within the next few hours, the fog or gas--whatever it may be--will begin to 
take effect on the people it has already been in contact with and then we should 
be provided with insurmountable evidence. There would be nothing we could do 
about these particular people now anyway."
"Except lock them up for their own good!"
"Be your age, Mr. Holman. What would we do? Broadcast a message for anyone who 
has been in contact with fog recently to please report to their nearest police 
station? At best, we'd be a laughing stock; at worst, there'd be panic 
throughout the country. And for what purpose? What if the fog has now dispersed? 
What if it is now ineffective? What if we find the fog is not to blame after 
all, that the things that have happened are only unrelated, freak occurrences? 
What then, Mr. Holman? Will you take the responsibility?"
Holman sprang to his feet and thumped the desk with his hand. "We can't sit 
around doing nothing!" he shouted.
"I've told you my course of action," snapped Wreford. "Now please sit down and 
try to be reasonable." He spoke more soothingly. "Think about it, Mr. Holman. We 
only have your evidence about the fog and, let me be frank, you were only 
released from hospital the other day after what 
103 appeared to be a nervous breakdown. Bear with me, let me assemble the facts 
before I put forward a case. As it is, I've stretched my neck out by ordering a 
full alert in the West Country. There'll be all hell to pay when my chiefs hear 
about it in the morning." He glanced at his watch. "I mean later today. I'm just 
asking you to be a little more patient."
"I don't have much choice, do I?" said Holman, leaning his elbows on his knees 
and clenching his hands together. "Very well. But now I want to see Casey. I 
want to go to the hospital."
Wreford smiled kindly. "Of course, but I'd rather you stayed here."
"Like hell!" Holman sat up again.
"I need you here. Let me get Detective Inspector Barrowto ring the hospital and 
see how she is. They wouldn't let you see her at this time of the morning 
anyway." Wreford nodded to the young detective, who disappeared from the room.
"I'm sure you understand our position," Wreford continued smoothly.
"I'm sure I don't," answered Holman.
Barrow returned a few moments later, a look of concern on his face. He ignored 
Holman and walked around the Chief Superintendent's desk to whisper in his ear.
"Oh, for God's sake!" stormed Holman.
"It's all right, Mr. Holman," said Wreford quickly, not wanting the man's temper 
to boil over again. "Barrow has rung the hospital and they informed him Miss 
Simmons was discharged a few hours ago in the care of her father."
Holman stared blankly at him.
Wreford looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. Apparently, there was nothing they could 
do. The girl seemed perfectly all right, if a little dazed, and her father 
insisted he take her home despite their protests. They would have liked to keep 
her in under observation for a short while, but unfortunately they couldn't 
prevent her from leaving."
The blue-green Rover sped through the quiet streets toward Highgate, its three 
occupants grim and silent. Holman stared blankly out of a window, his tired mind 
in a frenzy of concern for Casey, an empty, sick feeling in the pit of his 
stomach. Was she all right? Had the effects of the gas worn off? She really 
hadn't had too much exposure to it.
104 Barrow sat beside him in the darkness, his feelings a mixture of disbelief 
and curiosity. It certainly was an unusual case and he still did not know if he 
was sitting next to a lunatic or a crusader. The man was certainly hot- 
tempered, but not exactly raving. And his incredible story certainly had some 
cold logic to it. You had to take a step back because you found yourself 
accepting it, and then, when looking at the whole affair objectively, that was 
when you realized how ridiculous it was. He was glad it was Wreford who would be 
taking responsibility and he would only be carrying out orders. Too soft, was 
Wreford, always had been. Shrewd, though, no question of that. But he'd made a 
big mistake this time, trusting this prick! He'd stuck his neck out all right, 
but not as much as he'd led Holman to believe. Wreford had alerted the local 
police forces, certainly, but only to be on the lookout for any adverse weather 
conditions, particularly fog, and to report such to him direct. He'd persuaded a 
friend in the huge central control room where information from all over the 
country was relayed to keep him informed throughout the night if any reports of 
an unusual nature came in from Somerset, Wiltshire, Dorset, or Hampshire. 
Unofficially, of course. He'd have to explain his request for weather reports, 
and he'd better have a good reason ready, but that was as far as he'd risked his 
reputation. And if--just if--Holman's incredible theory was correct, Wreford was 
covered; he'd acted, with discretion, on the information he'd received.
Barrow glanced at his watch. Ten past five. Jesus, he was tired! A couple of 
hours kip in one of the detention rooms hadn't done him much good, and all for 
what? For the benefit of this creep. Still, it had been uncanny about the 
school. Maybe . . . ? No, now he was falling for it! Holman's voice instructing 
the driver interrupted his thoughts.
"Straight to the top of Highgate Hill and turn left through the village. Then 
it's a side-road off to the left. I'll tell you where."
The police car began its ascent up the long hill, the gradual dawn light giving 
the streets a lonely and chilly atmosphere. They reached the village and turned 
left toward Hampstead, Holman peering through the window, anxiously looking for 
the road Casey and her father lived in. He spotted it and told the driver to 
turn off, the tension in
105 side him beginning to mount. Would she be all right? Had he effects of the 
fog worn off? He would soon find out.
He tapped the driver's shoulder when he saw the house. "That's it," he pointed.
It was a large house, set close to the road, the small front garden only 
nominal, but compensated for by the huge landscaped garden to the rear. Casey's 
father was a wealthy Man, deputy-chairman of one of Britain's biggest Unit Trust 
Finance Houses and with interests in many other commercial enterprises, not the 
least of which was property development. On the few occasions they'd met, they 
had taken a dislike to one another, because they both knew they were vying for 
the same person--Casey. Holman had been surprised at the intensity of Simmons' 
hostility; he understood his possessiveness after losing his wife but the 
affection he displayed toward Casey made Holman feel uncomfortable. It seemed a 
little too intimate for a father- daughter relationship. When he later 
questioned her about it, Casey had been genuinely amazed that he should think 
there was anything odd about her father's attitude. Amazed, then angry at his 
implication. Holman had backed off, realizing his own jealousy could be coloring 
his view of the situation. But Simmons had made it quite obvious that Holman's 
interest in his daughter was not at all welcome and on one occasion had gone to 
great lengths to tell him so while Casey was out of the room. Holman's icy 
response had done nothing to soothe the situation between the two men and, as a 
consequence, he'd never been back to the house again while her father was there.
Now as he stared up at the dark windows of the house, he cursed the older man's 
stupidity in insisting Casey be released from the hospital so soon. If she had 
harmed herself -- He pushed the unwelcome thoughts from his mind.
"Looks like they're all in bed, doesn't it?" remarked Barrow caustically. Holman 
ignored him and got out of the car. "You wait here, Tom," he heard Barrow behind 
him tell the driver. Holman walked toward the front gate to thehouse, then 
stopped to let the Detective Inspector catch up.
"Do you really want to wake them up?" Barrow asked.
"Yes," answered Holman, and walked toward the impressive white front door. His 
sense of foreboding increased when he discovered it was open. He pushed at it 
with a trembling hand.
106 TEN
At that precise moment, just over a hundred miles away, Mavis Evers stood 
barefoot on Bournemouth beach and contemplated suicide. She had driven through 
the night from London, fighting the tears that welled up, obscuring her vision, 
threatening to send her red Mini crashing off the road. She did not want to die 
in the wreckage of a car so that her friends and her parents would never know 
whether it had been deliberate or accidental. She wanted them to know she had 
taken her own life; her death, unlike her life, had to have some meaning. Even 
if it was only Ronnie who fully understood that reason.
Ronnie had destroyed her. Ronnie had made her fall in love. Ronnie had made her 
lose her innocence.
Twice she had to pull over to the side of the road and stop, unable to stem the 
flood of tears that had abruptly burst forth. Once she had to stop as fog 
drifted into her path, and she had wept as she waited for it to pass.
Why had her lover done this to her? After living together for two years, sharing 
each other's lives joyfully, excluding anyone else from their intimate 
happiness. Laughing at the world. Until Ronnie had suddenly, and irrevocably, 
drifted
107 away. It had taken a mere two weeks, the first signs when Ronnie had 
sorrowfully but firmly rejected her caresses, then the arguments, the questions, 
the pleading, and finally, the terrible revelation. Ronnie had fallen in love 
with someone else. A man. She had fallen in love with a man.
The irony was that it had been Ronnie who had seduced Mavis. Seduced her and 
introduced her to a kind of love she'd never known. A private kind of love--the 
kind that can only be shared by two women. A love not acceptable to most, but 
more binding to those it touched because of its illicitness.
Mavis had known Ronnie years before when they were both children living in 
Basingstoke. Their parents had been friends and they would often all go off 
together at weekends to the coast. The times they spent at Bournemouth were the 
times Mavis treasured most for it was there, in a boarding house, where the two 
young girls had to share a bed, that Ronnie first introduced her to the delights 
of her own body. She was eleven, Ronnie was twelve. Their parents had gone out 
for the evening, promising the girls crisps and lemonade if they were good, 
hoping, in fact, that they'd both be sound asleep when they returned. As the 
girls lay there, talking over the events of the day, who they both liked, who 
they mutually disliked, Ronnie had suddenly asked Mavis if she had ever touched 
herself. Perplexed, she had asked where?
Shyly, Ronnie had put her fingers between Mavis' legs, then quickly drew them 
away. Mavis had been surprised and excited by the strange tingle that had run 
through her, and touched herself in the same place again, giggling at first and 
enjoying the sensation. Ronnie had asked if she could feel her there again and 
she'd agreed, a flush now spreading through her body, but on the condition that 
she could also touch Ronnie. They'd spent the following two hours in 
exciting,girlishly innocent, mutual masturbation.
It only happened on two other occasions after that, neither girl placing any 
significance on the act, both enjoying it for what it was--a happy diversion. 
They'd seen little of one another in the subsequent years, Ronnie's parents 
having moved to London, visiting each other perhaps three or four times a year, 
neither mentioning their earlier intimacies, Mavis, at least, realizing it was 
just a stage in development they'd gone through together. Eventually, Ronnie had 
moved away from her parents, finding a flat for herself farther
108 into town, nearer to her job, nearer to her social life. They had 
corresponded for a while, but even this dwindled to cards on birthdays and at 
Christmas. And then, not long after her twenty-first birthday, bored by her job, 
bored by her parents, and bored by her lack of boyfriends, Mavis decided London 
might be the place for her, too. She contacted Ronnie to see if she knew of any 
reasonably priced flats available, and her friend wrote back suggesting she stay 
with her until she found something. So, slightly nervous of the sprawling city, 
Mavis moved in with Ronnie. She was slightly in awe of her friend of long ago 
when they met at Euston Station, for Ronnie had developed into a beautiful, 
sophisticated young woman--on the surface, at any rate. Mavis was soon to learn 
that she assumed this pose for people she didn't know very well, and this, for a 
brief time, included Mavis.
Mavis was amazed by Ronnie's wide circle of friends, several of whom were 
actually colored, and tried desperately to fall in with their cynical and blase 
attitudes toward their lives, but after a few weeks, she realized she would 
never fit naturally into their set. She found their values phony, their ideals 
superficial.
She disliked being an imposition on her friend whom she found, underneath the 
gloss, was the same understanding, slightly lonely girl she'd once known, so she 
searched for a suitable flat of her own. Disappointed by the depressingly poor 
accommodation she had been offered, she finally broke down one night after she 
had returned from another fruitless expedition into gloomy bed-sitter land. The 
flats she had liked were way above her price range; the ones she could afford 
were too run-down and seedy for words. She had got soaked to the skin in the 
steady London drizzle and at the first kind words of sympathy from her friend, 
her emotions had bubbled to the surface.
Ronnie had perched on the arm of the settee that Mavis was sitting on and put 
her arm around her distraught friend's shoulders, telling her not to worry, that 
they would work something out later. She told her to get out of her wet clothes 
and to take a quick hot bath, then to hop into bed and she would bring her a 
good stiff drink. After weeping a little while longer, with Ronnie gently 
stroking her damp hair, she pulled herself together, smiled her thanks through 
her tears, and went into the tiny room.that was used as a
109 
dressing room and spare bedroom. She changed into her dressing gown as Ronnie 
ran the bath for her. She soaked for ten minutes, allowing the hot water to warm 
her body and soothe her distraught nerves. She scrubbed herself and washed her 
hair, then briskly dried off in one of Ronnie's luxuriously soft towels. Her 
friend had done well for herself since she'd moved up to London, working as a 
secretary to the chairman of an American tobacco company, later becoming his 
personal assistant. The rent for the flat must havebeen quite high if the prices 
of the humble flats Mavis had come across were anything to go by. And her 
clothes were expensive and plentiful, the extent and range of her wardrobe 
stunning Mavis into open-mouthed admiration. But she was still basically the 
same sweet friend Mavis had known all those years ago.
She went to her room and heard Ronnie's voice from the kitchen. "You get into 
bed and I'll bring you in some hot chocolate and that stiff drink I promised 
you!"
"Thank you," Mavis called back, taking the towel from her wet hair, rubbing her 
head with it vigorously. She brushed out the knots until it was long and 
straight, clinging closely to her neck and shoulders. Unwrapping her dressing 
gown from her body, she caught sight of herself in the full- length mirror, her 
pink flesh looking round and pure in the soft glow of the reading lamp. She 
studied herself for a few seconds, content that her figure, although not 
stunning, was firm yet supple, curvy, but certainly not fat. She ran her hands 
along her sides and inward, over her hips and across her soft midriff, then up 
toward her breasts. As they traveled over the gentle swells, she became aware of 
Ronnie watching her from the doorway.
She quickly dropped her hands and flushed when she realized her nipples had 
stiffened to tiny pink points.
"Your body is lovely," said Ronnie quietly.
Mavis was embarrassed. "Oh, I'm no Venus, but I suppose it's okay."
"It's beautiful." Ronnie moved into the room and set the tray with hot chocolate 
and two brandies on the small dresser by the side of the bed. She pulled back 
the blankets and patted the pillow. "Come on, jump in before you catch cold," 
she said, holding the blankets open and moving aside to allow Mavis past.
As Mavis slid between the sheets, Ronnie sat on the edge
110 of the bed, only partially covering her friend's body, leaving her breasts 
and most of her tummy bare. Mavis felt herself reddening even more as Ronnie 
unashamedly studied her, a faint smile on her lips.
"Remember when we were kids?" Ronnie asked.
Mavis remembered, only now the memory seemed to take on a special meaning. She 
nodded her head.
"Your body was nice even then," Ronnie went on, her gaze lingering on the two 
tiny rosebuds of flesh that were now even more pronounced. Strangely, Mavis no 
longer felt embarrassed by her look, but began to take pleasure from it, feeling 
the same rising excitement she'd felt as a child. Her heart was thumping, her 
nerves trembling. She neither thought of what might happen next, nor denied the 
thought; her mind was peculiarly alive, yet numb.
Ronnie raised her hand to Mavis's cheek. "I've missed having a friend," she 
said, her fingertips barely touching the skin, but delicately sensual because of 
it.
"But I thought you had lots of friends here." Mavis's voice was small and 
hesitant.
Ronnie's eyes flickered with sadness for an instant, but the look was barely 
perceptible. "Yes, I've lots of friends. But not a real friend--as you were."
Mavis looked down. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Ronnie smiled. "You're here now."
Her hand lightly traveled down and rested on Mavis's neck. The grip tightened 
slightly, then relaxed again.
Mavis found her breath quickening, her small breasts beginning to rise and fall. 
She raised her own hand to the hand resting at her neck and squeezed the fingers 
gently, leaving it there.
Ronnie's eyes glistened with what could have been tears and she drew in her 
breath sharply. Then her hand began to travel down again, tracing the fine skin 
with feather-like fingers until it found the soft mound she was looking for. 
Mavis shivered as the palm closed over her breast, and her nipple was trapped 
between two fingers. Ronnie leaned forward and touched the pink tip with her 
lips, kissing it gently, then moistening it with her tongue.
A glow was enveloping Mavis, starting at her breasts and spreading down to her 
stomach, then down, down till it was between her thighs. Even the extremities of 
her limbs were tingling pleasurably, a subdued kind of electricity running
111 through her entire body. She shut her mind from any thoughts of what it all 
meant It didn't matter; its meaning wasn't important.
Ronnie had now put her arm around Mavis's back and pulled herself toward her, 
her lips brushing the naked girl's neck, kissing and biting very, very gently. 
Mavis slid further down in the bed, allowing both of them to lie side by side. 
As yet, she had not touched Ronnie, a little afraid to do so, a tiny part of her 
subconscious telling her this would be the final irrevocable relinquishment.
Ronnie's lips finally found hers and they kissed, still softly, all their 
movements soft, as though passion would make it ugly. Ronnie thrust her tongue 
between Mavis's lips and was answered by a hesitant counterthrust. Her hand 
found Mavis' breast again and, this time, its touch was more urgent, gliding 
from one to the other, not wanting to neglect either. Mavis began to moan 
slightly as Ronnie's hand began its slow descent down her body toward the place 
that was so ready--and yearning to receive it. It reached the flat tummy and 
Ronnie spread it for a moment, feeling Mavis's muscles quiver. Then she 
continued her unhurried but anxious journey until she reached the little curls 
of hair, the matted triangle that hid the path to the center, and her fingertips 
worked their gentle way through it.
Mavis was disappointed when, instead of descending between her thighs, the hand 
passed on and stroked the fleshy tops of her legs. She realized it had been an 
exquisite tease when the fingers began their ascent, this time along the 
beautifully sensitive inner sides of the thighs. She opened her legs slightly, 
so that the journey would not be hindered--and then Ronnie was there.
Mavis moaned aloud as Ronnie's fingers crept into her vagina and spread her 
moistness upward. She clutched at Ronnie fiercely, finally giving in fully to 
the passion that had been aroused in her, eager to be touched, to be 
fondled--even to be hurt. Her fingers pulled at Ronnie's blouse until she found 
the breasts that Ronnie had so patiently waited to have touched, now wanting her 
friend's body as much as she had wanted Ronnie to have her own.
Mavis found her hand moving down until it was between her friend's legs. Her 
lover's legs! The thought increased her desire so that it was almost unbearable, 
and soon their cries of joy merged into one long shuddering moan.
112 They lay naked in the bed and talked into the early hours, each reluctant to 
sleep, both eager to explore the other's thoughts and body. They made love many 
more times that night, in many different ways, but now each way was gentle and 
had little to do with lust. They discussed the possibility that they were 
lesbians, yet neither could feel any guilt or shame. Ronnie admitted sadly that 
she had had affairs with women before, but none had touched her emotions as this 
had, none had been anything other than a means to satisfy passion.
Mavis confessed that she had only once been made love to by a man and although 
she had enjoyed the experience, it had meant nothing emotionally. Both were 
touched by the other's disclosures; and both realized they had found something 
unique.
For two years Ronnie and Mavis had been happy sharing a life, not living as man 
and wife, but just as lovers; neither had any inclination to adopt a masculine 
role, it wasn't that kind of relationship. Their lovemaking excluded any 
artificial contrivances; they attained satisfaction only from the other's body, 
both retaining their femininity, both regarding their intimacy as pure.
But then, only two weeks ago, a change had come over Ronnie. It was rapid and 
alarming. She had rejected Mavis's caresses, falling into long brooding 
silences, unable to disclose the reason for her sullen moods. Several nights she 
stayed out, refusing to tell Mavis where she had been, until last night, after 
being away for three consecutive days, she had come back to the flat and 
brokenly told her friend that she no longer loved her, that she had met someone 
who had swept away hidden fears, made her see that the physical love she had 
always dreaded was a wonderful and deeply moving act. She had fallen in love 
with a man, and had allowed that man to make love to her.
Ronnie had wept bitterly as she explained that she hadn't Wanted it to happen, 
but Philip had been so kind, so gentle, that her inhibitions about men had 
melted and, it seemed, her body cleansed. These last words hurt Mavis terribly. 
Cleansed! Had their love been dirty? Had their sleeping together, holding one 
another--had it all been revolting? She screamed at Ronnie, implored her not to 
leave, begged her on her knees. But she had been pushed away, violently, and it 
was the violence of it that stunned her most, penetrated
113 the part of her that refused to accept her lover's rejection. Ronnie had 
never used physical force against her before; she had thrown her from her as 
though this physical action represented the breaking of their ties. Mavis had 
crawled toward her again, weeping in her own shame, and tried to put her arms 
around her, tried to bury her head in Ronnie's breasts. Ronnie had allowed her 
to do so for a moment, but when Mavis's hand reached further in a desperate 
effort to bring back their previous closeness, she had jumped up, knocking Mavis 
to the floor, screaming that she must never touch her again.
That was when Mavis knew she had lost. Her sorrow turned to rage when she 
thought of how she had been cheated. It was Ronnie who had led her into this way 
of life, seduced her! How could she now cast her aside as though it had meant 
nothing, a phase she had gone through? She had found a "normal" love and left 
Mavis unwilling now for any other kind of love. What would she become? A lonely, 
embittered lesbian? She cried out in self-pity.
Ronnie had walked to the door and opened it. Before she left, she had said, "I'm 
sorry, Mavis, I'm so sorry. But I have to go, Philip is waiting for me 
downstairs in his car. He doesn't know about us, and I never want him to. 
Perhaps someday, when I'm sure of him, I'll tell him. Believe me, Mavis, I 
didn't want this to happen--I didn't know it ever could--but it's the right 
thing. I think we were wrong. Forgive me, darling, I hope someday you'll find 
what I have."
When Ronnie had left, Mavis remained in a heap on the floor, weeping bitter 
tears, shocked by her lover's cruelty, appalled at the fate she saw for herself. 
She finally recognized their affair for what it was--two women living together 
in an abnormal relationship. She had never accepted the fact that she was 
homosexual, but somehow, Ronnie's leaving took away all the sensitivity of their 
mutual inclinations and revealed Mavis in her true light. A lesbian!
It was a fact she now felt unable to live with. The guilt that had lain hidden 
deep in her mind came to the surface and for the first time she felt remorse. 
But still she cried for Ronnie, wanted her there in her arms, to be comforted by 
her, to be possessed by her, and her shame increased because of it. She rose 
from the floor, her face puffed and blotchy, and curled up on the sofa, her 
knees drawn up to her chin. She thought back over the two years, the 
114 intimacies they'd shared, the plans they'd made. She went back to when they 
were younger,- friends who giggled over their innocent secret. She thought of 
the first time, in Bournemouth, where, she now realized, their union had been 
unknowingly sealed. Why had everything changed? What was it that caused people 
to destroy each other?
Then she had decided what she would do. Fighting back her tears, she went down 
to the little red Mini they had bought, never thinking there would come a day 
when their possessions would have to be divided as would a divorced couple's.
She drove through the night to Bournemouth, stopping occasionally when she could 
no longer stem her tears, her only consolation now in what she was going to do. 
And once, she was forced to stop because of heavy fog.
And now Mavis stood barefooted on the beach, looking at the moody gray sea in 
the dawn light. She had stopped crying, her emotions not drained but held in 
check, because there was no point in tears if she were going to die. She still 
saw the image of Ronnie before her: her sad-smiling face, her soft brown eyes 
that reflected sorrow even when they were laughing.
Mavis walked toward the sea, leaving her shoes on the beach behind. The water 
chilled her with its icy coldness, but the chill in her spirit was greater. She 
waded in further, the water rising to her knees, the tide pushing against her as 
though urging her to go back. It reached her thighs, causing her thin skirt to 
cling to them, then touched the part of her body that Ronnie had adored and 
kissed so often. She sank deeper and now the sea seemed to be drawing her in 
instead of pushing her back, welcoming her into its enveloping, icy depths. She 
found it difficult to breath because of the combination of cold and the pressure 
of the water now around her chest. And the fear she had begun to feel. She. 
stopped, straining to keep her balance against the now unfriendly water.
Death. Death was so absolute. And would there be pain before her body succumbed 
to the final blackness? Would her body resist the pull of death in those last 
seconds, panicking to regain the breath of life she'd deliberately let escape? 
Would her body betray her and fight to preserve its fleeing spirit, causing 
lingering agony instead of swift and final oblivion? And the pain, the mental 
anguish she would
115 cause Ronnie, making her responsible for her death. Did she want to destroy 
Ronnie as well as herself? She still loved Ronnie, she didn't want to hurt her 
as she had been hurt. Perhaps there was still a chance; perhaps Ronnie would 
find she wasn't meant for heterosexual love. Perhaps, after a few weeks, she 
would return to Mavis, disillusioned with his maleness, yearning for the 
understanding and physical comfort only her friend could give her. There had to 
be a change! And Mavis would be waiting, ready to forgive her, eager to hold her 
close while Ronnie pleaded with her to take her back. And their love would be 
stronger than ever, because both of them would know they were irrevocably tied.
The black sea around her was so frightening!
She struggled to turn around in it, desperate to reach the shore, no longer 
wanting to die. She nearly lost her balance, and cried out in terror. She was 
not a good swimmer and if her feet were swept from beneath her she would find it 
difficult to make her way back to the beach. It would be so pointless to die 
now, now that she knew that she had not necessarily lost her lover, that their 
bond could bring them together again.
She staggered back, careful not to lose her footing, feeling as though she were 
in a nightmare where her legs had become lead and would not allow her to run 
from death behind.
She gradually reached a point where the lapping water was only waist deep and 
stopped for a moment to regain her breath, relieved that she was safe, her mind 
taking on a curious lightness now that the burden of death had been lifted.
As her chest heaved with the effort, her eyes widened uncomprehendingly.
There were hundreds--could it be thousands--of people climbing down the steps to 
the beach and walking toward her, toward the sea!
Was she dreaming? Had her mind become unbalanced because of the distress she had 
been through? The people of the town were marching in a solid wall out to the 
sea, making no sound, staring toward the horizon as though something was 
beckoning to them. Their faces were white, trancelike, barely human. And there 
were children among them; some walked along on their own, seeming to belong
116 to no one; those that couldn't walk were being carried. Most of the people 
were in their nightclothes, some were naked, having risen from their beds as 
though answering a call that Mavis neither heard nor saw. She looked behind her, 
out toward the brightening horizon, but saw only the black, threatening sea.
They were advancing on her now, and she realized there were thousands of them, 
pouring from houses, hotels, side streets, in a huge moving mass, their 
footsteps the only sound they made, and it was muffled for the majority were 
barefooted.
Mavis saw an old woman in the front line stumble and fall and she gasped in 
horror as the crowd passed over her, trampling her into the sand. Their pace did 
not slow as they entered the sea and they advanced in a solid human wall. She 
looked to the right and then to the left and saw the wall extended for as far as 
she could see. The scene, its significance, was too enormous for her to 
understand. She thought only of getting away from the path of that crushing 
multitude.
She backed away, but the sea behind was just as threatening. She began to scream 
at the people as they drew nearer, like a child who is to be punished screaming 
at an advancing parent. but still they came on, oblivious to her cries, 
unseeing. She realized her danger and ran toward them in a vain attempt to break 
through, but they forced her back, heedless of her pleas as she strained and 
beat against them. She managed to push a short path through them, but the great 
numbers before her were inconquerable, pushing her back, back into the waiting 
sea.
Mavis fell and struggled desperately to regain her feet. In doing so, she 
knocked down a small boy and immediately went down again to pull him to his 
feet. He stared ahead, not seeing her, not even knowing he had just fallen.
She was knocked again, and this time went under, losing her grip on the boy, her 
lungs filling with water. She emerged fighting for breath, blinded by the salt 
water, screaming and kicking out in panic. What was happening? Had she killed 
herself and was this the hell all suicides entered? She fell to her knees again, 
and this time, as she attempted to rise, other bodies fell on top of her. She 
squirmed around beneath the water, becoming tangled in other arms and legs. Air 
escaped from her lungs as she
117 tried to scream and then she felt a tiredness beginning to overcome her. Her 
struggles became weaker and she finally lay there in the blackness, bodies 
stumbling over her, some falling on top of her, pinning her to the soft sea 
floor. Her eyes were open as the last bubble of air escaped from her lips. The 
terror had gone. There was no pain. There was no recollection of her life, no 
memories to taunt her in her dying. Just a misty blankness. No thoughts of God. 
No questions why. Just a descending white veil. Not a veil of peace, nor one of 
horror. Not even one of emptiness. Nothingness. Free of emotion and free of 
coldness. She was dead.
The inhabitants and the holidaymakers of Bournemouth came from their homes, 
hotels, and guest houses in the thousands and made for the sea, filling the 
streets, pouring onto the beach. The fog that had ruined their day yesterday was 
killing them that morning. They walked into the sea to drown like lemmings, the 
people behind them climbing over the dead bodies that were heaping up on the sea 
bed. People who, for various reasons, could not walk, killed themselves in other 
ways. Hundreds could not reach the sea because it was too full of others who had 
already drowned, and these were later pulled back screaming from the beach by 
people who rushed to the seaside resort in a vain attempt to minimize the 
destruction.
The fog rejected the sea either because of its coldness or because the winds 
were too strong for it It moved inland again, as though it were a living thing, 
leaving behind its evil, never settling in one place, always moving, as though 
searching for something.
118 
Holman entered the dark house, trying to make as little noise as possible.
"It would be a better idea to ring the bell and wake them up, wouldn't it?" came 
Barrow's voice from behind.
"No," Holman whispered.
"Why the hell not?"
"I don't know. I just don't think it's a good idea."
"All right. But this is breaking and entering, you know that, don't you?"
"You can wait outside if you want," Holman whispered back fiercely.
"Oh, no, mate, I'm going to hang on to you."
"Then keep quiet and follow me."
"I'll keep quiet for now, but later "
Holman turned away, ignoring the CID man, angered by his arrogance. He moved 
toward the living room and quietly pushed the door open. It was empty. He closed 
the door again and made his way down the hall, toward the room he knew to be 
Simmons' study. He thought he heard a muffled sound as he turned the handle, but 
Barrow's urgent whisper distracted him.
119 "There's a light on upstairs." Barrow had already begun to climb the stairs 
and Holman hurried after him. He took the steps two at a time in an effort to 
catch up with the swift- moving policeman.
"It's her father's bedroom," he told Barrow as he reached him.
"We're going to look pretty silly when we find him getting dressed for work," 
the Detective Inspector sneered.
"Better we look silly than end up with a knife in our throats."
"My God, and she's your girlfriend."
"I told you, she's not responsible. For the moment, she's out of her mind."
"Huh!" Barrow snorted. "Someone is."
Holman frowned at him. "You still don't believe me."
"Listen, mate. I'm under orders from Wreford to play along with you. It doesn't 
mean I have to believe you!"
"Barrow, you're a bundle of charm." Holman grinned without humor. "But you've 
got your orders--so play along with me."
He turned away from the fuming policeman and mounted the rest of the stairs, 
pausing at the top to listen for any sound. Barrow joined him and they moved 
stealthily toward the thin bar of light coming from beneath the bedroom door.
Holman slowly turned the handle, involuntarily holding his breath, and gently 
pushed the door open.
The light came from a small bedside lamp, so its brightness did not hurt their 
eyes. A figure lay in the bed. All they could see was the head, the eyes looked 
up toward the ceiling; the face was gray and sunken, the pallor of death about 
it.
"Simmons!" Holman hurried over to the bed and stopped before the prone figure, 
his worst fears realized. The shocked eyes slowly turned toward him, and the 
pale lips moved as though to speak. Barrow pushed past him and leaned toward the 
older man.
"What's happened, sir? Where are you hurt?"
For a moment the eyes looked at the policeman, then swiveled back toward Holman.
"Y-you did this to her," he said in a weak voice. "You m-made her do this."
120 Holman was too stunned to say anything. Was he now to be blamed for this? He 
knelt beside the older man.
"Where's Casey--Christine?" he asked.
"Why, why did she do this?" Simmons' eyes looked down as though indicating at 
something near his stomach.
Barrow yanked back the bedclothes and both men gasped. The end of a pair of 
scissors protruded from Simmons' stomach, and his pajamas and the bed sheets 
were stained with blood.
"Jesus, Jesus!" breathed Barrow. He turned toward Holman. "I'm going to get 
Jennings to radio for an ambulance. There's still a chance we can save him if 
we're quick. Prop his head up with a pillow so he doesn't choke on his own 
blood. And don't touch those scissors. Don't try and pull them out!" He 
disappeared through the door and Holman heard him leaping down the stairs, 
recklessly taking two or three at a time.
Holman pulled a blood-soaked sheet over the wound, feeling sick, not at the 
sight of the injury, but at the thought that it had been Casey who had 
perpetrated it. He bent his head toward her father as he tried to speak, his 
words only a whisper, barely audible.
"W-why did she do it? I loved her, she knew that."
"She wasn't responsible," Holman told him, speaking in a soft voice, as though 
words could cause the man further injury. "She came in contact with a--a 
poisonous gas that affected her mind." Simmons' eyes looked puzzled for a 
moment, his brain not understanding the words but then accepting them almost 
with relief. She had tried to kill him because she was ill--it hadn't been an 
act of hate; that was enough for his weakened senses for the moment. He began to 
speak again. "I brought her home from the hospital. They told me what you'd done 
to her." His face became almost fierce, but the effort was too much and its 
lines fell back into an expression of pain.
"No, I didn't do anything to her," Holman assured him. "It was the gas; it made 
her unwell."
"I--I brought her home. She seemed dazed. She kept putting her hands to her head 
as though she were in pain. They didn't want to let her go, but I knew she'd be 
better off with me. I put her to bed and sat there talking to her. She didn't 
seem to hear me. I told her things I've never spoken to her about before, but 
she didn't seem to hear me."
121 He began to choke and Holman became worried that blood was rising in his 
throat. He slid his hand beneath the older man's head in an effort to stop the 
blood reaching his mouth, not really knowing if it would prevent asphyxiation.
Simmons managed to stop coughing and lay there breathing heavily. "I loved her," 
he went on, "perhaps too much."
Holman said nothing.
"And, and I told her something I'd never told her before tonight."
"Don't talk anymore. Try to save your strength." Holman was hardly listening to 
him for he'd noticed fresh blood seeping through the sheets.
"No, I must tell you, Holman. You've a right to know--you love her too." His 
hands tried to reach the scissors beneath the sheet, but fell back limply to his 
sides. "I--I'm not aer father, Holman. Her bitch of a mother told me who her 
real father was just before we were divorced. But it made no difference to me, I 
loved the child too much. I fought toothand-nail for custody, and her mother 
could never claim in court Christine wasn't mine because she would be admitting 
her own infidelity. And she was too shrewd and greedy for bat." Holman could 
almost detect an embittered smile on the pain-wracked face.
That could explain certain things about the man's attitude toward Casey. He 
looked on her as his daughter, but because he knew she wasn't, another element 
had crept into their relationship. An element that Casey hadn't been aware of 
and Holman had only suspected. But it was still sickening,' even though there 
were no real blood ties. Even in his injured state, Holman felt a loathing 
toward the man.
"I told her tonight--that's why she did this to me," Simmons murmured, more to 
himself than Holman.
"No, it wasn't because of that. I told you, it was the gas."
"It was too much for her I suppose in her shocked state." He was too deep in his 
own remorse to listen to the younger man. "I woke up, I don't know how long 
ago--a couple of hours, I suppose--and there she was, standing over me. I'd left 
on the lamp in case she needed me during the night, so I could see her plainly; 
she was just looking down at me, expressionless, her hands behind her back." A 
tear trickled from the corner of his eye. "I--I put out my arms for her to come 
to me." His eyes that had been staring at the ceiling now looked guiltily at 
Holman. "I misunderstood."
122 Holman frowned. Misunderstood?
"She came toward me, then," he began to tremble uncontrollably, "then she pulled 
back the bedclothes and I saw the scissors slashing down . . ." His voice broke 
as he relived the experience.
The younger man's thoughts were not clear. Simmons seemed to be blaming himself. 
He'd said he'd misunderstood; had he thought? Oh, no, not that. Surely he 
couldn't have thought Casey had come to him for that kind of love? How stupid, 
how blind could he be? Poor Casey, to go through that ... A cry from downstairs 
interrupted his thoughts. It had sounded like a man's cry, probably Barrow's.
He left the dying man and rushed to the top of the stairs. The sounds seemed to 
be coming from the study below, sounds of crashing furniture and shouts of. 
alarm. He flew down the stairs and pushed open the study door. And then he 
stopped.
Barrow was on his hands and knees on the floor, blood oozing from a wound in his 
scalp. Casey stood above him, a wicked-looking shard of glass in her hand. The 
remnants of the large antique mirror lay shattered around her feet. She raised 
her arm, ready to plunge the pointed glass down into the back of Barrow's neck.
"Casey!" Holman cried.
She turned to look at him for an instant, a flicker of recognition showing on 
her face. Then she smiled and walked toward him. He stopped, still wary, and 
reached out a hand to her. "Casey," he said softly.
With a snarl that changed her smiling face into a grimace of pure hatred she 
threw herself at him, the weapon slashing for his face.
He ducked under her arm and slammed his elbow into her back knocking her into 
the wall. He knew from their previous struggle he would have to use force to 
subdue her. She sprang away from the wall, her clenched fist bleeding from the 
glass she held, and leaped at him again, the tip of the shard catching his cheek 
and drawing a thin line of blood. Catching her wrist, Holman smacked her face 
viciously, sending her to her knees, but still holding on to her. He increased 
the pressure on her wrist causing her to cry outin pain and to drop the glass. 
Swiftly pulling her to her feet again, he turned her back to him and pinned her 
arms
123 behind her. She screamed and fought like the mad woman she was, but this 
time he showed no mercy and used all his strength to hold her there, bruising 
her arms with his tight
grip-
Barrow had staggered to the door now and was watching them in amazement.
"Christ," he gasped. "And to think I didn't believe you."
"Don't just stand there, you bloody fool!" Holman shouted at him. "Get something 
to tie her up with!"
Barrow disappeared from the doorway and returned a moment later with a length of 
curtain rope. The driver of the police car came through the front door as they 
were tying the girl's hands.
"Ambulance is on its way, sir," he said to Barrow, not raising an eyebrow at the 
scene before him.
"Right. There's an injured man upstairs. Go and stay with him--I think he's had 
it." The young detective rubbed the back of his neck. "Bloody cow," he groaned. 
"I was just coming back into the house when I saw the study door closing. I 
reckon she was just leaving the house when we drew up and she ducked into the 
study as we came in. She was probably trying to creep out again as I came back."
"What happened?" asked Holman, leading the girl into the vast living room where 
he sat her down on a long leather settee. She seemed docile now.
Barrow followed them. "I ran into the study and then she hit me. She must have 
been standing behind the door with that bloody mirror in her hands, waiting for 
me. She knocked me silly, anyway. All I can remember is crawling around the 
floor trying to get away from her. Bitch!"
"Watch your mouth, Barrow," said Holman, angrily. He'd had enough of the 
policeman for one day and was prepared to take a swing at him himself if the man 
continued in his aggressiveness. He knelt before Casey, taking her pale face in 
his hands. She stared past him, over his shoulder, her eyes wide and unseeing.
"Casey, darling, can you hear me?" he asked tenderly. "Can you understand me?"
Her eyes looked at him coldly. "Bastard," she said.
It was as though she had hit him. The word was said with such icy vehemence it 
shocked and hurt him deeply.
"She doesn't know you, Holman, can't you see that," said Barrow, not unkindly.
124 "No, she doesn't." Holman's eyes clouded. "Will she ever know me again?"
This time, Holman went with Casey to the hospital. Her father was taken by 
ambulance to the Whittington Hospital on Highgate Hill, while she was returned 
in the squad car to the Middlesex Hospital. Detective Inspector Barrow left 
Holman anxiously discussing the girl with the doctor who had treated her 
previously, and went back to make his report to Chief Superintendent Wreford at 
New Scotland Yard.
Barrow found the complex building in an uproar and was staggered himself when he 
caught drift of the news. He hurried to Wreford's office, who confirmed his 
worst suspicions and sent him rushing back to the hospital to bring in Holman. 
Reluctantly, Holman agreed to accompany him again to the Yard on the 
understanding that Casey was to be kept under the strictest supervision and 
having advised the doctor to get in touch with the hospital in Salisbury which 
had treated him. The doctor agreed but wanted to know more of Holman's case. 
Barrow interrupted, telling him he would have to obtain all his information from 
Salisbury, Holman was needed urgently at New Scotland Yard in a matter that 
involved more than the well-being of one girl.
He would say no more as they drove back toward Westminster, telling Holman he 
would find out soon enough and that he himself had yet to hear a full report. 
Finally, seated in Wreford's office, Holman was told the astonishing and 
frightening facts.
Wreford wasted no time with preamble. "We've little time for apologies, Mr. 
Holman," he began bluntly. "I've heard briefly what happened to yourself and 
Detective Inspector Barrow earlier this morning and I sympathize with what 
you've been through, but events have taken on a greater significance.
"Reports have been flowing in through the night about certain strange 
occurrences. They weren't channeled through to me, of course, until I made a 
request for such reports. I must tell you now that I did this unofficially."
He held up his hand at Holman's look of surprise. "We won't go into it now, but 
you must understand, I couldn't just take your word for it; I had to play safe."
"All right," said Holman bitterly. "I suppose I should be grateful you even took 
an interest."
Wreford cleared his throat and looked down, for a 
125 moment embarrassed, then the snap was back in his voice as he went on. 
"Well, the reports began to accumulate and pretty soon it wasn't just me, but 
the whole building was involved. They seemed to be just individual incidents at 
first, some minor, others a deal more serious, but together they began to take 
on a pattern. They seemed to be happening in a ragged line between Wiltshire, 
Dorset, and Hampshire. They're pretty curious in our control room, of course, as 
to why I had put in an unofficial request for reports around those areas. I'm 
saving my answer for the Commissioner for Police; we have a meeting in," he 
looked at his watch, "in ten minutes. I want you to be there."
Holman nodded his agreement.
Wreford's face became even more grave as he went on. "Most of these incidents 
were isolated, usually concerning one person, occasionally two or three, 
certainly no more. But just under an hour ago, the most alarming news of all 
came through. We're all very much in the dark at the moment--we're getting a 
fuller picture by the minute--but it seems incredible, totally unbelievable."
"For Christ's sake!" said Holman impatiently.
"At around six o'clock this morning, practically the entire population of 
Bournemouth left their homes and walked into the sea in a mass suicide attempt."
Silence filled the room. At last, Holman managed to say, "It's impossible."
"Impossible, yes, but it has happened. Over 148,820 people. And that's not 
counting the thousands that were on holiday there. Men, women, children--all 
drowned. They're still trying to drag those that couldn't reach the sea back 
from the beach. Poole Harbor is just crammed with floating bodies, the shores 
around Bournemouth are littered with corpses."
Barrow, who had been quiet up to now, spoke. "What about the fog, sir? Has it 
been sighted?"
"I've issued instructions to locate it but naturally the local towns have enough 
on their minds without worrying about fog. I couldn't give them the reason yet 
without causing a large-scale panic. I have to see the Commissioner before I do 
that. But one thing I did learn: Bournemouth was covered in a thick blanket of 
fog yesterday."
The Commissioner for Police wasted no time in getting in contact with the Home 
Secretary and arranging an im
126 mediate meeting. He'd listened to Holman's story grimly, occasionally 
interrupting to ask a relevant question, but not once voicing a negative 
opinion. Holman asked that the Minister of State for Defense and his own chief, 
the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for the Department of the 
Environment, be present at their meeting with the Home Secretary, remembering 
the meeting Spiers had arranged before his death.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself relating his story again in a large, 
oak-paneled room in Whitehall surrounded by the Ministers and their 
chiefs-of-staff, having questions fired at him in rapid succession, the 
Parliamentary Under- Secretary of State for the Army angrily rejecting his 
insinuations that the military in Salisbury might have some answers as to the 
cause of the fog.
The Home Secretary banged his fist sharply on the heavy table before them. 
"Gentlemen, we will not have arguments at this stage. James, I want a full 
report on your establishments on Salisbury," he ordered the Under-Secretary for 
the Army. "I want to know of all recent experiments carried out there, 
particularly the Broadmeyer Experiment." Holman caught the troubled look that 
passed between the two men.
"Richard," the Home Secretary turned to the Minister of State for Defense, 
"we'll need troops to clear Bournemouth and to control any panic that is bound 
to break out in the surrounding area. Commissioner, have your men located the 
fog yet?"
"No, sir, but they have orders to report directly to me as soon as they have."
"I suggest you get on to the Met. Office and find out shifts in air currents."
"They're helping us locate the fog now, sir."
"When you've found it, you'll want to know where it's going, won't you?" the 
Home Secretary said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
"And what do you intend to do once you've found it?" Sir Trevor Chambers, 
Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for the Department of the Environment 
asked drily. It was a question that had been on all their minds. What could be 
done against a drifting, insubstantial mass? How could it be confined? How could 
it be destroyed?
"There are methods," replied the Minister for Defense.
127 "Some were developed in the war by the RAF, but the progress of radar has 
made it unnecessary for this day and age. But the old methods are still usable."
"Let's find it first," the Home Secretary said impatiently. "I want to know in 
what direction it's heading and I want its path cleared of people."
"My God," said Sir Trevor, "that's going to be a massive operation."
"I'm well aware of that, but what would you suggest?" He allowed no time for an 
answer. "Mr. Holman, I want you to put yourself at the disposal of the 
Department of Health's Medical Research Department. You are one victim of the 
fog who has recovered. I want to know why. It could save the lives of countless 
others."
"Er, might I suggest that our chaps from Porton Down work in collusion with the 
Research Department?" asked the Under-Secretary for the Army.
"Porton Down?" Sir Trevor Chambers raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, our Chemical Defense and Microbiological Research Establishments are based 
there."
"Porton Down, Salisbury?" Sir Trevor persisted.
"Yes, that's right."
"This whole thing is beginning to smell bloody fishy to me!"
The Home Secretary held up his hands to dispel any arguments that might take 
place. "Gentlemen, I've asked James for a full report on his work in Salisbury 
and I will not tolerate any disputes among ourselves until I have read that 
report. For the moment, there are more urgent matters to be put in hand. Now 
then, we will use the Chemical Defense and the Microbiological Research 
boys--we'll use anyone who can be of the slightest help in our efforts to combat 
this menace. Is that understood?"
For the next forty minutes plans were made to deal with the extraordinary 
situation; plans of action were laid down for the evacuation of people in the 
path of the threat, and ways of dispersing the fog were discussed. Men left to 
carry out their urgent duties, others were called in to receive instructions 
that puzzled them, but which they carried out anyway. The Commissioner was 
handed a slip of paper and interrupted the proceedings.
"They've located the fog," he announced somberly. "It's moving back north. 
Toward Winchester."
128 TWELVE
Captain Joe Ennard took his seat in the cockpit of the giant Boeing 747, 
greeting his flight officers with a forced grin. 
"How was your day off?" his Flight Engineer called out.
"Terrific," Joe said without enthusiasm. He thought of his day with Sylvia, the 
day that had started so well and ended so miserably, while he ran through the 
checks before takeoff. Pressing his transmit button, he asked Departure Control 
for permission to start his engines. He was acknowledged and permission granted. 
He began pulling switches with his First Officer and the jumbo jet rumbled into 
life. The noise increased the dull ache he had at a point just above his eyes.
He had spent the previous day in the New Forest with his wife in an attempt to 
recapture some of the zest they'd had for each other earlier in their marriage. 
She'd always known about his casual affairs over the past few years but had 
tried to accept them because of her own shortcomings. At thirty-eight his sexual 
drive had hardly diminished from the time he was twenty-five. Whether it would 
have beenthe same if their marriage had taken a normal course, he didn't know, 
but the fact that she was so repulsed by the
129 sex act had seemed to strengthen his demand for fulfillment rather than 
diminish it so, despite the fact that he still loved her, he had been forced to 
look elsewhere for the important missing part of their marriage.
The irony was that he felt the guilt. She never spoke of his unfaithfulness, 
never blamed him for his misconduct. Often he found her quietly weeping, but 
they were never tears of accusation; only tears of regret. It had started two 
years after their marriage when they'd lost the baby. It hadn't been her fault, 
but nobody, not even the doctors, could convince her of that. Joe had been 
present at the birth and even now he could see the beautifully formed human 
being that had emerged from her womb, so tiny, so perfect--so dead. The doctors 
had all the answers, of course, but answers couldn't bring the baby back.
Afterward she was afraid that if she ever became pregnant again, the same thing 
would happen, and this had led to her frigidity. Even the precautions he took 
could not allay her fears and it wasn't too long before he gave up trying. But 
they had still loved each other deeply and his casual affairs were just that. 
There was never any emotional involvement, just a physical act that offered him 
some release. Was it possible to be unfaithful yet still love your wife? He knew 
the answer, at least in his case, was yes.
And then yesterday. A day that was meant to bring them closer, to seal the gap 
that he felt was developing between them. The years of infidelity were finally 
beginning to take their toll and he had decided that he would no longer look 
outside his marriage for physical comfort. He had brought her down to the New 
Forest, where they'd spent so much time before they were married, to pledge his 
love and loyalty to her, that he would not let his body betray them anymore, 
that there was still enough in their marriage to tie them together, to begin to 
build on again.
But in the fog that had suddenly enveloped them, she had told him she was 
leaving. She had found someone else who was prepared to live with her on her 
terms, who wouldn't need others to satisfy his desires, who would be content to 
love her for herself and not her body.
He had been too dismayed even to plead with her.
That morning, he had felt a strange relief, almost as if a heavy burden had been 
lifted from his shoulders. He was free. It wouldn't be him leaving her but the 
reverse. He
130 didn't have to worry about her breaking down because of the parting, she 
would be happy now. Perhaps it had been this that had bound him to her all these 
years; not love, but fear of hurting her when she'd already suffered so much. He 
even found it in himself to ask about the man. Who was he? Did he know him? Was 
he married? What did he do? He asked with no malice, with no thoughts of 
righteous indignation, and she sensed this and answered his questions. His name 
was Kevin--Joe couldn't remember the surname--no, he'd never met him, he was 
divorced, he was a radar engineer. She'd met him in London while Joe was away on 
one of his flights. They'd known each other years before, before Joe, and hadn't 
seen each other since. She was on a shopping spree and had bumped into him 
outside Heal's in Tottenham Court Road. He was on his lunch break and had asked 
her to join him. She had.
Kevin had told her of his divorce three years before, but she'd said little of 
her relationship with Joe. At the end of the lunch, they both knew they'd felt a 
mutual contact with each other, reached out, and been met as neither had been 
for years. He told her proudly of the new field he was helping to develop in 
radar and that at the moment he was based in London's giant GPO Tower, promising 
her if she met him the next day he would give her a private tour of the 
fantastic building.
She broke her promise, but six days later, when Joe was away again, she rang his 
office at the Tower and arranged to meet him. That had been six months ago, and 
their feeling for one another had grown till neither wanted to live apart any 
longer.
She was surprised when Joe smiled at her and wished them both happiness. Was it 
really so easy to end ten years of marriage?
Joe had left the house and driven to Heathrow Airport, the dull headache 
successfully excluding thoughts of his failed marriage from his mind. He didn't 
bother to report the headache to the medical officer, considering the dull pain 
only a minor discomfort.
The 747 trundled toward its appropriated runway, taking its place in the queue 
behind the other waiting aircraft. The jumbo, weighing over three hundred and 
fifty tons and although not fully loaded carrying nearly three 
hundredpassengers, quivered with unreleased power.
131 
Joe wiped the moisture from his forehead as he waited for the command from the 
Control Tower to get his aircraft moving. As always, it was a relief when the 
order came. The thrust from the four giant engines pushed him back in his seat 
and the jumbo rolled down the runway, gathering speed by the second. After six 
thousand feet he was able to ease back on the stick and bring the nose up, 
allowing the four main bogies to take up all the weight. Then the huge, clumsy 
beast was off the ground, gaining height, an impossible spectacle, but a triumph 
to man's ingenuity.
The crew breathed their sighs of relief as the 747 circled the airport in an 
effort to increase height. There was always that tense moment when they wondered 
if the monster would rise or flop back to the ground, despite their years of 
experience that told them the former would inevitably be true.
Miller, Joe's First Officer, grinned across at him. "New York City, here I come. 
And Beryl, my dear, am I going to fly you!" He laughed at his own joke. Beryl 
was an air hostess belonging to a rival airline he had met at the John F. 
Kennedy Airport. Her company's overused slogan always tickled him.
He was surprised at his Captain's lack of response to his joke. "You okay, 
Skip?" he asked.
Joe Ennard stared ahead, his hands tightly clutching the stick before him.
"Hey, Captain," called the nervous young Flight Engineer. It was only his second 
flight with Captain Ennard and he was still slightly in awe of the man. "Er, 
we're a little off course."
Miller didn't even have to check his instruments. He could tell visually by 
merely looking down at the ground, still only ten thousand feet below. "You 
should be going that way," he said humorously, pointing over his shoulder with 
his thumb. "Skip? Hey, Joe!"
He reached across and shook Ennard's arm. "You okay? Come on, Joe, snap out of 
it!" He leaned forward anxiously to look into the rigid man's face. He shook him 
again.
The blow from the back of Joe Ennard's hand knocked him back into his seat and 
drew blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Terry, get him!" he yelled at the Second officer as he
132 
turned to his own controls and tried to wrest them from the Captain's iron grip.
The Flight Engineer unbuckled his seat belt and hurried forward, not sure of 
what he was going to do, reluctant to lay his hands on the Captain.
"Pull him away from the controls!" Miller shouted at him, his efforts to gain 
control of the giant machine useless without the Captain's cooperation.
Terry grabbed at Joe's hand and tried to yank them away, but the grip was too 
strong. He put his arm around the Captain's neck and squeezed, pulling back at 
the same time. The First Officer tried to pry Joe's fingers back from the stick. 
None of them heard the discreet but urgent tapping on the locked cockpit door; 
the Chief Steward was also worried about the direction of their flight.
Suddenly, in a swift movement, Captain Ennard released himself from his safety 
belt and rose as much as his cramped position would allow. A powerful man, and 
more powerful because of the madness within him, he lashed out at his First 
Officer, blinding him with his fist, sending him into a heap back in his seat. 
He drove an elbow into the Flight Engineer's ribs, causing him to lose his grip 
and double up with pain. With another blow from his forearm, he sent him 
crashing back down the cockpit.
Miller was holding his head, rubbing his eyes so that he could see again. He 
screamed at the half-conscious Flight Engineer, "Get the gun! For God's sake, 
shoot him!"
They kept the illegal gun hidden behind the transmit unit, a secret agreement 
among themselves and many other airplane crews as a protection against the 
increasingly frequent hijackings.
His words were cut off as a two-fisted blow landed on the back of his exposed 
neck. He slumped forward onto his control, unconscious.
Joe Ennard took his seat again and reached for the stick. The angry mechanical 
sound of the voice from Heathrow's Control Tower buzzed through his head, 
filling the cockpit, but he ignored it. He looked down at London, searching for 
the tall, familiar landmark, his eyes glazed but still seeing.
A grin of satisfaction spread across his features, a strange grin that bared his 
teeth, made his face skull-like. He'd found what he'd been looking for.
Terry slowly became aware of the frantic banging on the
133 door. The Chief Steward had heard the commotion and was anxiously demanding 
that the door be opened, oblivious now to the fact that some of the passengers 
would hear. The Flight Engineer pulled himself groggily to his knees and looked 
toward the front of the cockpit. He couldn't see Miller, but he could see the 
Captain hunched over the controls as though looking through the windows at 
something below.
He felt the airplane go into a dive as the pilot pushed forward on his stick, 
felt all four engines being given full throttle and the great machine thrust 
forward with unbelievable power. Desperately, he reached for the hidden gun and 
fumbled with its safety catch. He crawled toward the pilot's seat, holding it 
before him in a trembling hand.
"Stop!" he called out futilely. "Pull her out or I'll shoot!"
He staggered to his feet, using the back of Captain Ennard's seat to lever 
himself up. He raised the gun to the back of the Captain's head, imploring him 
to pull back on the stick. Then his eyes fell on the building that was rushing 
toward them. He screamed as he squeezed the trigger.
Before the sound of the gunshot, before the Captain's brains mixed with blood 
were splattered onto the instrument panel in front of him, Terry thought he 
heard him say something. It sounded like, "Good morning, Kevin," but the Flight 
Engineer had no time or desire to reflect on the words for his head was filled 
with its own terror.
The 747 jumbo jet exploded into the tall GPO Tower with a mighty roar that 
echoed throughout London, over three hundred and fifty tons of crashing metal 
that toppled the building as though it were made of children's blocks.
134 
Holman was driven to the Middlesex Hospital to pick up Casey with Detective 
Inspector Barrow acting as escort. The Home Secretary had made him a valuable 
man: the one person they so far had who had recovered from the effects of the 
mysterious fog. He would have to be examined and his brain patterns studied to 
find out how he had recovered¦--and if he were now immune. Casey was necessary, 
too, as the nearest person suffering from the effects. Corpses would be flown up 
from Bournemouth by helicopter for autopsies to be performed on them in an 
attempt to discover exactly what damage had been done to their brain. Others, 
still living but insane, would be selected and flown up for further tests. But 
at that precise moment, John Holman and Casey Simmons were the two most 
important people in England.
From the hospital, they were taken by ambulance to the Ministry of Health 
building that was strangely situated at the Elephant and Castle. Holman sat in 
the ambulance looking down at Casey, who was under sedation, holding her hand in 
both of his, worried over the paleness of her features. He looked at his watch: 
9:45. God, he was tired! He had thought it to be at least around noon. People 
were still
135 scurrying off to work, their day just beginning, just hearing of the 
devastating news from the seaside resort. Would they panic? They'd certainly 
have to be given some answers. Who would they blame? The government? The 
Russians? The Chinese? Maybe some other countries for a change. Were there any 
friendly countries left? Even America was becoming hostile.
What excuse would the government give? Pollution? Would that play its part? God 
knows, he'd found enough evidence of the damage pollution could do in his job, 
but nothing of this magnitude, obviously. And the public weren't that stupid 
anymore. The media had broadened their minds, given them an insight, however 
vague, to things that years ago would have been completely unheard of, let alone 
believed. They would suspect a chemical, a poisonous gas, mistakenly unleashed 
by some scientific laboratory somewhere, and if they didn't, he felt sure the 
media would point them in this direction.
If it hadn't been so catastrophic, he might have enjoyed watching the officials 
trying to worm their way out from the responsibility. But then, there was always 
the doubt, the doubt that governments all over the world could so cleverly play 
on. Even he wasn't sure if it was a man-made or freak-of-nature phenomenon, the 
tiny doubt in the back of his mind would prevent him from going all out to lay 
the blame on the Ministry of Defense's doorstep. But if he ever found concrete 
proof . ..
A muffled explosion jerked him from his thoughts. The ambulance pulled to a halt 
and as he opened the back doors, he saw that all the other traffic crossing 
Blackfriars Bridge had done the same. As he climbed down the steps, Barrow came 
running around from the police car that had been escorting them.
"Look," he pointed, "over there!"
Holman followed his gaze and saw a great ball of smoke and flames rising from 
the direction of the West End. It snaked up toward the blue sky, a black, 
billowing cloud, violently red at its base.
"What the hell is it?" Holman asked nobody in particular, his question echoed by 
the other drivers who had emerged from their cars and were standing perplexed, 
staring into the sky.
"I'm not sure," said Barrow evenly, "but it's coming
136 from around the area of Tottenham Court Road. It might be just in front of 
the GPO Tower. If it isn't in front . . ." He left the sentence unfinished.
Holman turned to stare at him. More muffled explosions came from the same spot 
and they could see flames shooting into the air.
"It's beginning to happen here," said Holman quietly.
"What? No, we've had no fog here!" Barrow retorted. "There's no connection, 
can't be!"
"I wish we could be sure of that."
Several groups of people had gathered and were talking excitedly, gesturing 
toward the black-stained sky. Barrow walked over toward one of the groups and 
asked some sharp questions. A minute later, he returned to Holman.
"There's your answer," he said. "The people over there saw a jumbo jet circling 
over London. They said it was very, very low so they realized it was in trouble. 
Then it went into a dive. They think it hit the Tower, one old boy swears it 
did."
Holman shook his head in disbelief. "It's incredible. The school, 
Bournemouth--and now this."
"I just told you, it's probably got nothing to do with the fog!"
"I wish I could believe it, Barrow. I wish I could."
Even in the bright sunlight, Holman felt a shiver run through him.
He was surprised at the vast basement area that was used for medical research 
beneath the Alexander Fleming House building. Even as a civil servant himself, 
he hadn't known of its existence. They were met by the Chief Medical Officer, a 
fat, jovial man who explained, "I'm going to take you downstairs and hand you 
over to Mrs. Janet Halstead, Principal Medical Officer for the Research Council. 
It's a completely different department from ours, but they occupy that part of 
the building for good reasons. Their divisions of research are spread all over 
the place, the majority in London, but many as far as Scotland. When they need 
to get together on a project--and it has happened quite a number of times in the 
past, I can assure you--they get together here. Needless to say, you're bound by 
the Official Secrets Act to keep this to yourselves." He laughed at their 
serious
137 faces. "It's not that secret, you understand, but there are reasons for not 
letting it become public knowledge."
They entered a lift, Casey having been taken through a more private entrance to 
the rear of the building.
A plump middle-aged woman wearing a white coat greeted them when the doors 
opened again. She stepped forward and shook Holman's hand without waiting for an 
introduction.
"You must be Mr. Holman," she said smiling. "I've been reading about you from 
your file your department sent me. Your photograph doesn't do you justice."
Holman smiled back weakly, completely disarmed.
The Chief Medical Officer spoke up. "This is Mrs. Janet Halstead. I'll leave you 
to it then, Jan?"
She nodded and asked Holman and Barrow to follow her as the lift doors closed on 
the grinning Ministry of Health man. This was the Principal Medical Officer? 
Holman couldn't help but smile. She was certainly sweet, but she looked no 
brighter than the average housewife. The day would prove her to be otherwise.
"I take it Sir Geoffrey was explained why we've brought you to this building. 
There are quite a few people we want to examine you, and it's a bit more 
convenient to bring them here than to cart you all over the country. I don't 
know if you've heard yet, but a State of Emergency has been declared. We have to 
find some answers very, very quickly."
She led them into an office and asked them to sit. She perched on the edge of a 
desk. "Now, the first thing. Have either of you eaten this morning?" She smiled 
at their shaking heads. "Right, we'll soon fix that. Not much for you, I'm 
afraid, Mr. Holman. We have a few tests to put you through that won't allow it. 
However, we'll give you enough to sustain you. We don't want you passing out on 
us, do we?"
Holman felt himself almost mesmerized by her words and began to relax, a 
combination of his own tiredness, the soft chair he was sitting in, and the easy 
manner in which she was talking to him.
"While you're eating, you can tell me all that's happened to you--and I'd 
appreciate it if you tried to leave out nothing. The smallest thing could be of 
the greatest importance." She picked up the telephone and pressed a button, then 
ordered breakfast for them both.
138 Holman snatched a glance at Barrow, who seemed distinctly uneasy in his 
nonactive role.
"Oh, please call me Jan, by the way," she told them as she replaced the 
receiver. "Now, as I've already said, we have an extremely busy day ahead of us 
here. We have every facility we need and the best medical brains are either 
already here or on their way. I can promise you, we've wasted no time in the 
past couple of hours.
"Let me tell you briefly who will examine you. I won't mention all the names 
because I can't remember half of them myself, but most of them are from these 
units: Cellular Disorders; Infectious and Immune Diseases; Psychiatry and 
Nervous Disorders; Biochemical Parasitology; Neurobiological Studies; Brain 
Metabolism; Cell Mutation; Molecular Genetics; Immunochemistry and Cellular 
Immunology; Molecular Pharmacology; Neurological Prostheses and 
Neuropsychiatry." She smiled at Holman. "Two others: Environmental Radiation and 
I believe the Ministry of Defense is sending us some of their Chemical Defense 
and Microbiological researchers."
He sat there stunned and frightened and she hastily tried to reassure him. "As 
you can see a lot of these divisions won't even come into it, we just have to 
have them at hand in case they're necessary." She smiled her disarming smile 
again.
Holman was silent for a moment, a troubled look on his face. Then he spoke. "Two 
units stuck in my mind, one I think you tried to hide among the others."
She still smiled. "And they were?" she asked.
"The obvious one was Environmental Radiation. The other was Cell Mutation."
She looked at him keenly and said without any hint of patronization: "I can see 
you're very sharp, "Mr. Holman --may I call you John?"
He nodded.
"Yes, I did bury it among the others. I didn't want to alarm you. As I said, 
many of these divisions of investigation will be a waste of time. I think Cell 
Mutation will be one of these--but we have to be sure. You do see that? We can't 
leave anything to chance. As for Environmental Radiation--well, that's an 
obvious one in this day and age, isn't it?"
139 "But what exactly can you find out from me? I mean, I'm cured, aren't I?"
"First of all, information, John. I've already spoken on the phone to the 
doctors who treated you in Salisbury. Their description of your symptoms was 
helpful, but I'm afraid, very inadequate. By examining you, we can find to what 
extent your brain was damaged--if it was your brain. I think you are cured, 
certainly, but we may still find lingering signs of what caused it. Like a blow 
would leave a bruise, a cut would leave a scar."
"But wouldn't that necessitate surgery?"
She laughed. "No, I don't think so, not in your case." She became serious once 
more. "We have plenty of dead bodies we can examine in that way."
"And what about Casey?"
"Miss Simmons? We'll try to cure her."
The door opened and their breakfast was wheeled in on a trolley. Janet Halstead 
reached behind her and switched on a tape recorder.
"Now, John," she said. "Take your time and tell us everything you know about 
this mysterious fog. Start at the beginning and try to leave nothing out."
The rest of the day was just a blur to Holman. He was probed, tested, examined, 
interrogated. He was given an Electrocardiograph to test his heart; his entire 
body was X-rayed; a radio-opaque substance was injected into the arterial system 
of his brain to show up any deformation of the normal pattern in order to trace 
any space-occupying lesion; electrodes were placed on the surface of his head 
over the occipital and frontal region to discover any evidence of a tumor; a 
small amount of cerebrospinal fluid was drained by a needle introduced into the 
subarachnoid space below the termination of his spinal cord and tested. All 
these, and many more tests, were carried out on his and Casey's bodies and, by 
late afternoon, he was allowed to fall into an exhausted sleep.
He awoke several hours later to find Barrow slumped in a chair by his bedside, 
soft snoring noises droning from him. As Holman sat up, the policeman stirred 
and quickly woke, casting an anxious eye toward the bed. He grinned and rubbed 
his face.
"You were out for the count," he said to Holman.
140 "You weren't doing so bad yourself," Holman answered flatly.
"Yeah, but I'm a light sleeper." He looked at Holman ruefully. "Look, what about 
calling a truce? I know I was a bit rough on you, but it was pretty fantastic, 
wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was."
"Well, I'm sorry."
"Okay, let's forget it. Actually, I'm surprised you're still around."
"Special duty, mate. I'm your bodyguard. You're an important person. You've got 
another one outside."
"Do they think somebody's going to assassinate me, or--do they think I'm going 
to run away?" His face took on an incredulous look as he hoisted himself up 
further in the bed.
Barrow was slightly flustered. With a sigh, he said, "I'll be honest; they're 
playing safe. Don't forget the effect this gas has had on others; we don't 
really know if you've recovered yet, do we?"
"All right, I get it," said Holman, resigned. "Tell me what's been happening 
while I've been asleep."
"Quite a lot. A couple of hours ago the doctors and researchers went into a 
confab. I don't know what it was all about, but they were having a go at those 
blokes from Porton Down, the Microbiological Research scientists. They were 
being evasive and finally refused to answer any more questions until they'd seen 
their Minister."
"It all seems to point in the same direction, doesn't it?" Holman commented.
"Yeah," said Barrow drily, "you could say that. Anyway, they went off to the 
Ministry of Defense about an hour ago, leaving the others in quite a rage. 
They're carrying on with their work, but they're not very happy about it."
"How's Casey?"
"I don't know, but I'll get the Medical Officer. She wanted to be informed when 
you awoke." He walked to the door and gave instructions to the uniformed 
policeman outside to find Janet Halstead.
"What's happened with the fog?" asked Holman as the Detective Inspector returned 
to his chair.
"They found it, you know that, and luckily the winds have died down so it's 
drifting along at a very slow rate. It's an incredible sight, apparently, about 
a mile wide and a mile high."
141 "It's grown." The fact disturbed Holman. "When I saw it last, it was half 
that size."
"Yeah, they know it's growing. It's becoming thicker in density, too, a sort of 
dingy yellow color. They've been spraying it all day to get it to disperse, but 
I don't know if they've had any success. They're evacuating Winchester anyway, 
just to be on the safe side, and the Met. Office is keeping a constant check on 
wind shifts."
"And how have the public reacted?"
"As you'd expect. Panic. Fear. Accusations. The press are having a field day."
"And what answer have they been given?"
"Nothing official yet. Just that a grand-scale investigation was taking place 
and a statement will he made by the Prime Minister later this evening. But 
they've implied a poisonous gas has drifted in from the sea and caused disaster 
in Bournemouth."
"My God, are people falling for it? What about the eruption?"
"No connection. At least that's the official answer that's been given."
"The school! What about the school?"
"Er, news of that hasn't been released."
"But they can't hush something like that up! What have the parents got to say?"
"As far as they know, their sons were killed in an accidental fire. In three 
major disasters concerning the lives of thousands, the school incident has been 
easily swallowed up."
"Three? What are the three?"
"The eruption, Bournemouth, and the crash this morning of the 747 into the GPO 
Tower."
"How many were killed in that?"
"It hasn't been ascertained yet. It's estimated at least a thousand. There were 
two hundred and eighty six on the jumbo alone; God knows how many were in the 
Tower and the offices around it."
The air hung heavily in the small hospital-like room for several moments as both 
men tried to grasp the magnitude of the tragic events that had taken place. It 
was completely beyond their comprehension, somehow unreal. And it was the 
unreality of the situation that enabled them to cope.
142 "Does the public know about the fog?" It was Holman who broke the silence.
"Yes, they're aware. It's hardly a thing that could be kept a secret--a mile 
wide, a mile high. They had to be informed anyway, to get them to move out of 
its path."
"And how have they reacted to that?"
"General hyster "
The door opened and Janet Halstead entered, interrupting Barrow's answer.
"Hello, John, how are you feeling?" Her smile was a little more strained than it 
had been that morning.
"I'm fine. Tell me about Casey."
"Her condition is deteriorating, John. I have to be honest with you, there's 
been enough evasiveness in this place for one day." She sat on the edge of his 
bed. "But there is a chance."
He looked up at her, hopefully.
"We are pretty sure we know what is happening. We've had some of the finest 
minds in the country working on it. The autopsies have provided us with the 
answers. But we need to know the cause, John. We can't be sure until we know the 
cause. And that's what I meant when I mentioned evasiveness."
"Tell me exactly what you mean."
"We all feel--that is, the members of the Medical Research Council--that the 
Chemical and Microbiological Researchers from the Ministry of Defense are 
holding out on us. You see, in their tests, they seemed to know exactly what it 
was they were looking for, as though they were not looking for an answer but for 
confirmation of an answer they already had.
"We began to realize this as their tests progressed. There was no trial and 
error in their methods--they knew exactly what they were doing. Well, we let 
them finish and then we confronted them. But they clammed up, wouldn't say a 
word. They demanded that they see their Minister and only he had the authority 
to allow them to reveal their discovery--or affirmation."
"The bastards--they're covering up!" Holman leaped from the bed. "Barrow, you 
get me Sir Trevor Chambers. He'll get some answers for us. If he doesn't, I'm 
going to blow this thing sky high!"
"Ill get him, Holman, but there's nothing you can do
143 personally. They'll lock you away," said Barrow in a matter-of-fact voice.
"Just get him! We'll see!"
"Okay, okay. But keep calm, eh?"
"Yes, John," said Janet Halstead, firmly. "It's no good getting excited, it 
won't help anyone. The first thing you must do is eat. I think we've found all 
we need to know from you. Some results have still to come in, but I think 
they'll only confirm our suspicions. Now, let me order you some food while 
Inspector Barrow gets in touch with Sir Trevor. Then I can put you in the 
picture as to our findings today."
144 
Two hours later, Holman found himself sitting between Janet Halstead and Sir 
Trevor Chambers in one of the spacious conference rooms at the Ministry of 
Defense. Sir Trevor had heeded his call from the Research Center in Alexander 
Fleming House and made suitable bellowing noises in the right ears. They were 
soon to learn that the fuss was unnecessary; the Ministry had adopted a new 
policy of honesty --to a limited few, anyway. And they hadn't exactly adopted 
the policy willingly. They had been instructed to do so by a higher authority.
As he waited for the meeting to begin Holman looked down the length of the long 
oak table and studied the faces deep in murmured conversation with their 
immediate neighbors. He recognized some of them and had been introduced to 
others on his arrival, and he tried to remember the names and titles while he 
waited: the Home Secretary, Charles Lyall-Smith, looking calm and unruffled as 
always; the Minister of State for Defense, Lord Gibbon, and his Principal 
Private Secretary, deep in conversation with the Parliamentary Under-Secretary 
of State for Defense for the Army, William Douglas-Glyne, and his Principal 
Private
145 Secretary; the big, bluff Chief of Defense staff, Sir Hugh Dowling, 
bellowing good humoredly across the table at the Chief of the General Staff, 
General Sir Michael Reedman, and his Vice-Chief Lieutenant-General Sir Keith 
Macklen; the Chief Scientific Adviser, Professor Hermann Ryker, silently 
studying a document in front of him, underlining certain points with a pencil. 
There were others seated away from the table whose function was not clear to 
Holman, but three were dressed in military uniforms.
The Home Secretary rapped the table with his fountain pen to bring the meeting 
to order. "Gentlemen," he began, "and lady," he smiled briefly at Janet 
Halstead, "you all know the facts; this evening's meeting is to inform you of 
how it happened and then to discuss a plan of action. I've been in constant 
touch with the Minister who is at this very moment flying back from Russia. He 
regrets not being with us in this crisis, but does not wish any action we may 
take to be delayed because of his absence. It's a great pity his visit to Russia 
had to be cut short so abruptly--any such trips are of the highest diplomatic 
importance--but obviously, the safety of the country takes priority over any 
other matter. He has asked me to inform you that any action we decide upon this 
evening, he will endorse on his arrival, so there is to be no delay in 
implementing our plans, whatever they may be.
"His prime instruction is this: there is to be no information withheld by any 
Ministry from the people in this room tonight. I have had private talks with 
Lord Gibbon and Douglas-Glyne and have passed the facts that emerged from our 
conversations on to the PM. He is quite explicit that there is to be no cover-up 
between ourselves. Tonight's meeting will not indulge in accusations or 
blame-shedding; we are here to find solutions! The safety of millions is at 
stake--let's be quite clear on that issue. The catastrophes that have taken 
place have not been unrelated incidents. You know of the major disasters, but I 
can assure you there have been many, many small incidents with the same tragic 
consequences.
"A few of us in this room now know the cause of these outbreaks; it is my 
intention that you all know, so that we can combine our various skills to combat 
this growing--and I mean that literally--threat."
He looked along the table, allowing his words to take their effect. Then he 
turned to the Minister of State for Defense, 
146 seated on his left, and said, "Richard, will you repeat the information you 
gave me earlier?"
Lord Gibbon leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his thick hands clasped 
tightly before him. "Gentlemen, I'm afraid the Ministry of Defense has to take a 
large amount of responsibility for "
"We are not here to appropriate blame, Richard. Just tell us the facts," the 
Home Secretary snapped irritably.
"Very well." The big man straightened up as though relieved and proceeded in a 
brisk, businesslike manner, throwing off his look of guilty admission 
completely. "If we are to start at the beginning, we must go back fifteen years, 
to our Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton Down and a brilliant 
scientist named Broadmeyer. His specialty was bacteriological warfare."
Holman felt a coldness grip him. He had been right! The stupid bastards had been 
responsible.
"Professor Broadmeyer was a brilliant man in many ways," Lord Gibbon continued. 
"Perhaps too brilliant. He discovered--or invented--an organism that could 
affect the brains of man or animal."
"May we be more accurate than that," a slightly accented voice interrupted. All 
eyes swung around toward Professor Hermann Ryker, the Chief Scientific Adviser.
"Yes, Professor Ryker?" said the Home Secretary.
"He did not invent, he did not discover," Ryker said gravely. "He mutated. He 
took an organism known as mycoplasma and mutated it." He was silent again.
"Perhaps you would like to continue, Professor. You're more of an authority on 
this kind of thing than I am," said the Defense Minister.
"Yes," Ryker admitted drily. He looked around at the assembly. "Broadmeyer was a 
brilliant man--I studied under him for many years--but he was, what shall we 
say, a little irresponsible. He mutated the mycoplasma so that if it entered the 
bloodstream it would attack the healthy existing cells and travel as a parasite 
to the brain. I am sure Mrs. Halstead knows of the Rhesus factor"--she nodded in 
acknowledgment--"where a mother produces a mental defect because of antigenic 
incompatibility between the mother and 
fetus. In analogical theory the same process takes place except that the disease 
is transmitted to the host's brain rather than a fetus's.
147 "The micro-organisms cause inflammation of the brain substance and covering 
membranes, eventually leading to a breakdown of existing healthy brain cells and 
a build-up of new, parasitical cells. The stronger the parasites become, the 
more easily the healthy cells are 'devoured.' Hence the complete and utter 
mental breakdown of whoever contracts the disease. Eventually, the victim would 
become a vegetable, capable of no action at all."
"But what about me?" Holman exclaimed, unable to hold back. "Why didn't I become 
a vegetable?"
Professor Ryker regarded him with a faint smile. "You have been a very fortunate 
young man," he said, then look- at Janet Halstead again. "I believe Mrs. 
Halstead will have some idea of what saved you by now, but there is a little 
more to it."
The Principal Medical Officer spoke up. "Mr. Holman was given a blood 
transfusion because of an injury he sustained during his attack. I assume this 
helped clear the bloodstream of the foreign cells."
"Precisely, Mrs. Halstead," the professor nodded. "It helped the existing cells 
destroy the parasites, rather like a regiment that has been sent reinforcements. 
Luckily for Mr. Holman he received the transfusion before the parasitical cells 
had a chance to multiply. But he was also lucky in another respect.
"Like most organisms used in germ warfare, the Broadmeyer Mutation, as it was 
secretly called, was self-reproducing. All it needed was carbon dioxide, the 
simple element that is contained in the very air we breathe, and it could grow 
and grow, or I should say, multiply itself. Mr. Holman was exposed to it in the 
early stages of its process for it had just been released in its pure form, 
therefore it was comparatively weak. The vapor, or fog as you have called it, is 
a by-product of the process it goes through as it draws the carbon dioxide from 
the air. This in itself is strange, for normally an organism that lives on 
carbon dioxide and precious little else must be photo-synthetic, and would 
require sunlight to live and multiply. Now, mycoplasmas lack a cell wall, the 
cycoplasm being bounded only by the delicate plasma membrane--which means they 
can only survive and grow in an osmotically protective environment--hence they 
live as a large group in order to protect their inner core from changes in 
osmotic pressure. So you see the contradiction: 
148 they should need sunlight to exist, yet they surround themselves with this 
strange mist. Only Broadmeyer, as the creator of this mutation, knew the answer. 
And unfortunately, he is dead, killed by the disease he had made.
"As I have said, he was an irresponsible man. I consider him irresponsible for 
ever producing such a mutation, but he was also irresponsible in smaller ways. 
He was careless and allowed himself to be exposed to the mycoplasma. Naturally, 
he went mad. And in his madness he destroyed all his papers, notes, the work of 
years, not just on the mutilated mycoplasma, but other projects, more admirable 
conceptions, completely and utterly wasted. He died a lunatic, a victim of his 
own creation, and with him he took many secrets.
"The mutation was contained and, like many others produced in the name of germ 
warfare, was considered too dangerous to use. Perhaps Lieutenant-General Macklen 
would care to tell you what happened to it?" He raised his eyebrows toward the 
Vice-Chief of the General Staff.
"We can hardly wait to hear," Sir Trevor Chambers said caustically.
"Sir Trevor," warned the Home Secretary.
"Before we do," Janet Halstead broke in hastily, "may I ask Professor Ryker a 
question about the cure? I think it's more important than anything else at the 
moment, wouldn't you agree?"
The Home Secretary nodded and said, "Carry on."
"You confirm that blood transfusion is the answer then, Professor?" she asked 
Ryker.
"Yes, provided it is given in time. If the parasite cells have taken on too 
strong a hold in the brain, then new blood will be of no use at all. Mr. Holman 
here was fortunate in that they hadn't been given time to develop; they were 
easily overcome by the stronger existing cells. But once they have a grip . . ." 
he spread his hands and shrugged in a gesture of futility.
"But what if we use radiology to burn out the bad cells?"
"Y-e-s. Yes." He drew out the words, his mind absorbing the thought. "It's a 
possibility. But it's always dangerous; other good cells can be damaged by this 
method. Extreme care would have to be taken. And remember, nothing can ever be 
done about healthy cells that have been damaged
149 either by the parasites or the X-ray. They will never grow again."
"No, but it's a chance worth taking," she said.
"Of course, you could never expect to treat everybody who contracts the disease 
in this way. I mean to say, there just aren't the resources." Lord Gibbon shook 
his head in despair.
"No, we could never treat everyone in this way." Janet Halstead looked around 
the room. "But now it's your job to see that we don't have to. You have to 
destroy the mycoplasma!"
She allowed no time for them to comment on her last statement. She turned to 
Holman. "John, I'm going back to the Research Center. I want to give Miss 
Simmons a blood transfusion and if necessary subject her to radiology and, as 
her father is unable to, I think I should seek permission to do so from you."
"Go ahead," Holman answered. "Whatever she needs--do it!"
She patted his shoulder as she rose from the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I 
have some lives to save. And a lot to organize. I trust you'll keep me 
informed?"
Professor Ryker suppressed an admiring grin as she marched from the room.
The Home Secretary cleared his throat. "There is another question that I would 
like to ask; it could have a bearing on something to be discussed later." He 
looked at Ryker. "Once a person has successfully overcome the disease, would 
that person then be immune from further attacks?"
The professor pondered over the question. Finally he said, "It would seem 
likely, although I'd value Mrs. Halstead's opinion on this. Once the body's 
system has beaten off a disease, it builds some, or often total, resistance 
against it, and in this case, where the mutated mycoplasma would be virtually 
flushed from the system in the early stages and the unwanted cells in the brain 
killed before they had a chance to form, as they have in Mr. Holman's case, 
then, yes, I believe one could be made immune from further attacks. The theory 
would have to be tested, of course, but the body has an acute sense of 
self-preservation, you know. It builds its own defenses."
"And is this, er, disease infectious?" Sir Trevor Chambers
150 asked, carefully avoiding Holman's eyes. "Could Mr. Holman pass it on to 
others?"
"Well, that doesn't appear to have happened, does it?" Ryker answered with a 
restrained smile. "My opinion is that the DNA--the genetic material--of the 
organism immediately combines with the DNA of brain cells, in a manner similar 
to that in which cancer-causing viruses are believed to join up with cellular 
material. In the case of cancer- causing viruses, of course, the extra genetic 
material can lie dormant for years until something triggers it off. I suggest 
that in the case of Broadmeyer's mutated organism, the DNA produces extremely 
malignant cells almost at once, which cause the untoward effects and make the 
organism noninfective.
"Our problem is that we do not even know enough about mycoplasma in its normal 
state, let alone when it has been tampered with. I shall tell you briefly of 
what we do know. Also called PPLO--pleuropneumonia-like organisms--mycoplasmas 
include the smallest known cells able to multiply independently of other living 
cells, some being almost spherical and only 0.3 mm. in diameter. The chromosome 
of many probably contains not more than 650 genes--about one-fifth the number 
found in common bacteria--and from the physiological and biochemical viewpoint 
microplasmas are similar to bacteria, with the one important exception I've 
already mentioned: they lack a cell wall." Ryker paused to look around at the 
blank faces.
He continued, his next words cutting through the incomprehension like a knife. 
"This means, because they are not restricted by this rigid wall, they can be 
deformed and are able to squeeze through narrow pores smaller than their own 
diameter. It also means they are completely resistant to penicillin and any 
other substances which act by disrupting the synthesis of bacterial cell walls!"
An uneasy silence followed, broken finally by Sir Trevor clearing his throat. 
"Er, you mean there is no cure?" he asked.
"No, no. We will find one," Ryker assured them all, "but to produce a serum, we 
need to know exactly how the mycoplasma has been mutated."
"But surely you must have some idea?" said the Defense Minister.
"Oh, I have an idea. But do we have the time to experiment
151 
with and develop ideas?" He spoke as though to a child who had asked a foolish 
question and was being given a kind answer. "No. But we may draw off some of the 
organism from the living victims. Then we could analyze it, discover its 
contents, and then develop a serum. But of course, to manufacture it in bulk 
would take time. And we do not have too much time, do we?" He looked around at 
them, then added, "Of course, if we had some of the mutated mycoplasma in its 
pure state, then it would be an enormous advantage."
"Well, what's to prevent us from containing some of the fog?" Douglas-Glyne, the 
Defense Under-Secretary, asked impatiently.
"I said *in its pure state.* The fog, apart from being a mutated organism, now 
contains carbon dioxide and various other impurities. I suspect the yellowish 
color is due to the pollution in the air--our own man-made pollution. To sort 
out all these elements to find the mutated mycoplasma in its purest form would 
take time."
"This is leading on to our next point, gentlemen," said the Home Secretary. "I'd 
like to get back to Lieutenant-General Macklen. Sir Keith, would you tell us how 
the virus had been contained?"
"And how it escaped!" snorted Sir Trevor Chambers.
Sir Keith Macklen rose to his feet as though to address the officers on his 
staff.
"The Broadmeyer Mycoplasma," he began, purposely avoiding Professor Ryker's name 
for it, "was contained in a sealed-off room in small glassed-steel containers. 
Broadmeyer had disturbed one of the vials and dislodged its cap while carrying 
out experiments on an animal, a rabbit I think. Anyway, he noticed the dislodged 
cap, replaced it, and left the sealed room. It took a while for him to become 
insane. As Professor Ryker said, it was in its purest form and he was only 
exposed for a few seconds before it had time to strengthen itself from the air, 
but when he did, he went under very fast.
"He destroyed his work and killed a fellow scientist in the process. Then he 
became--a nothing. His brain hardly functioned, he neither saw nor heard 
anything. He died soon after by his own hand!
"We decided the mutation was too dangerous ever to be used so we had to get rid 
of it. There were three ways of
152 doing this: destroy it, dump it in the sea, or bury it below ground."
"My God!" said Sir Trevor, exhaling a long breath. "And you decided to bury it!"
"Er, not me, Sir Trevor. My superiors at that time. It was fifteen years ago, 
remember."
"Carry on, Sir Keith," said the Home Secretary.
"Well, we couldn't destroy it; we didn't know what it was exactly. And we 
couldn't dump it in the sea; we considered that was too risky. So we buried it. 
Very, very deep below ground, in glassed steel vials inside a strong, lead 
container."
"Under the village," said Holman, not a question, but a statement.
"Certainly not! The exact location was a quarter of a mile away from the 
village." He looked at Holman with annoyance.
"Go on, Sir Keith," said the Home Secretary again, keeping a tight rein on the 
meeting, refusing to allow it to become heated in any way.
"Records were made concerning the mycoplasmos' potential and its location, and 
filed away. Fifteen years ago, as I said. Er, now . . ." He hesitated, looking 
at the expressionless faces, reluctant to continue. "Er, up until a few weeks 
ago, the army has been carrying out some underground explosive tests "
"I knew it!" Sir Trevor exploded, leaping to his feet. "Trust the bloody army! 
The whole of Salisbury Plain and you have to pick the bloody spot where you 
planted a deadly disease fifteen years before!"
"We most certainly did not! Our experiment was at least two miles from there!"
"Then how do you account for the eruption in the village?"
"Sir Trevor, please sit down!" the Home Secretary ordered sharply. "I've already 
warned you. This meeting will not become a dispute. We are here to find a 
solution! Sir Keith--please continue."
"We were experimenting with a powerful new explosive. It was one of many we have 
carried out below ground for the past twenty years now. Many countries use this 
method to test the power of their bombs. Would you rather we blew up the 
countryside?"
153 "I'd rather you didn't test bombs at all," Sir Trevor retorted.
"Apparently the bomb--I'm afraid I can't tell you the nature of the 
explosive--caused a rurining fissure below the earth. It was this that caused 
the eruption and released the mycoplasma."
"Do you mean to tell me you have a bomb that can cause that sort of damage two 
miles away?" asked Sir Trevor incredulously.
"Yes. Although we didn't know it at the time," answered the Vice-Chief of the 
General Staff, careful to keep any hint of pride from his voice. "The earth was 
ruptured severely around the blast, but the fissure that caused the most damage 
ran for several miles. It must have reached the point where the mycoplasma was 
housed in its lead case, the force of the earth crushed it open, the tremor 
continued on its way until it found its way to the surface under the village, 
the mycoplasma being pushed along with it. We assume it was the mutation, 
already polluted and creating its own gas, that was seen emerging from the 
fissure."
"Why do you assume that?" asked Holman.
"Because we have been checking through our records most of the day--since we 
heard a poisonous gas may have been involved--of all our deposited stocks. We 
found that particular stock was directly in line with the fissure."
"And you've known all this time it was your explosion that caused the 
earthquake?" asked Sir Trevor accusingly.
He nodded, avoiding the many eyes that glared at him as though he were solely 
responsible.
The Home Secretary spoke before anyone else had a chance to. "We knew and we 
decided no good could come of its disclosure. Until today, that is. Thank you, 
Sir Keith." The Vice-Chief of the General Staff sat down, relieved that his 
statement was over, and the Home Secretary continued, "Gentlemen, we know most 
of the facts now. This is not the time for reprisals, but let me stress that 
human error of this magnitude will not be tolerated. That is all that is going 
to be said on that particular issue at this time, but I can assure you," he 
looked toward Sir Trevor, "it will be looked into thoroughly after we have made 
progress in defeating the present threat. Now, let's get on with it.
"We have lost the battle to prevent the fog entering
154 Winchester; fortunately all the residents have been evacuated in time."
"How did you try to stop it?" Holman asked.
"Perhaps you will tell us, William?" The Home Secretary turned to the 
Under-Secretary of State for Defense for the Army, William Douglas-Glyne.
"Yes. There are four principal methods of dealing with fog. The method we've 
been using today, all day, is sprinkling calcium chloride from low-flying 
aircraft, a practice used in San Francisco regularly to clear their fogs. It's a 
chemical that actually dries up the air, but although we've used tons of the 
stuff it hasn't had much effect. Very expensive method too, I might add. Some of 
the vapor was cleared but, as we now know, the gas is self-producing; it just 
goes on manufacturing itself."
"Have you tried the other methods?" asked Sir Trevor.
"Not yet, we've had little time. And anyway, the calcium chloride was the most 
favored. Let me tell you about the other ways and you'll understand. During the 
war, our airfields had what was called the F100 system, another expensive 
process and little used since. With radar, fog isn't much of a problem nowadays, 
but this is what they used to do: they warmed the air around the airfield with 
petrol in special devices; as it became warmer it absorbed more moisture and the 
droplets of liquid turned to invisible water vapor, dispersing the fog and 
forming a hole above the airfield through which planes could land.
"Now, apart from not having enough time to set up such an elaborate system 
around the town, all we would have succeeded in doing is diverting the fog--not 
getting rid of it.
"Another method is to use ultrasonic waves. Rapid to-and-fro movements produced 
by vibrations in the air tend to cause the tiny water droplets to collect 
together, forming drops that are large enough to fall as rain. The disadvantage 
of this method is that the force of the sound waves we would have had to use 
could have been harmful to living things. And again, now we know it would be 
useless because of the self-productive factor."
He paused, looking down at his notes, reluctant to look at the troubled faces 
around him.
"And the last method?" the Home Secretary prodded.
"The last method is no good at all. It involves the use of carbon dioxide and, 
of course, the organism thrives on this.
155 If sprinkled on fog, it causes the water droplets to freeze and join 
together, making them heavy enough to fall to the ground, but in this case the 
virus would just 'feed' on it."
"Are you telling us there's nothing we can do?" asked Sir Trevor incredulously.
"We are still looking at other methods," came the somewhat feeble reply.
"I'm sure we have enough top brains in this country to find a solution," said 
the Home Secretary. "As well as our own, we also have scientific institutes in 
America, Russia, and France searching for the answer. The major powers of the 
world are working for us. Even China has approached us with an offer of 
assistance. Remember, there is nothing to prevent the fog from drifting out to 
sea and reaching other countries; the threat is not with us alone, although we 
are in the immediate danger.
"The fact that it could virtually depopulate a town the size of Bournemouth has 
made the danger clear to every country in the world. If it has done any good at 
all, it's in the fact that the major powers now have a common enemy.
"If we cannot disperse the fog, our only hope is to find the antidote to the 
disease, fast. And to make that serum, we need a quantity--however small--of the 
mutated mycoplasma itself, as Professor Ryker says, in its 'purest form.'"
"But you know it would be impossible to get that," Ryker said, a worried frown 
creasing his face.
"impossible, why?" Sir Trevor looked at the scientist. "Surely someone wearing 
some sort of protective clothing, breathing apparatus, that sort of thing, could 
get close enough to get a sample?"
"It is not a matter of getting close enough," said Ryker. "It means going to the 
very center of the fog."
"The center?"
"Yes," said the Home Secretary. "Sensors in our aircraft have discovered a force 
in the center of the fog. This is obviously the nucleus of the mycoplasma 
itself."
"The glow!" said Holman, half to himself. "When we were driving through it, 
Casey saw a glow!"
"Yes, Mr. Holman," the professor nodded his head. "It is possible that the 
organism has taken on a sort of incandescent quality because of the process it 
is going through."
Sir Trevor Chambers broke in huffily. "All right So the
156 
*neat' stuff is in the center. That still doesn't prevent someone with suitable 
protection going in to get it!"
Ryker looked toward the Home Secretary askance. He received a sharp nod of 
acquiescence.
"We said earlier that Broadmeyer was careless," he said to Sir Trevor. "But only 
in small ways. No scientist is careless enough to handle dangerous chemicals or 
substances without suitable protection. He was covered from head to foot in 
protective clothing."
"Good God! You mean there is no protection from it?"
"Not the practical protection that would enable a man to move freely. It was one 
of the reasons it was considered so dangerous, the fact that it could pass 
through the special heavy material of these suits."
"Lead-lined suits?" said Holman.
"Too clumsy and cumbersome for an operation of this sort. The wearer would have 
to travel half a mile to reach the fog's center in virtual darkness and still 
have no guarantee he would be safe from the mutated mycoplasma at its 
strongest."
A hint of suspicion began to creep into Holman's mind. "This sort of brings us 
back to the point about immunity, doesn't it?" he said, looking directly at the 
Home Secretary.
"Yes, it does," said the Home Secretary, quite unembarrassed. "We need someone 
who is immune to the disease to go in and bring back a sample. You, Mr. Holman, 
it would seem, are that person."
157 
Four spectral shapes moved through the thick yellow mist Three were gross, 
misshapen versions of the human form, lumbering along at a slow, uneven pace, 
one leading a small trolley containing a dark, oblong box that had several 
strange attachments to it. The fourth figure was more representative of his 
species, yet seemed to have a peculiar hump on his back and a face that 
contained only a pair of eyes.
One of the heavily suited men tapped Holman on the shoulder. This was as far as 
they dared to go; the rest was up to him. His voice was muffled through the 
smog-mask as he gave them the thumbs-up sign and said, "Okay." The three 
scientists couldn't have heard him anyway through their glass-visored helmets. 
The aperture for vision was very small and they had to swivel their heads to see 
one another, and even then the fog was so thick it was difficult to see more 
than two yards ahead.
It was clearer for Holman who was not wearing a suit, but still the farthest he 
could see was about five yards. The heavily clad figure who had tapped him on 
the shoulder handed him the handle to the trolley. By pressing a button
158 
in the tip of the handle, the small but heavy motorized vehicle would propel 
itself along, restricted in its speed by the person who controlled its power. 
Holman looked into the inscrutable mask of the scientist, trying at least to see 
the man's eyes, but gave up, unable to penetrate the dark interior of the 
reinforced glass visor. Instead, he patted the man's arm once in a gesture of 
thanks.
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 
overt 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,
159 so still and incredibly beautiful in her trancelike 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 
the source of energy seemed to be coming from somewhere near the old cathedral. 
The trolley that trailed along behind him like a faithful dog contained a 
lead-lined box that operated on the same principle as a vacuum cleaner. Attached 
to its
160 side were several lengths of metal tubing that when assembled and joined to 
a tough flexible hose from the container could be used as a rod, fifteen feet in 
length, which could be probed into the nucleus of the mutated mycoplasma and a 
sample drawn back into the holder. It was a hastily conceived plan, but the only 
one available to them in so short a time.
Summoning up his courage, Holman turned into the street that would lead him into 
the small 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 maneuver 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 jeweler'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 easy 
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 that 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 center 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 virus, was 
it housed within the great church?
161 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 squinted and peered into the brighter mist. The 
air was much harder to breathe in, the acidity burned his nostrils and throat. 
He reached for the oxygen mask that was 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 toward the source of the glow. It was at its strongest at the 
center of the cathedral's vast interior, near the altar. It seemed to have no 
definable shape, its outer edges constantly changing their line and only visible 
because of the sudden contrast in yellows: the apparently clear, clean yellow of 
the nucleus itself, against the murkier, grayer yellow of its protective screen, 
the fog. It was impossible to tell the size of the strangely writhing shape, his 
vision was too impaired by the surrounding layers of fog, but its very existence 
seemed to exude a malignancy, a malevolent growth that was frightening, yet 
perversely fascinating.
It was only with an extreme effort of will that Holman tore his eyes away from 
the eerie spectacle and knelt down
162 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 virus, so he 
closed his mind to it. The moment of truth would be on him soon enough and he 
would either walk toward 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 defense. 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 toward 
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 stopped 
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.
163 
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 onto 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, 
a cackling, hysterical laugh. The third man materialized from the mist and stood 
by his side and began to laugh with his companion. Suddenly, they reached down 
and grabbed Holman by his ankles and started to drag him along the stone floor 
toward the glow. He tried to kick his legs free, but their grips were firm and 
his efforts made them laugh even louder. His hands scrabbled for a grip but the 
old stone was smooth from centuries of wear. As he passed the injured man his 
body came in contact with the heavy candlestick. He snatched at it desperately 
and thought he'd lost it when it rolled away from him. Fortunately it was 
stopped by the prone man's foot and Holman was able to seize it. He drew it to 
him and was about to hurl it at one of his assailants when the man he thought 
he'd put out of action raised himself to his knees with a demented roar, saw 
Holman, and threw himself at him, his teeth bared to be used as a weapon.
Holman managed to get an elbow under the man's throat and keep the gnashing 
teeth away, twisting his own head away at the same time. There were cries of 
rage from the
164 other two as their progress was halted. They dropped Holman's legs and began 
to kick at the two struggling bodies, oblivious to friend or foe. One of them 
grabbed at the first man's hair and yanked his head back beating at his face 
with his other hand.
It gave Holman the chance he needed. He struck at the exposed throat with his 
heavy weapon and crushed the man's windpipe, instantly sickened by his own 
action. But there was only time for momentary regret for the other two now 
directed their attention completely toward him again.
He pushed the dying man away and pulled at the ankle of one of the others, 
bringing the startled man crashing to the floor. The third man caught Holman 
from behind and put his arms around his neck, squeezing his throat, trying to 
choke him to death. Because of his higher position, his head was above Holman's 
and saliva from his wildly grinning mouth trickled down onto Holman's gasping 
face.
Holman felt as though his head was about to explode. As he weakened, he was 
conscious of the man's insane chuckle and as his vision began to swim, he saw 
the man he'd brought down raise himself on one elbow and lie there laughing at 
him. Vaguely, almost remotely, he realized he still held the candlestick. With 
both hands, he brought its wicked point swiftly up to the only vulnerable spot 
he could reach. The man's scream and the sudden spurt of blood that gushed down 
onto Holman's face added new horror to the nightmare. The pressure on his throat 
was released and he sucked in the foul air greedily as his attacker fell away 
from him.
The remaining man was pointing a shaking finger at them, laughing hysterically.
It was too much for Holman. He staggered to his feet and ran from the cathedral.
Once outside, he fell to his knees on the gravel path, but the pounding 
footsteps behind him made him stumble on again into the thick blanket of fog, 
thankful for its concealing refuge. He found himself running on grass, 
regardless of the danger of possible collision with hidden trees or. 
gravestones. His only thought was to get away, away from those madmen, away from 
the mutation, away from the cathedral. To get away from the fog, to be with 
normal people again. His mission was forgotten, his instinct for self-survival 
his only driving force. He did not even feel the sudden gustiness
165 
of the wind or see that the swirls had become more vigorous in their movements.
He slipped on the wet grass and as he stumbled forward, desperately trying to 
keep his balance, he ran into a tree. His head struck it with a loud crack and 
he slowly crumpled against it, sinking to his knees and then sprawling onto the 
grass.
As his consciousness slipped away from him, he was aware of a shadowy figure 
appearing from the mist and standing over him. The deep-throated chuckle was the 
last sound he heard before he blacked out.
They found the lunatic trying to bury Holman alive. The fog had cleared from the 
town, swept away by a sudden unpredicted force of wind and rain, and the 
helicopters hovering around the fringes of the thick blanket swooped down to 
search for him. As one circled the cathedral, it came across the figure of a man 
digging. At least, that was what the pilot thought the man was doing, but as he 
swept over him, he realized he was, in fact, filling in a deep hole. A crew 
member slapped his shoulder vigorously.
"Get down there, quickly!" he shouted above the noise of the helicopter's 
engine. "There was a body in that hole. That man's trying to bury it!"
As they landed, the small-time crook who had been amazed at the chance of having 
the whole town of Winchester to himself to plunder undisturbed with his two 
cronies, and was now insane because of this ill-seized opportunity, ignored the 
descending machine and happily continued filling in the pit he had dragged the 
unconscious man toward. The hole had been left by workmen who had just begun to 
dig a grave that was to house the remains of an important church dignitary whose 
last wishes were to be buried in the shadow of his beloved cathedral. The work 
had been interrupted by the sudden evacuation order and the burial that was to 
have taken place later on in the day was now replaced by a far less dignified 
ceremony.
Holman lay at the bottom of the open grave where he'd been roughly dumped. There 
was a large swelling on his forehead caused by his fall against the tree, and 
only the earth falling onto his body prodded his unconscious state, making him 
stir, a low moan escaping from his lips. As he raised a hand to his head, his 
eyes still closed, and opened
166 his mouth to groan even louder, a shovelful of damp earth landed on his 
face, making his eyes suddenly blink open only to close again instantly as the 
loose soil ran into them.
He spluttered and choked as the earth fell into his open mouth and ran down his 
throat. He tried to sit up, but his head was still not clear enough to allow it, 
so instead, he ran his hands over his face in order to clear off the dirt. He 
could feel the clumps of earth still landing on his body and his mind struggled 
to understand what was happening. It was only the chuckling sound that broke 
through his stupor and brought him fully to his senses.
He opened his eyes again, this time cautiously keeping them covered with his 
fingers. He saw the edges of the trench above him and then caught sight of the 
figure that was shoveling the dirt onto him. He suddenly realized where he was 
and what was happening. The man was burying him alive!
Panic stricken, he clutched at the loose earth at the sides of the pit and 
pulled himself to an upright position. With a snarl of anger, the man above him 
raised his shovel to strike down at him to prevent his leaving his premature 
grave.
He raised an arm to ward off the blow, closing his eyes, knowing there was not 
room enough to allow him to dodge it. But it never came. He heard voices 
shouting and then scuffling noises. When he opened his eyes, all he could see 
through the open rectangle of earth above him was the gray, disturbed sky. He 
became aware of the rain that was beating down into the hole, its soothing 
wetness serving to revive his senses even more. He drew his knees up, preparing 
himself to fight off any further attack.
Suddenly a face appeared, breaking into the rectangle of sky. It grinned, and 
its voice said, "This is no time to lie down on the job, Mr. Holman."
A hand was extended to help him climb from his gruesome resting place.
167 
Holman was filled with apprehension as he walked down the long corridor toward 
Observation Room 3 in which, he had been informed, Casey was now resting. He 
hadn't been able to see Janet Halstead on his return to the research center for 
she'd been working through the night organizing her staff as well as hospitals 
throughout the country for the emergency and still finding time to supervise 
Casey's treatment, but now she was snatching a necessary few hours' sleep. 
Another doctor had told him the radiology therapy had gone well and now they 
were waiting for Casey to come out of a deep slumber before they could tell if 
it had been successful.
Holman needed sleep, too. His experience that morning had left him drained; the 
memory of regaining consciousness and finding himself in a grave with a madman 
shoveling in earth to bury him almost outweighed the other horrors he'd been 
through. Being buried alive was surely a nightmare that most people had had at 
some time, but very few had actually experienced it
The army had flown him back to London by helicopter, realizing he would not be 
persuaded to go back into the fog again that day. Professor Ryker and, of 
course, Barrow,
168 who was still acting as his bodyguard, flew with him. Ryker had naturally 
been disappointed when he had returned without a sample of the mutated 
mycoplasma, but had understood the scare he'd been through and did not persist 
in urging Holman to try again. The unpredicted change of weather was moving the 
fog too rapidly anyway for him to be able to locate its center.
Towns that lay ahead of it, directly in its path, were being evacuated, but 
fortunately, the direction in which it was moving was not too densely populated. 
Police and army vehicles, guided by the watchdog helicopters, raced before the 
rolling gray mass, stopping at small villages and remote houses and bundling 
their occupants into the vans and trucks, and once full, veering off at a right 
angle, away from the danger. Then they would unload their human cargo and speed 
back, using a different route, to repeat the process. It was exhausting and 
harrowing, and already many serious accidents had occurred, but on the whole, it 
was proving successful.
Unfortunately, it was a process that could not be maintained indefinitely and 
the men controlling the operation dreaded the unavoidable moment it would reach 
a large town. They prayed that the wind would not change its easterly direction 
and carry the fog toward Basingstoke, Farnham, Aldershot London.
The biggest worry at the moment was Haslemere, the largest town directly in the 
path of the fog, but already it was being emptied of its occupants, most of the 
people fleeing north, unwilling to go south because of the fear of being trapped 
by the sea, the fate of Bournemouth inhabitants influencing their choice. They 
could not be convinced that their fears were unwarranted--the fog was still only 
a mile wide and could easily be skirted--and the roads north were jammed with 
vehicles of every description as well as panic- stricken people on foot.
The Prime Minister had arrived back in London and was directing operations with 
the help of his chief military, scientific, and medical advisers, from a special 
operational headquarters, a vast, impenetrable underground shelter, less than a 
mile from the House of Commons, its actual location kept a strict secret from 
the general public. It was already being prepared for occupation if the fog 
should head toward London. It had been built as a sanctuary from 
169 
nuclear bombs, but now it would be used as a shelter from a totally unimagined 
threat, and its defenses against radiation poisoning would serve just as well 
against the deadly man-made disease.
The proposal to build huge fires in London to disperse the fog if it entered the 
city was considered and the go- ahead for their preparation given on the 
understanding that they were only to be used as a last resort; the danger of the 
whole of London going up in uncontrollable flames was a frightening possibility 
that could not be ignored. But it was at least a positive action. The 
demoralizing chess game that was being played with the fog farther south could 
not go on forever and the public had to see they were being given some form of 
physical protection, however crude.
They, the public, were informed that an antidote was being prepared and large 
quantities would soon be available; they were told the disease itself was 
weakening and would probably soon die or be so diluted with pure air, it would 
be ineffective; it was confirmed that the experts believed the organism had 
mysteriously drifted in from the sea and a full inquiry into its source would be 
put into force as soon as the crisis was over.
They were lied to because the government thought it best; large-scale panic 
would only increase the danger to lives. The truth could be told--or at least 
some of it--when the threat had passed.
Those responsible would pay the penalty--but not publicly.
Steps would be taken so that a disaster of this nature and magnitude could never 
happen again.
Holman had discussed with Ryker the fact that the mutated mycoplasma had been 
trapped inside the cathedral. Or had it taken shelter? Was it feasible, was it 
remotely possible, that the mutation had some sort of driving force? Could it 
have--Holman had hesitated to say it--could it have intelligence? After all, it 
was a parasite that fed on the brain.
Professor Ryker had laughed, but it was without humor. "Every living thing has 
some driving force, Mr. Holman. Even plant life has some intelligence--it's a 
matter of degree. But to suggest this organism has a will, a brain It
has a motivation for survival, perhaps, just as a flower reaches toward the sun, 
but a mind of its own? No, Mr.
170 Holman, don't let your harrowing experience this morning send you into the 
realms of fantasy. The mycoplasma does not control the fog; when the wind took 
the protective cloud away, the mycoplasma had to go too, trapped in its center, 
caged by its own protection. It exercised no power over its cloak of fog, it 
gives it no direction. It is a mindless, organic thing, incapable of action by 
thought."
"But action by instinct?" Holman had interrupted.
"Yes, perhaps."
"Maybe it amounts to the same thing."
Ryker had spent the rest of the journey in silence, deep in thought, 
occasionally shaking his head as though to dismiss a theory, then his forehead 
wrinkled in concentration as a new thought was processed and again rejected.
Barrow had accompanied Holman to the research center after Holman had given his 
report to the Home Secretary in person, promising he would attempt to procure 
some of the mycoplasma as soon as conditions were favorable. They would be in 
constant radio contact until that moment arrived and when it did, he would be 
flown to the spot immediately. It was suggested that he be positioned in a place 
directly in line with the fog's center so that it would pass right over him, but 
Holman had rejected the idea vehemently. If there was no other way, then he 
would do it, but he was damned if he would confront the mutation when it was 
moving swiftly, giving him little chance to maneuver around it.
At another time, he would probably have taken the risk, but at that moment, his 
nerves were somewhat taut, and he was in no mood to repeat that morning's 
performance. He was also anxious to see Casey, to find out whether the 
experiment had worked, to know if she would become a vegetable or return to her 
normal self.
The Home Secretary wisely but reluctantly refrained from ordering him to carry 
out his request knowing the man would be more useful in a better condition. In 
the meantime, gadgets could be set up in the fog's path, containers that could 
be operated by remote control to close when sensors relayed the message that the 
source was in the vicinity. It was a hit-and-miss method, but the only one 
available at that time.
The rising trepidation Holman felt reached its peak when he turned the handle of 
the door marked "3." Through its
171 
glass upper portion he could see the pale figure lying still in the bed. A nurse 
sat at her bedside ready to call in Janet Halstead at the first signs of 
consciousness. She smiled as Holman entered.
"How is she?" he asked.
"She's been sleeping peacefully enough," the nurse replied, "but she had to be 
heavily drugged for the radiology and the blood transfusion. I'm afraid she was 
a bit violent"
"Can I stay with her for a while?"
"Yes, of course." The nurse rose from her seat, still smiling at him. "I'll 
leave you for a little while, but if she wakes, press this button. I can promise 
you, this room will be full of people in a flash. We're all rather anxious to 
find out the result of the radiology."
"Are the signs good?"
"Oh, the signs are good, but frankly, Mr. Holman, we just don't know. I'm sure 
Mrs. Halstead has explained."
Holman nodded and sat in the chair she had just vacated. The nurse left the room 
after checking the girl's pulse for the sixth time since she'd been on duty, her 
face noncommittal to Holman's stare.
He sat watching Casey's face for several minutes, her frailty causing him 
concern. She had been through so much it seemed impossible that she would ever 
be the same again even if the parasite had been vanquished. When her eyes 
opened, would she recognize him or would they still hold that lost, faraway 
glaze that was so haunting, so terrible? He knew her wrists were strapped to the 
sides of the bed beneath the white sheets and the knowledge made his own eyes 
fill with tears he was unable to shed. He wished it were possible for him to 
cry, to find release for his emotions, but tears were a luxury he hadn't enjoyed 
for many, many years.
He reached forward to stroke her face, the desire to weep not conquered, but 
unwillingly suppressed, the incapability a burden rather than a strength.
He touched her lips with his hand, then her cheek, then her throat. She stirred, 
a slight frown creasing her forehead, but her face relaxed again and became 
peaceful. He spoke her name, not to wake her, but because he needed to say it, 
and for an instant her eyelids flickered. And then they opened.
They found his, and for an instant they gave no sign.
172 He froze, and for that tiny second, nothing existed, nothing was real, and 
there was no time and there were no questions.
Then the eyes became a person's because emotion was filtering through them, 
feelings reflecting what lay beyond, and they smiled and her lips smiled with 
them.
"Why do you call me Casey, John?" she asked, and fell back into a deep sleep 
again.
Janet Halstead was delighted when Holman told her of Casey's words. She couldn't 
be sure until Casey had recovered consciousness fully, but it seemed "fairly 
certain that her brain would function normally once she had. Janet urged Holman 
to snatch a couple of hours' sleep, promising to wake him as soon as Casey came 
out of her slumber. She found him a quiet room containing a couch and left him 
resting while she went back to study Casey's chart.
It was three hours later that Barrow shook his shoulder to wake him.
"She's awake, Holman, and she's fine," he told him.
With a grin, Holman sat up and rubbed his face. "Hell," he said, "I need a 
shave."
"I don't think she'll mind."
"Any new developments with the fog?" he asked the policeman as he hurriedly 
slipped on his jacket.
"Plenty, but I'll tell you after you've seen the girl."
When Holman reached Observation Room 3, Casey was sitting up in bed talking to 
Janet Halstead. Her face lit up as he walked through the door and in a second 
they were in each other's arms, Holman smothering her face with kisses. Janet 
smiled at Barrow and they discreetly left the room.
"You're all right!" Holman laughed, breaking away from the tight embrace at 
last.
Yes, yes, I'm all right."
"Do," he hesitated, "do you remember anything?"
"A few things, John." She became serious, her eyes averting his. "I remember 
trying to kill you."
He drew her toward him and said nothing.
"It's all so unclear," she went on. "Different images going through my mind, all 
mixed up, none of it real." She clung to him, tighter.
"My father..." Her voice drifted off.
"Casey," Holman began.
173 "He's dead, isn't he?"
Holman was stunned into silence. She remembered that? Finally he said, "Yes, 
Casey, he's dead."
"He wasn't my father."
Again, Holman fell into inadequate silence.
"He told me, John, just before I killed him. He told me he loved me . . . but it 
was more than a father's love. He ... he wanted me." She began to weep now, her 
body trembling, but the tears were of sadness and not remorse. "I don't feel it 
yet. I feel sorry for him, but for some reason it's not really affecting me the 
way it should. Why, John? Am I still mad?" She pulled away and looked at him 
imploringly. "Tell me, John, am I still insane?"
"No, darling," he said, cupping her face in his hands. "It'll hit you later." 
And God help you when it does, he thought "You've been through too much. Your 
mind's protecting you. The pain will find you soon enough. Don't go looking for 
it"
She cried out then and buried her head against him, her body now convulsing with 
her sobs. He held her tightly to him, knowing the hurt was seeping through, his 
words had spurred it to.
"I loved him, I loved him so much! How can I ever live with what I've done?"
"It wasn't your fault, Casey. You weren't responsible."
"And you, John. I tried to kill you. Can you forgive me?"
"I told you, darling, you weren't responsible."
"Am I really all right now? Am I really better?"
"Yes, of course you are. And I'll help you forget, Casey, I promise I'll help 
you forget."
It would take a long time to heal the wound she'd inflicted upon herself, but he 
knew she was strong enough to get over it. Maybe the fact that Simmons' motives 
were not entirely pure would help, or maybe it would make matters worse. There 
was no way of knowing. It would be up to Casey, and up to him to make up for 
part of that love she'd lost.
He talked to her quietly for a long time, the intensity of his words breaking 
through her barrier of remorse, reaching, searching, until she began to respond 
with feelings other than self-pity. "What's going to happen now?" she finally 
asked.
"They want me to go back into the fog for the mycoplasma."
174 
"Why? Why you? Janet told me about the mutation and how it's causing the 
madness. But who wants you to get it? And why does it have to be you?"
Briefly, he told her of the events that had passed, of the disasters, of his 
immunity, and the fact that she would now be immune. He told of the disease, of 
its origin, of the blind foolishness that had freed it. He barely mentioned his 
experience that morning, not wanting to give her cause for even more concern, 
merely telling her he'd been unable to locate the source.
She listened in quiet horror, occasionally shaking her head in disbelief, the 
rising fear inside her only slightly quelled by the knowledge that she was 
presumably now immune.
They were interrupted by Janet Halstead who bustled into the room, a tight smile 
betraying her tiredness. "We still have a few more tests to make on Miss 
Simmons, John, and then I think she should get some rest. Your policeman is 
anxious to have a word with you, I believe."
Holman kissed Casey and promised to return as soon as he was allowed. Casey 
wanted to tell him not to go back to the fog, to stay nearby, to take her away 
as soon as she was strong enough, but she knew her words would be wasted. And 
she knew the lives of many others depended on him. Despite all the technological 
advances of science, it seemed survival still depended on the action of a man. 
One man.
Barrow was waiting for him in the corridor outside. They want you to go in 
again," he told Holman.
"But what about the contraptions they set up to contain it?"
"Didn't work. The mutation itself just didn't cross their paths. At the moment 
they're still spraying the fog with calcium chloride, hundreds of tons of it, 
and it seems to be receding. They want you out there and ready to go in when 
they've dispersed it as much as they can."
"What about the wind? Has it dropped?"
"It's not as bad as it was."
"All right. Since I have no choice, I'll choose to try again."
The helicopter flew them to a point east of Haslemere where they were met by 
Hermann Ryker, William DouglasGlyne, and Lieutenant-General Sir Keith Macklen. 
The men were standing among a group of vehicles that held a high vantage point 
overlooking the surrounding countryside. Holman was impressed by the constant 
stream of light aircraft
175 that flew over the distant cloud of fog, which looked even more ominous in 
the evening gloom.
Douglas-Glyne strode toward him, his hand outstretched. "Valiant effort this 
morning, Mr. Holman," he said, grasping Holman's hand.
Holman grinned wryly at the insincerity of the words. "Sorry I couldn't pull it 
off," he said.
"Not to worry. Better luck next time, eh?"
Sir Keith Macklen joined them and said bluntly, "You have to try again. It's 
absolutely vital that you bring us back some of the bloody stuff."
"Yes," said Douglas-Glyne. "We sent two volunteers in a couple of hours ago out 
of desperation. They were well protected with suits and used an army scout 
vehicle to go in. We lost radio contact with them about an hour ago."
"So it's up to you now," said Sir Keith.
"Gentlemen," broke in Professor Ryker's voice as he walked over at a leisurely 
pace, "there is nothing Mr. Holman can do for the moment. We do not want to stop 
the spraying now that it seems to be taking effect, and Mr. Holman could hardly 
walk into such a heavy concentration of calcium chloride. Unfortunately, we have 
not dispersed the fog as much as I thought we would and it will be dark shortly, 
which would make his task even more hazardous."
"But there are thousands of lives at stake," said Sir Keith gruffly.
"Precisely. That is why Mr. Holman is so valuable to us. We cannot take 
unnecessary risks with his life--particularly now we know there are definitely 
two lunatics wandering around out there."
"But we don't know that "
"Yes we do!" Ryker said angrily. "It was on your insistence, Sir Keith, that 
they went in. I advised against it, I told you what would happen. I will not 
allow Mr. Holman to risk his life because of your misjudgment! He means too much 
to the whole operation."
"But we can't just stand by and do nothing," DouglasGlyne fumed.
"We are not doing nothing. We will spray the fog all night, for as long as our 
supplies last. By early morning, it should have depleted enough for us to see 
the actual mycoplasma --if it is still visible without its protective mist In 
the mean
176 time, Mr. Holman, I suggest you try to sleep and we'll call you when the 
time is right"
Once again, Holman found Barrow shaking him into reluctant consciousness in the 
early hours of the following morning. He had watched the fog for hours the 
previous night as the fleet of cars and army vehicles had slowly trundled after 
it like a funeral procession searching for a graveyard, and had finally fallen 
into a heavy, dreamless sleep in the back of the car he was traveling in, woken 
only once when shouts of alarm had passed down the convoy. The bodies of the two 
scientists who had gone in to the fog earlier had been found; the signs 
indicated that they had killed each other with the guns they had carried for 
protection against attacks from any individuals who had not escaped the fog. 
Sleep had recaptured him almost immediately, but it had been filled with 
grotesque figures which his eyes were somehow never able to focus on.
He was confused at Barrow's statement and had to ask him to repeat it, rubbing 
his eyes in an effort to become fully awake.
"I said, the fog has gone," said Barrow slowly, emphasizing each word. "It's 
disappeared."
177 SEVENTEEN
Corporal Wilcox cursed as he slid down the steep incline in the dark. The damp 
grass increased the speed of his descent and an unseen root caught his boot, 
spinning his body at an awkward angle. He heard the hoots of laughter from the 
two soldiers who had watched his uncontrolled progress from above as he came to 
an abrupt halt at the foot of the embankment.
"I'll bloody murder you two!" he shouted up at them as he crawled forward to 
retrieve his fallen torch. He shone it toward the two grinning figures. "Now get 
down 'ere, the pair of you!"
"Comin*, Corp," they replied in unison and, with a shout, they jumped together, 
switching off their torches as they did so.
He heard their crashing, giggling descent, swinging his beam away from them so 
they would be in complete darkness. Let the mad fuckers break their necks, he 
grumbled to himself.
They arrived at his feet and he had to jump back hastily to avoid being knocked 
over by their kicking legs. They lay on their backs, breathing hard and grinning 
up at him.
178 "Come on, get up," he ordered gruffly. "I don't know what's the matter with 
you two. You're like a couple of gigglin' fairies on a night out."
"Sorry, Eddie," the smaller of the two apologized with a smirk, "but my friend 
Bernard," he overemphasized the "ard," "always gets this way when it's past his 
bedtime."
"It's Corporal to you, Evans," said Wilcox, his dislike for the little cockney 
and his Manchurian companion evident in his tone. The pair of them were a 
constant thorn in his flesh, always taking the piss, but never quite 
overstepping the mark so he could put them on a charge--or belt one of them. 
They didn't even have to say anything, their stupid, mocking faces were enough 
to make him feel a cunt.
They picked themselves up, brushing themselves down and groaning at imagined 
bruises.
"What we coom down 'ere for anyway, Corp?" asked Private Buswell, his droning 
accent a further irritant to Wilcox. "It's only a bloomin' railway track."
"Orders are that every square inch of ground is to be covered!" the Corporal 
snapped, swinging his torch along the lines that were no longer silver but dull 
and rusty.
"Anyway, it's gone, innit," Evans stated disgustedly. "I mean, we been lookin' 
for two bleedin' days now!"
"They think it's gone. We're lookin' to make sure."
"Yeah, but that spray stuff cleared it, Didn't it?" insisted Evans.
"I told you, they think so."
"Well, they couldn't 'ave just lost it, could they?" drawled Buswell.
"No, but it was funny 'ow it just vanished," said Wilcox. "I mean, they'd been 
sprayin' it all day and the stuff was workin', but all of a sudden, it wasn't 
there anymore. The thing in the middle, I mean."
"Yeah, well, what is it then, this thing in the middle? It's supposed to be a 
bug, innit?" Evans asked, switching on his own torch, pointing it at the sky to 
see how far its beam traveled.
"The disease, that's what it is. They want to make sure that's gone an' all."
"Yeah, well I don't fancy findin' it."
"Don't worry, we don't have to go near it," Wilcox reassured him, then added 
disdainfully, "anyway, you two
179 
bleeders are potty enough. It wouldn't have any effect on you."
"Quite right, Corp," grinned Evans. "Me and Bernard are right nutters, so I'd 
watch us close seeing as we've got bullets for our rifles."
"Yeah, Corp," said Buswell, his smiling expression turning into one of 
puzzlement, "why've we got ammunition?"
"Just in case, Buswell. Just in case we run into real lunatics."
"You don't mean we'd 'ave to shoot them?"
"If we found the glow and ran into any trouble that might prevent us reportin' 
its location, then we're to use our own discretion, of course."
"Ooh, makes me feel all cold," shivered Evans. "Come on, let's 'ave a fag."
"Always the fuckin' same, you two. It's me who cops it if the Sarge finds us. 
He's around 'ere somewhere," Wilcox moaned.
"Nah, he's a long way off. Let's walk up a bit, find a nice secluded spot."
Corporal Wilcox stepped into the center of the lines and began to walk forward, 
playing his torch along the sleepers ahead of him. The other two fell in behind 
him, Evans whistling an off-key tune.
" 'Ere! We not gonna' get run down, are we?" He broke off his whistling to ask 
the question.
"Don't be bloody daft. This is a disused track. You can see by the grass it 
hasn't been used for years. And look at the rust on the lines."
"Just checkin', Corp."
Wilcox heard Buswell's snigger from behind and snorted with weary annoyance. 
"Why the hell do I always get shouldered with you two piss artists?"
They marched on to the accompaniment of Evans' tuneless whistle, searching the 
steep embankments on either side with their torches.
"How coom it glows then, this stuff?" asked Buswell after awhile.
"Radiation innit," Evans told him.
"Who said it was radiation?" Wilcox stopped and turned to look at him.
"Stands to reason, dunnit." The amusement never left his eyes. "It glows, so 
they tell us. It eats away people's brains.
180 It's driftin' around the country at its leisure and they can't stop it. All 
adds up."
"Yeah, well how would radiation come from the sea?" asked the Corporal 
belligerently.
"Oh gawd! You don't believe that, do you?" said Evans, his turn to be disgusted. 
"They rely on pricks like you to believe the stories they put out."
"Watch it, Evans, or you'll be on a charge."
"All right, Corp, don't get nasty. Come on, let's keep going."
They continued marching, Evans expounding on his theory, "You see, they've done 
it, the scientists. They've 'ad an accident at one of their atomic power plants 
and now they're doin' a cover-up. This bloody fog, in actual fact, is a bloody 
radiation cloud, right Bernard?"
"Right, Professor."
"That earthquake, the other day. Now what d'you think that was?"
"An earthquake," said Buswell brightly.
"Oh, shut up, turd-brain. That, Corp, was an underground explosion. And for all 
we know, it was an atomic explosion. And for all we know, that's where this 
radiation come from." He nodded his head in appreciation of his own theory.
"You do talk rubbish, Evans," said Wilcox, his attention now directed at the 
black shape looming ahead of them.
"Yeah," muttered Evans under his breath, "and it's silly sods like you that 
never learn."
Wilcox stopped abruptly again, causing Evans to bump into him, and Buswell to 
bump into Evans.
"There's a tunnel up ahead," he told them.
"Right. Let's 'ave a fag now, then," said Evans, already unbuttoning his tunic.
"You'll get me shot, you two," grumbled the Corporal, the other two interpreting 
his remark as one of assent. They squatted just inside the entrance to the 
tunnel, away from the searching eyes of the other soldiers that were heavily 
concentrated in the surrounding area. /
Evans shielded the flare from his match with a cupped hand, lighting Buswell's 
cigarette first and then his own. "Oh, sorry, Corp," he apologized insincerely, 
offering the light toward Wilcox.
Wilcox ignored him and huffily lit his cigarette with his own matches. He sat on 
the rail opposite the two privates.
181 "All right, know-all," he said acidly to Evans. "Tell me something: if this 
thing we're lookin' for is radiation, why can't they find it with detectors?" He 
leaned forward, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
"Because, my old fruit, they've already got rid of it," said Evans returning the 
smile smugly.
"What, with a bloody spray?" Wilcox sat upright, shaking his head at the 
private's stupidity.
"That's right. We don't know what the spray was, do we? They said it was to 
clear the fog, but what they really meant was it was to clear the radiation."
"Gawd 'elp us," sighed Wilcox, looking toward the roof of the tunnel.
"No, no," Evans insisted. "We don't know, do we? We don't know what they've 
invented. Stands to reason they'd 'ave thought of something to get rid of 
radiation. They've 'ad enough time to."
Wilcox snorted again and Buswell sniggered.
"We're the cannon fodder, mate," Evans went on. "They've sent us in to make sure 
it 'as cleared up."
"Without detectors?"
"Without detectors. They don't want people to know it's radiation, do they?"
"Christ!" Wilcox gave up. Evans' absurd logic had been a source of irritation 
and frustration to him for a long time now, but sometimes it became unbearable. 
"I'm gonna' 'ave a quick look up the tunnel, then we'll be on our way." He could 
have sent either of the two men but couldn't face the protests as to why they 
shouldn't and, besides, he felt the need to be away from them even if it was 
only for a few seconds.
Bloody misfits, he cursed inwardly, as he trudged down into the blackness. They 
hadn't joined the army for a career as he had. They'd joined because they wanted 
an easy life--free food, free lodgings, and someone else to make the decisions 
for them. "The Professionals! The Shirkers!" was more like it. Any chance they 
had to get out of doing their job, they'd grab at it. They'd got him into enough 
trouble in the past, these two, that's why he wasn't a sergeant yet. You'd think 
after six bloody years he'd have made sergeant! He'd been in line for it this 
year until these two monkeys had latched on to him. Why him? What was so 
fascinating about him that they had to make themselves a
182 
nuisance around him? The time they'd got him pissed in Germany while they were 
on guard duty. They'd started off by persuading him to have just a quick one, 
then another, then another, till he didn't care anymore and had got so drunk he 
spewed up over the NCO's shiny boots When he'd come around on his inspection.
He'd almost got court-martialed over that; it was only the fact that the NCO was 
being returned to England the next day and didn't want to hang around for the 
trial that got him off. But he'd been made to pay for it in other ways.
Then there was the "nice, clean, little tart" they'd introduced him to in 
Hamburg. She even had a medical certificate to prove she was clean. He'd got the 
pox from her and the British army frowned on soldiers who got the pox, even 
though it happened all the time.
In Northern Ireland, they'd taken him to a "friendly little social club" not far 
from the barracks, where they'd be well received so long as they were in 
civvies. The three of them had nearly "well received" bullets in the backs of 
their heads on that occasion. It was only his prompt action of hurling a chair 
through a window, the three soldiers quickly following it, that had saved their 
lives. Evans had laid out the bitch who had invited them with a bottle before 
he'd leaped through, and that had cost him a glancing bullet on the side of his 
arse. It was a pity it hadn't gone right up it! The army hadn't been too pleased 
about that little episode either.
He supposed he'd been lucky, considering. The incidents--there were many more of 
them--were never quite enough to cause drastic action against him, but they all 
served to keep him down at his present rank.
The trouble was, he fell for it every time. They either swarmed their way around 
him or offered him a challenge. And he always gave in or rose to the bait He 
always had to prove he was one of the boys. Christ, this was a long tunnel!
He looked back and realized he must have rounded a bend for the torches of the 
two privates were no longer visible. He shone his torch ahead but all he could 
see was its bright reflection against the shiny damp wall. He must be at the 
center of the bend, unable to see back or ahead--and unable to be seen. Right, 
this is far enough, he thought to himself, stepping out of the track and leaning 
his rifle
183 against the wall. He began to unbutton his trousers, holding his torch 
between his upper arm and side. That was another thing! He couldn't even piss in 
front of them. Their mocking faces caused a mental block--or a block somewhere 
else. They knew the effect they had on him and sometimes would follow him out to 
the gents if they were in the Naafi or a club, and stand on either side of him, 
grinning, while his face grew redder and the cock in his hand more apologetic.
Even now, just the thought of them was preventing him from performing his body's 
natural function. Why did they have to make his life a misery? Just wait till he 
was made sergeant, then they'd pay for it Maybe that was it. Maybe they knew 
that and were trying to stop his progress. Bastards!
As he stared blankly at the wall two feet away from him, his features eerily lit 
in the throwback from his torch, his legs apart, his hands on his penis, his 
mind engrossed in bitter thoughts, he failed to notice the thick tentacles of 
mist that crept around his ankles like a wispy gray vine. The tentacles 
thickened into a layer of fog as they began to rise and slowly engulf his body.
"Eddie's a long time," Buswell commented, his cigarette beginning to burn the 
insides of his fingers in his effort to waste as little as possible.
'You'll get cancer doing that," Evans remarked. "It's the last bit that's got 
the most nicotine."
Buswell shrugged his shoulders. He would worry.
"Come on, Corp, what you doing? Having a wank?" Evans shouted into the darkness. 
There was no reply. "He's probably sulking," he said, once more resting his 
elbows on his knees and flicking his cigarette end into the gloom.
"Poor old Eddie. He takes it serious, doesn't he?" said Buswell.
"Yeah. He's all right, though. Just 'asn't really got what it takes. He's good 
for a laugh, though."
"D'you think hell ever get to be sergeant?"
"Nah, no chance! Every time there's a possibility, he fucks it up. Every time!" 
Evans smiled, his face looking evil in the torchlight. "Don't know how he does 
it"
"What d'you think this fog really was then, Ray?" Buswell asked him, knowing 
Evans always had several theories on any topic.
184 "Well, I tell you, Bernard, I don't fuckin' know. But I bet you one 
thing--it's man-made. It's got something to do with the pollution, I reckon. 
It's like those rivers where they've found thousands of dead fish, all because 
the bleedin* factories have dumped their rubbish into them. Well, this time, 
somebody's dumped somethin' into the air, y'see, gas or chemicals, I dunno what, 
but it's got out of hand. Like one of those 'orror films."
"Get away."
"Nah, I mean it. Somethin' got into the air and it was spreadin'. It ain't 
really fog, y'know. It's like, er, like vapor "
As he embroidered on his new theory which was occurring to him while he spoke, 
the fog, unseen in the dark, curled its way along the tunnel toward them. Just 
inside its fringes walked the figure of a man. He held a loaded rifle thrust 
before him as though it were bayoneted and he was advancing on a rioting crowd. 
He heard the voices that were coming from ahead and something stirred in his 
disturbed mind.
He saw the figures outlined in the glare of two torches. His own torch lay 
shattered between the railway lines far back inside the tunnel. He neared the 
two men and the words "Where you been?" meant nothing to him.
Slowly he raised the rifle and placed it against the forehead of one of the 
soldiers. Then he pulled the trigger.
The tunnel was filled with the roar from the gun and the scream of the other 
man. The brief flash lit the scene into a frozen moment that was impressed for 
seconds after it had vanished on the mind of the soldier who had screamed.
Buswell threw his torch at Corporal Wilcox, who still held the smoking rifle, 
his fixed gaze on the dead man who was slowly toppling backward. Still 
screaming, Buswell ran from the tunnel, leaving his rifle leaning against the 
dark wall. In his panic he made the mistake of trying to climb the steep 
embankment just outside the tunnel's entrance, his hands pulling out clumps of 
grass as he endeavored to pull himself up, his feet slipping on the damp earth.
His flailing arms caught at a small bush and, miraculously, it held his weight 
enabling him to scramble up several feet. He heard the sound of a bolt being 
shot, sharp and clear in the chill night air, and it drove him on to further 
exertion for he realized the gun was ready to be fired again.
185 
By sheer brute strength and blind defiance of the laws of gravity he almost 
reached the top of the incline.
His second mistake was to look back.
He saw the still figure at the foot of the slope staring op at him, not moving, 
not even raising his rifle.
Buswell sobbed and made a desperate lunge upward, stretching his arm in a vain 
effort to reach the top of the embankment, as though there was another arm ready 
to grip his and pull him to safety. His hand closed over grass which was 
instantly torn from the soft earth and his boots were dislodged from their 
precarious footholds. He began to sliver down, his scrabbling hands finding no 
purchase to halt his descent, his body pressed flat against the damp grass.
Slowly, slowly he slid down until his feet touched the bottom and carried on at 
right angles to his body so that he was almost in a kneeling position. The 
Corporal stood over him and raised the butt of his rifle.
The fog flowed from the tunnel, wispy and hesitant at first, but soon thick and 
swift. It swirled around the two soldiers and quickly enveloped them.
186 
Holman opened his eyes, his brain taking a few seconds to begin functioning 
normally. He stared up at the ceiling and allowed his thoughts to gather and 
settle, then turned toward the figure lying in his bed next to him. In the gray 
light that filtered through the drawn curtains her face looked as it used to be, 
calm, and hardly touched by life, but he knew, in harsh daylight, the faint 
beginnings of lines would be there, for she could not possibly have suffered the 
rigors of the past few days without their leaving some visible mark. And the 
wound left inside her would be much worse than any physical scar.
How different she looked from the last time she had been in his flat. Would he 
ever forget that deranged look of hatred on her face, the violence of her attack 
on him? Would he always be waiting for that look to return, unable to close his' 
mind to visions of the past, dreading that the disease was only lying dormant, 
lurking deep in the recesses of her brain, waiting for the moment to begin its 
evil, parasitical journey once again?
Janet Halstead had assured him Casey was completely cured, as was he, and there 
was no chance of the malignancy 
187 
ever returning, but it was difficult to rid himself of all his fears. Only time 
would do that.
He was grateful that the doctor had allowed him to bring Casey home. Although 
all the tests had been completed, both on himself and the girl, and their 
usefulness in that particular area had been diminished, she could have insisted 
that they both remain at the Research Center in case of any eventuality that 
might arise. But provided they reported in every day, Janet was happy to let 
them go, recognizing the need for them to retreat into their own privacy, to 
lick their wounds, to comfort one another. Medical treatment could only reach a 
certain point; after that, it was up to each individual's natural protective 
instinct to complete the cure.
Holman was on call at any time, although they had found no trace of the fog for 
two days now. The trail of havoc it had left behind it was appalling, for not 
everybody had been cleared from its path in time. The consequences of the fog 
were still occurring, for reaction to it took longer to manifest itself in some 
than in others. For many, the effect was immediate, causing instant madness, 
their brain cells crumbling rapidly against the onslaught of the mutated 
parasite. Many people were killed; many killed themselves.
On the first day of quiet, when the fog had inexplicably disappeared, the 
country had been left in a state of numbness. Then a stirring seemed to ripple 
through the land as the public demanded answers. What was the fog? Where had it 
come from? If it had come from the sea, what was its source? Had it really gone, 
and if so, could it possibly return? Were there still lunatics at large and what 
were the first symptoms? Had the government acted swiftly enough and what steps 
were being taken to insure that a disaster of this kind and magnitude would 
never happen again? Had a foreign power secretly experimented on Britain and was 
the country now being held to ransom by that power?
All these questions and many more had been asked and the government had to 
provide answers--and quickly. Today was the day for answers and reassurances. 
Even the truth had been considered by the special inner Cabinet who had full 
knowledge of the source, but the consideration was swiftly and easily rejected.
Holman's hand found the soft curve of Casey's waist and he dreaded the telephone 
call that might take him away
188 from her. The thought of going back into the fog was repugnant to him and he 
prayed it had been finally vanquished.
She stirred and snuggled toward him, a low murmur of peace escaping from 
slightly parted lips. His hand slid up her back and he pulled her further toward 
him until their bodies touched. Still half asleep, she pushed her leg between 
his and her arm encircled his waist, reaching down until her hand spread out 
over a buttock. He grew hard against her, slowly and sweetly, his penis pressed 
between her soft flesh and his own.
Awake now, but her mind still comfortably dulled, her senses racing ahead of it, 
her hand reached down and casually stroked the back of his leg. She sighed and 
spoke his name and he whispered his love to her, kissing her hair and forehead. 
She raised her head and her lips met his, moist, gently demanding. He parted 
their bodies so he could touch her breasts and her nipples were hard beneath his 
fingertips, eager to be awakened and risen from their small surrounding islands 
of flesh. His head came down to take one in his mouth, his lips closing over it, 
his tongue moistening its tip.
She moaned and her body stretched, her lower limbs pressing tight against him, 
his thigh filling her inner thighs. There had been no desire for lovemaking for 
either of them the night before; the memory of her father's death was too 
dominant in their minds. Their bodies had needed contact, but only to gain each 
other's warmth and solace, and they had soon fallen asleep, both wearied in body 
and spirit by the week's events.
Now the tiredness had gone from their bodies and their spirits were on the first 
step toward recovery, although for Casey, the step was small. She pulled her 
breast away from him, the very act of its withdrawal heightening her sensuality, 
and her teeth bit gently at his neck, then harder, drawing his blood toward the 
spot without breaking the skin.
A flicker of fear passed swiftly through his thoughts but was instantly subdued 
as her lips moved on, murmuring sounds of love, kissing his chest, closing over 
his own rigid nipple then moving over to its jealous companion. Her tongue 
traced a line between the muscles of his stomach, a tiny damp stream that ended 
in the well of his navel.
His penis rose quivering to meet her parted lips and 
189 
suddenly it was engulfed in a warm cavern, the soft entrance concealing a sharp 
ridge of teeth, but its interior containing a silky, ever-moving animal that 
smothered it in its welcome. Her lips moved down the length of him and back 
again in a steady, regular motion, her tongue always active, her teeth barely 
making contact. He shuddered at the sensation and his hands gripped her 
shoulders, moving with her, controlling her timing.
Before the shudders became frantic and the pleasure too exquisite, he withdrew 
himself from her and gently pulled her smiling face up to his, kissing her lips 
hard and passionately, the faint taste of his own body on her tongue exciting 
him even more.
His hand reached flatly toward her stomach and he ran his fingers downward 
through the small, tidy forest of hair until he found her other even more moist 
cave, silky smooth with its aroused lubricity. Her hips rose slightly and her 
thighs tautened as her knees bent and her heels dug into the bed. She relaxed, 
then tightened her muscles again, moaning as she twisted her head to one side. 
His fingers stayed near her entrance and teased her most sensual part, then 
stroking more firmly, understanding her body's demands.
This time it was Casey who drew him away before the ecstasy became too 
overwhelming. She pulled at his hip and he slid over her, entering her with 
measured ease, resisting his own urgency. The passage was smooth and he stopped 
only when his penis had traveled its full length, her hands tightly clenched on 
his buttocks, drawing him into her, desperate to claim every inch of him. She 
cried out as he began to move rhythmically, her lips frenziedly seeking his, 
then twisting her head away again into the pillow as the pleasure began its 
swift ascent. Her legs bent but did not close around him, unwilling to restrict 
his movements or her own upward thrusts. One of his hands reached up for her 
breast and crushed it cruelly, but the cruelty was derived from passion, and was 
understood and welcomed.
Her body-stretching release came seconds before his, but the warm fluid that 
finally flowed from him into her deepened her own satisfaction and she was 
pleased to receive the heavy weight of his body as it slumped against her when 
his movements had ceased. They lay still until their breathing had become steady 
and their hearts had slowed their
190 pace, she stroking the back of his head, he using his elbows to help ease 
his weight.
After a short while, he lifted himself from her, kissing her chest, flushed from 
her orgasm, and rolled onto his back. She turned sideways toward him, one arm 
across his chest to clasp his shoulder, one leg raised to rest on his.
She gazed at his relaxed face and drew a finger down his profile, stopping to 
run it the length of his mouth, then down again over his chin, past his neck, to 
come to rest on his chest where it nestled among dark hairs.
"You still haven't told me," she said after a while.
"What?" He looked down at her in surprise.
"You haven't told me."
"Told you what?"
"Why you call me Casey."
He began to chuckle. "You really want to know, do you?"
"Yes."
"No. You'll only get angry."
"Angry? You'd better tell me now!" She raised her head to look down at him.
"You're sure you want to know?"
"Yes!" Indignant.
"Well," he began, smiling and looking at her from the corner of his eyes, "when 
I was a kid, I used to have a dog..."
"A dog?"
"... and I used to call it Casey..."
"You called it..."
"... and when I saw you..."
"... Casey! You "
"... you had the same sad little eyes ..."
"... you "
". . . and they made me fall in love with you . . . and I knew I'd found 
something that would be precious again to me... and that's why I called you 
Casey."
She fell against him, half-laughing but ready to cry. He hugged her, still 
grinning, but strangely near to sadness himself.
"Imagine my delight when I found you were house-trained too."
And now, she did cry. She cried from happiness, sadness, and relief that they 
were together.
"Is it over now?"
191 "The fog? The nightmare? I just hope so. If it isn't, well I just don't know 
what else they can do about it."
"Surely they could find an answer."
"The calcium chloride must have been the answer. They just needed a lot of it."
"Why are they so reticent about announcing it?"
"Because they don't understand how the chemical could have destroyed the 
mycoplasma. On Ryker's advice, they've decided to play it cautiously, to wait 
until they're absolutely certain."
"And when will that be?"
"Who knows? When they've covered the area thoroughly, I suppose."
She shuddered and pressed closer to him. "Or when people stop going insane."
"They've got the cure now. Provided it doesn't happen again on a massive scale, 
they can cure anyone they find with the illness."
"Unless the victims kill themselves first"
He was silent. They'd been lucky, both of them, but the price they had to pay in 
memories was harsh. He knew there would be many silences between them now as 
they both remembered. It would take years for them to detach themselves from the 
dream, but because of their own personal experiences, they would be able to 
understand and help each other.
He looked down at her and her eyes met his. She, too, had been lost in her own 
thoughts. She smiled.
"I'm okay," she said.
He sat up then, resolving never to allow either of them sink too far into the 
quicksands of their memories. "I'll get some coffee."
"No," she pulled him down again, "you stay there. Let me do it."
He lay back and watched her naked figure slip into his discarded shirt. The 
shirt flapped large and seductively around her as she bent forward to kiss him, 
the glimpse of her small breasts beginning to excite him again. She walked 
around the bed toward the drawn curtains and once more the image of the last 
time he'd seen her in the darkened room leaped into his mind. But even now, the 
thought was becoming easier to push away.
192 She reached up and began to draw the curtains but she stopped midway and he 
saw her body stiffen.
"John . . ." he heard her say, half turning her head toward him but unable to 
tear her eyes away from the strangely subdued light that came from outside.
He leaped from the bed, already feeling the familiar coldness chilling his body. 
Reaching her side, he drew the curtain back at one side in a violent sweep, then 
stopped to stare at the scene that lay beyond.
"Oh God!" he gasped.
For there was no scene beyond. Just a gray blankness. A heavy, still blankness, 
tinged with yellow.
They stood in awe and dread of its obscuring density and were only dimly aware 
of the telephone that rang persistently from the room next door.
They had tried to warn the city of the approaching doom. It had appeared 
suddenly, a small cloud swept onward by a strong wind. After two days of 
searching, just when they had begun to relax, it appeared, at first bidden by 
the predawn mists, but then rising as though it had been lying in wait, 
mustering its forces, waiting for its new ally, the northeast wind. Many had 
panicked, for they were directly in the path of the swift moving cloud, and had 
scattered in three directions. The bravest remembered to radio their mobile 
operations base before and as they fled, but the majority were concerned only 
with self-preservation.
As the fog swept over the countryside, it gained magnitude. 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 inward toward the city.
The scattered army was regathered and the troops sped ahead of the fog, loud 
speakers 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.
193 Janet Halstead was aroused from her sleep by one of her assistants. She 
slipped on her robe and went through to the office that adjoined 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 center. 
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 toward his favorite 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 around 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 colorful 
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 toward 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 traveled
194 
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 the approaching fog as it gradually obscured the million 
lights, crawling forward, swallowing the town, piece by piece, until it reached 
the river just below him.
And then the river was gone and the fog was brushing against the large 
plate-glass window in front of him.
Dawn. McLellan, Holman's colleague at the Ministry of the Environment, stored 
from his bedroom window out at the fog. His eyes were heavy from unshed tears. 
He knew it was the fog, its yellowish tinge told him that. And he had been 
expecting it; his faith in his own government in times of crisis had never been 
great and he had expected them to bungle this.
He was much more aware of the danger than most of the general public for he had 
been closer to the strange occurrences through Holman and the dead Spiers, and 
many people still did not understand that it was not the fog that killed, but 
the madness it caused that drove people to their deaths.
He turned to look at his wife still snugly curled up beneath the bedclothes, 
asleep and vulnerable. As he thought of his children in the adjoining bedrooms, 
the tears of bitterness and frustration broke. How long would it take for the 
poison to work on their minds, to make them insane? What would it do to him? 
Would he be the one to take the lives of his own family? He struck out at the 
air blindly. There must be a way to protect them.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, taking care not to wake his wife, he tried to 
calm himself. There had to be an answer! Could he tie them up, or lock them in 
their rooms? But what about himself? What would protect them from him? Could he 
make sure they were protected from themselves and then go out and hopefully lose 
himself in the
195 fog? No, he couldn't leave them; it would seem like desertion. He had to 
think fast; God knows how long it took for the poison to take effect. For Spiers 
it had taken a day; for Holman, it was almost immediate.
Then he had the answer! It wasn't ideal, but it could give them a little time; 
time enough perhaps for the authorities to take some kind of action, time for 
them to start saving lives.
He went into his daughter's room and took the small toy blackboard from its 
easel, together with some chalk, carefully closing the door as he left so as not 
to disturb her. He went downstairs and, sitting on the bottom step, he chalked a 
message in large capitals on the board. Opening the front door, he placed the 
message on the doorstep, praying that it would serve its purpose. Then he went 
back upstairs and into the bathroom, taking the bottle of sleeping pills from 
the top shelf of the cabinet, the pills his wife sometimes found necessary to 
calm her from the rigors of raising three lively children. He filled a glass 
full of water and returned to his daughter's bedroom. He lifted her forward on 
the bed, ignoring her feeble, half-asleep protests, and forced her to take five 
of the pills. Kissing her forehead, he laid her down again and tucked her in, 
then repeated the same operation on the boys next door. Paul had been awkward, 
but at the promise of a staggering reward, he'd complied. The next part would be 
more difficult. He would have to wake his wife, Joan, and explain why he was 
doing this. Was it his imagination, or could he really feel the beginnings of a 
headache?
Joan wept and at first refused to take the pills, but after much persuasion and 
then pleading, she agreed. For himself, he took eight, not knowing what the 
fatal dose would be, but sure that the amount he had given to his family and 
himself was not too dangerous. Besides, under the circumstances, the risk had to 
be taken.
He climbed back into the warm bed and drew his weeping wife to him. They lay 
there, waiting for sleep to come.
Inna Bidmead always rose early. At seventy-three, her days were too short to be 
wasted on slumber. And her cats would be hungry.
She had thirteen cats, all of them strays that she had adopted. Or perhaps 
they'd adopted her. She would often
196 roam the streets late at night with a bagful of morsels and scraps for the 
cats she found in the back streets of Kennington. The cats knew her and 
recognized her tiny ragbag figure and hissing call as she trundled down the 
darkened streets and they would follow her until she decided she had a large 
enough gathering and stopped. Then she would feed them, talking to them, 
admonishing them for their greed, cackling at their antics to be the first to be 
fed.
Every few months there would be a van waiting at a prearranged spot, and a dozen 
or so of the cats would be piled into it and driven off to a South London 
hospital. The man who drove the van, the man she had the arrangement with, took 
the lion's share of the money paid by the hospital for the animals, but she 
still earned a nice little sum from it Animals for vivisection had always been a 
profitable business even though the RSPCA had got massive support behind their 
outcry against it, but because it was necessary, and the authorities knew it, 
they turned a blind eye.
And the money she earned from the deal went toward feeding her own cats. Because 
she loved her cats.
Irma was oblivious to the smell that leapt from the room as she opened the door; 
after a lifetime of living with the creatures, their odor was part of her own, 
and the fact that thirteen of them had been locked up together in a room all 
night had no effect on her insensitive nostrils at all.
"Hello, lovelies," she greeted them expecting them to run toward her, nuzzling 
against her ragged dressing gown in which she slept as they normally did each 
morning. But this morning, they remained aloof, neither moving nor making any 
sound.
In her annoyance, she failed to notice the yellowish mist that drifted in 
through the thin crack of the slightly opened window.
"Now what's the matter with you today?" she demanded to know, her irritation 
growing. "Showing off, are you? Well, you can feed yourselves!"
She stamped from the room and into the kitchen where she retrieved two stiff and 
pungent kippers from the sink. Muttering to herself, she flounced back to the 
cats' room and threw the kippers in.
'"Ere," she shouted, "an* don't choke on the bones, you're lucky to get 'em!" 
She trundled back into her room and climbed back into bed, pushing the 
comfortably curled-up
197 cat that always slept with her away from the warm spot. It bristled in 
annoyance, but soon settled down again. Irma called out to the other cats again, 
"Don't you come crawlin' around me when you've finished your fish! I don't want 
to know, I've got an "eadache" and then to herself as she pulled the covers up 
to her chin, "Ungrateful pigs! I should take them all up the "ospital, that's 
what I should do! Except you, Mogs, you love your old lady, don't yuh." She 
turned her head and smiled at the cat that purred next to her. "You're a good 
old girl, you are. Not like them others--all they want is feedin'! Ooh, my 'ead 
does ache today!" She closed her eyes to concentrate on the pain.
The cats ignored the fish and silently padded from their room and into Irma's 
where they waited at the foot of her bed as she began to doze off.
Chief Superintendent Wreford slumped down the stairs and entered the kitchen. 
Yawning freely, he filled the electric kettle with water and switched it on. 
God, he was tired! He'd worked long hours because of this wretched fog business 
and last night was the first he'd been able to take off. Hopefully, it was all 
over now and he'd be able to take a spot of leave. He congratulated himself in 
covering himself in the Holman affair. He could have chosen to dismiss the man 
as a crank, but experience had told him never to ignore warnings, no matter from 
what source. He'd played it right, not making his inquiries official; at least 
not until he'd found out there was some truth to the story, and then he'd jumped 
in feet first, claiming credit for precipitating proceedings before the terrible 
Bournemouth disaster.
I bet Barrow was choked, he smiled to himself as he emptied stale tea leaves 
from the pot into the sink. A bit too ambitious, that lad; he'd like to see me 
come unstuck.
He stood with one hand on the kettle and one hand on the pot as he waited for 
the water to boil, smiling at the wall before him. Still, he's not a bad lad. 
Bit brutal at times, but he'll mellow with experience and he's useful as he is 
for the moment. The emergence of steam from the kettle interrupted his thoughts 
and he poured the boiling water into the teapot, turning the switch off as he 
did so.
He went to the front door to collect the milk, eager for his first deep lungful 
of fresh air of the morning. It was a habit he'd acquired over the years, 
telling his wife it was the
198 only time one could get a decent breath of fresh air living in London. By 
nine o'clock the streets would be filled with fumes so he always made the most 
of his half-past seven deep breathing routine, standing on his doorstep for a 
full five minutes, taking in great gasps of air, while the tea in the kitchen 
brewed.
As he opened the door he was already drawing in his breath, and before he saw 
the fog, his lungs were half full of it
Detective Inspector Barrow slept. He'd had a heavy week and this had been his 
first break. Playing nursemaid to Holman hadn't suited him at all; there were 
better things for him to do in a crisis such as this, chances to prove himself, 
to make himself felt. Hadn't it been he who had brought Holman in in the first 
place? The man irritated him. True, Barrow had been rough on him at first, but 
as soon as he'd realized his mistake, he had tried to make it up to him. He'd 
protected the man when he'd been assigned as his bodyguard, had worried about 
him, tried to start up a more friendly relationship with him. After all, as a 
man immune to the disease, he was quite important, and if anything had happened 
to him while under Barrow's protection, it would have been Barrow who copped it 
in the neck. But Holman hadn't wanted to be friendly; he'd kept a distance 
between them, unwilling to forgive him for his past treatment.
Well, it probably didn't matter anymore, the scare seemed to be over. It had 
done a lot of damage but at least now it was under control--or so they said.
The thoughts had buzzed around his head the night before, a sure sign of extreme 
weariness, and he had gratefully sunk into his bed, for once unaccompanied by a 
girl. He had been too tired even for that.
He had immediately gone into a deep sleep and still slept as the somber gray 
light filtered through the fog into his bedroom.
Samson King made his way blindly through the fog. He'd lived in London since he 
was fifteen, but he'd never experienced fog like this before. It was a good 
thing he did not live too far from the bus depot or he would never have been 
able to find it As it was, he wasn't too sure he was
199 going in the right direction. He did not miss the sun of Jamaica as much as 
his old folks did for he could hardly remember the warm beaches and the deep 
green sea they described. No, he was used to the watery sun of England and even 
found the few days of intense heat that the country sometimes had uncomfortable.
Surely they wouldn't expect him to take the bus out in weather like this. 
Bernice hadn't even wanted him to report for work but he was afraid it might 
look bad on his record. He did not want to lose this job as he had with many 
others; it suited him being up there behind the wheel of the big red monster, 
totally in control, dwarfing and bullying the other traffic on the road.
Now, where was he? "Goddamn fuckin' weather!" he cursed aloud, needing to hear 
the sound of his own voice. He hadn't passed anyone in the fog and it gave him a 
peculiar feeling of not being flesh and bone, of being a wandering spirit in a 
murky void.
The depot should be across the road. The pedestrian crossing in front of him ran 
out halfway across the road, but he knew the bus station would be about fifty 
yards to the right of it. The crossing often helped him to get his bus out into 
the busy street for the flow of traffic often had to stop to allow people to 
cross.
He started forward, keeping a wary eye out for any approaching traffic and using 
the black and white stripes as a guide to the other side. His head ached, from 
eyestrain he thought, from squinting into the fog, trying to catch glimpses of 
familiar sights. At least the roads should be clearer today. He giggled, not 
knowing why he did, and was still giggling when he reached the opposite pavement 
He turned right, keeping close to the shops on his left, using them as a guide.
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.
200 
Throughout London, people were waking to discover the yellow-gray 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.
201 
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 bills. The fog would have drifted into it and come to rest at its 
base, then sprawling 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 toward it."
Holman turned left, using the pavement as a guideline. He could just about see 
the opposite pavement now, something
202 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 Defense 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 millions 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 journey across town. If anything happened to Holman then 
they would find a way to reach her. They could have sent their "special" vehicle 
to fetch him but this would have taken hours for it was virtually blind in the 
fog because of its own restricted vision, but if he did not make it, they would 
have to use this method to bring back the girl.
The phone went dead as soon as Holman said he understood and would carry out the 
instructions. He told Casey what was happening as he quickly dressed, doing his 
best to keep his voice calm and assured. She did not cry, nor protest, knowing 
circumstances were directing their actions, that they could no longer control 
their own destinies, that they had to move as events dictated. He told her to 
bolt the door behind him and then lock herself in his bedroom. They wasted 
little time in saying good-bye for the temptation to lock themselves in, away 
from the outside world and its madness, was too great; the slightest hint from 
either one
203 of them would all too easily be succumbed to. Instead, they kissed, and, 
without a word, he left.
He used the stairs to get to the ground, not daring to chance the lift which was 
unreliable at the best of times. The nightmare took on a new dimension once he 
was in the street
It was the feeling of emptiness that was most frightening. A feeling of complete 
hollowness. Nothing was substantial, nothing quite real. He stayed close to the 
walls, dreading bumping into anyone, but at the Same time, eager to meet someone 
of his kind, of flesh and blood. He heard a strange wailing noise and realized 
it was human. He heard a car pass by, traveling fast, fading into the distance, 
then a crash, followed by cold silence. He heard a scream, a woman's scream, 
mingled with a laugh. Hysterical laughter. A madman's laugh. But it was all 
remote and unreal, the phony rantings of a fairground ghost house.
He was thankful it was still early morning and most people were either asleep or 
just stirring. In his mind's eye he saw a picture of the bedlam that would come 
later that day, and he quickened his step almost into a trot. He guessed what 
the task before him would be, but in a strange way, he now welcomed it. At least 
it would be positive action and not just stumbling around in the mist waiting 
for something to happen. And he would be among people again, hopefully normal 
people. Thank God Casey was immune. If the plan failed, whatever they had in 
mind (and he had a shrewd idea), he would go back to her and get her away. To 
hell with them; they'd made the mess, let them deal with it He'd done enough 
already.
Too late he saw the dark shadow before him and they collided, the impact sending 
the other man to the ground. Without thinking, Holman stooped down to help the 
sprawled figure to his feet. The man reached up and held on to Holman's 
shoulders and it was only then, when their faces were no more than a foot apart, 
that Holman noticed the strange grin on the man's face. He backed away, but the 
man clung to him, a low growling, chuckling noise coming from his wide grinning 
mouth. Holman tried to push him off, but an arm reached around his neck and his 
head was forced forward. He struck out in panic and the man's chuckle turned 
into a snarl of rage as he retaliated with a savage kick at Holman's ankle. 
Holman ducked forward,
204 releasing himself from the tenacious grasp, then brought the flat of his 
hand up underneath the man's chin and pushed it back and back, swiftly, moving 
with it until the back of the man's head connected with the brick wall behind 
him. There was a loud crack and the man went down on his knees, one hand 
reaching for the back of his head, a pathetic whining sob coming from him. His 
other hand groped blindly for Holman's leg, but Holman stepped back out of 
reach, then turned and began to run.
When he stopped, he found himself completely isolated. He must have run into the 
road for he could see nothing on either side of him. He walked forward briskly, 
but alert for any danger, hoping he was heading in the right direction. He heard 
a scream on his left, a long piercing scream that ended in a sickening, 
squelching thud. Something wet brushed his face and put his hand to it When he 
looked at his fingers, they were smeared with blood. He wiped his cheek 
vigorously with his coat sleeve, repulsed by the thought of what had happened. 
Someone, a man or woman, had jumped from a window, and their body had splattered 
blood for some distance as it broke on the concrete.
His pace quickened. The longer it took him to reach Westminster, .the more 
people there would be out on the streets. He had to move faster. Dare he chance 
a car? It was risky, he would be driving virtually blind, but it might be worth 
it. He heard singing, not far away and drawing nearer. It was a man's voice, 
loud and clear. And happy. He saw the dark shape that suddenly became clearly 
defined; it was a man on a bicycle, weaving left and right, pedaling slowly, 
oblivious to anything but his own song. He saw Holman and rode around him in a 
tight circle, smiling and singing, his eyes never leaving Holman's, neither 
challenging nor belligerent. Placid.
As the cyclist completed a second circuit, Holman considered relieving him of 
his vehicle and using it himself, but decided against the idea, for it could be 
more dangerous than just walking. With a wave of his hand, the man disappeared 
into the mist again and Holman listened to the voice as it receded into the 
vacuous distance, leaving him feeling even more isolated.
He whirled as he heard running footsteps, but they carried on right past him 
without his catching anything more than a glimpse of a shadowy figure. He 
realized it was no
205 good at all going on like this. His nerves were taut and his progress was 
slow; it would take him hours to reach Westminster at this rate and long before 
then, the streets would be crowded. He would have to take a car; it wouldn't be 
too difficult to find one, and he knew how to start one without a key. He found 
his way back to the curb and used it as a guide. He was bound to run into a 
parked car soon.
He passed a woman who was pushing an ordinary house broom along the gutter, 
tutting at the piled-up dirt and cursing at the world in general.
He passed a body that lay sprawled across his path. He didn't stop to see 
whether it was male or female, dead or alive.
He passed a dog feeding on the carcass of another. It looked up and growled 
menacingly, saliva and blood drooling from its jaws, not attacking, but watching 
him intently until he'd been swallowed up by the fog again.
Holman's breath was coming in short gasps now and he wasn't quite sure if it was 
because of the impure air or the tenseness of the situation. He had to find a 
car soon.
Then, he saw the soft light ahead of him which grew brighter as he approached. 
He thought it might be a fire at first, then perhaps a shop front because of its 
steady glare, but as he drew nearer, he realized its source. It gave him the 
answer; the way to get across London fast, and with far less risk. It would be 
frightening, he knew, but not as frightening as it would have been by car. He 
broke into a run.
Holman emerged from the Trafalgar Square underground station just over an hour 
later, his hands and face black with dirt, a torch still glowing in his hand. 
The dark journey through the tunnels had been without incident. That station at 
St. John's Wood had been deserted even though all the lights were still working. 
He had assumed it had been abandoned during the night and nobody had bothered to 
lock its gates or switch off the power. A door marked "Private" had been left 
open and he had soon found a heavy-duty type rubber torch. As he descended the 
staircase to the platform, he had wondered if the current had been switched off, 
but there would be no way of knowing. It was his intention to keep well clear of 
the lines, but he would have felt better in his own mind if he had known whether 
they contained their deadly electricity.
206 Fortunately, the single low-watt lights along the tunnels had been left on 
too, ready for the night cleaners and maintenance men, but on several stretches 
further on between stations he had been in total darkness. He had noticed the 
station itself had been full of the fog although less thick, and even the lower 
regions of the platforms contained some wispy clouds of it. On one occasion, he 
had heard muffled voices coming from the tunnel parallel to his and he'd 
switched off his torch and waited in the dark until they had faded into the 
distance. His main worry was that a train would come roaring down the tunnel at 
him, a notion he had a hard time shaking off. Even the black, scuttling shapes 
of disturbed rats did not bother him as much as that thought.
But he'd made it. The joy of once again emerging into the daylight, gray though 
it was, was immense and made him feel quite light-headed. The fog seemed 
slightly less dense, but he wasn't sure if it wasn't just because he'd come from 
the blackness of the tunnels and the contrast between total darkness and murky 
gray was deceiving his eyes.
He paused for a moment to get his bearings, switching the torch off and placing 
it on the ground. He became aware of a puzzling sound off to his right, a 
curious cooing noise echoing from the mists, continuous and monotonous and, 
somehow, haunting. He realized its source: pigeons. The thousands of pigeons 
that belonged to Trafalgar Square. Would they be affected by the fog? Their 
unified call was strange and hypnotic and aroused his curiosity. Forgetting his 
instructions to avoid any trouble, he walked toward the compulsive ululation, 
keeping a wary eye out for any sudden shadows that might appear. He crossed the 
broad road and reached the inner square where he stopped and peered into the 
mist.
The pigeons were spread like a deep gray carpet before him, disappearing into 
the mist, but giving the impression that the mass of small bodies covered the 
rest of the square completely. Occasionally, one would flutter a few feet into 
the air but would soon settle onto the backs of the others and snuggle its way 
in between them. Although they huddled together, they did not seem afraid; there 
was no nervousness about them, no sudden movements among them except for those 
that were squeezed from their positions and had to maneuver their way in again. 
And all the while, the
207 deep-throated cooing penetrated the poisoned air, sinister and compelling. 
Holman suddenly noticed there were taller shadows rising from them; the ghostly 
shapes of people, quite motionless, silent and inhuman.
He backed away. Something was going to happen. He could sense it.
His eyes never left the birds until they had been obscured from his vision by 
the other enemy, the fog, and only then did he turn and begin to walk away at a 
brisk pace. He knew that a sudden movement from any of the people that stood 
among them--and there must have been many others for he had counted at least 
five within range of himself-- and the pigeons would be galvanized into action. 
Whether or not they would attack he did not know for sure, but instinct had told 
him to get away; the menace that pervaded from them was an almost tangible 
thing.
Hoping he was headed in the right direction, he hurried on. The fact that he now 
appeared to be in a sort of no-man's-land, without a curb or building to guide 
him, caused him even more anxiety. If his sense of direction was correct, 
Whitehall would be ahead of him, the Strand to the left, and the Mall just off 
to the right; he was in the junction of all the roads.
He heard the car before he saw it. Its engine was roaring, the tires screeching, 
which, fortunately for Holman, gave him plenty of warning of its approach. 
Standing perfectly still, he tried to judge with his ears exactly where the car 
would appear. The noise was coming from the direction of the Strand, but seemed 
to be alternating from left to right; the screeching of tires told him the 
driver was weaving some crazy pattern from one side of the road to the other. 
And then it was no more than twenty yards from him, sweeping through the mist 
like a demon from hell.
He was rigid from the shock of it for even though he had been expecting its 
emergence from the fog, the suddenness of its appearance had an almost 
paralyzing effect on his limbs. His keen instinct for survival took command and 
moved his legs just in time as the vehicle, a bright red sports car, sped past, 
just catching the side of his leg, sending him spinning into the road. He had 
caught sight of its driver just as the car bore down on him: it had been a 
middle-aged man, naked--at least from the waist up--and gross, a maniacal grin 
on his face; beside him was an equally naked
208 woman, also middle-aged, also gross, and she stood with her large breasts 
flopping over the windshield shrieking and laughing.
Holman lay in the road, not hurt but stunned, watching the car as it disappeared 
into the mist again. As he got to one knee, he heard one elongated screech of 
tortured tires, silence, and then the awful sound of impact as the car struck 
something immovable. This was followed at once by the beating of thousands of 
wings, the cooing now becoming a shrill cry as the pigeons rose en masse into 
the fog- laden air. Human screams mingled with those of the birds and Holman 
knew he had been right; the pigeons were attacking.
He rose to his feet and pulled up his trousers to check his leg. He would have a 
nasty bruise later but the skin hadn't broken. All too conscious of the danger 
just beyond his vision, he ran away from the noise, limping only slightly, sure 
that if just one bird found him, others would soon follow.
He thanked God when he found the pavement and thanked Him again aloud when he 
discovered he was in Whitehall. The rest of the journey to Westminster Bridge 
was hazy and unreal, a fantasy of sounds and sudden visions that appeared 
briefly and vanished just as abruptly. He later remembered many people rushing 
past him toward the noise, like lemmings seeking destruction; a huge fire to his 
right (he had no idea of which building it had been, famous or otherwise), two 
more cars racing neck and neck, smashing into each other's sides as they went; a 
group of people engaged in a scuffle beneath the War Memorial. It had meant 
nothing to him as he fled; his only thoughts were to reach safety of some kind 
and the only safety he would find would be with sane people.
Finally he found the turn-off he sought. The bridge was just ahead. And so were 
the religious freaks.
He was among them before he had a chance to retreat. He had often seen them 
Around London, dressed in long, brightly colored saffron robes, the men's heads 
shaved, chanting their monotonous litany to the discordant accompaniment of 
crashing tambourines, shuffling along in apeculiar hopping-dance motion. 
Secretly, he had always been fondly amused by them for there was an engaging 
freshness
209 about them, and their religion seemed harmless and happy. But now, their 
appearance took on a more sinister aspect.
They were seated on the ground in a wide circle which he had unwittingly broken 
into.
"Welcome, Brother!" One of them, who had been standing in the center leading the 
chant, spread his arms wide in greeting. "Today is the Beginning! Join us in our 
thanks."
Holman warily looked around; the others were on their feet now and advancing on 
him with their hopping gait, the gaps between them closing as they drew nearer.
"Come, Brother. Now is the time!" The man before him was only two feet away and 
Holman was impressed and a little intimidated by his size. He placed two huge 
hands on Holman's shoulders while the dirge coming from the others grew louder. 
He tried to pull away but the grip on his shoulders tightened.
The man leaned forward until his pointed face was touching Holman's and 
whispered, "If you try to run, I'll break your fucking back."
Holman was transfixed more by the harsh words than by the hold on him.
"To your knees, Brother. Humble yourself so that you might be saved."
Holman tried to resist but more hands clasped his shoulders and forced him down. 
The big man stayed with him so they were both on their knees facing one another, 
the immense hands still holding him. He looked into the big-boned face and saw 
dark brown eyes that looked glazed yet cruel. A thin stream of saliva drooled 
from the corner of the man's mouth. His voice boomed out, "I love you, Brother! 
We love you!" And then in a whisper, "I'm going to kill you, you fucking creep."
He grinned at Holman, bringing his forehead down and kissing it.
"Today is your Beginning. And to Begin, you must first die," he said, as others 
leaned forward to kiss Holman. Now they were all kneeling, packed tightly up 
against the two men in the center.
"You--you've got to let me go," Holman said, looking around anxiously. "I'm the 
only one who can do something about the fog."
"The fog, Brother? There is no fog. All you see around us is the spirit of 
mankind. Today is the Beginning. The mist
210 is only the Being, the souls who have already begun the journey."
"Let me go!"
"Peace! The bridge you are about to cross is short, and the brief pain you will 
feel will be nothing compared to the eternal happiness that waits beyond." And 
again the whispered words, "You'll be the fifth today, bastard. I'll snap your 
neck like a fucking matchstick."
His hands closed on Holman's neck, but before the thick fingers could form into 
a stranglehold, Holman brought his fist up into the man's lower stomach. The 
blow had no other effect than to tighten the religious leader's smile into a 
grimace. He rose to his feet bringing his victim up with him, held by the neck. 
The fingers began to squeeze.
In a desperate move, Holman went limp so that his body dropped, then pushed 
forward. It was fortunate for him that the other followers were still kneeling 
around them for the momentum forced the leader to step back, thus tripping over 
the bowed head of one of his flock. They went down in a heap of struggling arms 
and legs, Holman managing to break free of the grip around his throat. He lashed 
out again with his fist, and with some satisfaction, drew blood from the big 
man's nose.
The long robes of the religious sect hampered their movements and put Holman at 
an advantage. Instead of trying to rise above the clutching leader, he rolled 
forward over him, his shoulder cracking the man's head hard against the 
pavement. His feet accidentally kicked into the chest of one of the female 
members, sending her backward and gaining him a free area to rise. Hands grabbed 
for him, voices screamed in dismay, but he was moving through them, slapping the 
hands away, pushing half-risen bodies back down. He heard the roar of the big 
man behind him and redoubled his efforts to get away. Just as he thought he was 
clear, a hand closed on his ankle, tripping him and sending him rolling across 
the pavement to crash against a restaurant front
He rose as quickly as he could, but already the big man was coming for him, 
lifting his legs high to stride through the startled bodies as though wading 
through a stream, mouthing obscenities at Holman, the blood from his nose 
covering his face, giving him a red mask of pure hatred. Most of his confused 
followers were trying to gain their feet, and just as he was nearly through, one 
rose up in front
211 of him. The big man pushed him viciously, sending him sprawling across the 
pavement to land at Holman's feet
Holman's back was pressed up against the large window of the restaurant, the 
palms of his hands flat against it, ready to give him leverage to push himself 
away. The big man was only a few feet from him and still rushing forward, his 
arms outstretched to embrace him in a hug of death. But the frightened man at 
Holman's feet was now scrabbling around on hands and knees, and the leader's 
eyes were so intent on their prey that they failed to see him. Holman sprang to 
one side as the big man pitched forward, tripped by his follower on the ground.
Holman heard the scream and the crash of shattered glass as the big man's bare 
head and upper body fell through the window, scattering the fancy cakes and 
expensive confectionery that lay just inside. The heavy glass descended on him 
like a guillotine, cutting into his neck and breaking across his back.
Splinters and shards of glass flew out at Holman, but they did little damage for 
he was already running away, now using the fog as an ally, trying to hide in it, 
seeking refuge in its murkiness. But the religious fanatics came after him, 
several picking up long slivers of glass to be used as weapons against him. 
Heedless of what lay ahead, he ran blindly on, spurred by their cries of 
vengeance, but unable to find the speed that would take him out of their vision.
He knew the bridge was nearby and prayed that the government vehicle would be 
there waiting for him. His chest heaving, he reached the corner where the road 
branched off along the Embankment. My God, he suddenly thought, on which side 
would the vehicle be? Could it be on this corner, just out of sight in the mist, 
or would it be on the other side, the bridge corner? Without hesitating, he ran 
off the curb and into the road, hoping his judgment was correct. He didn't much 
like the idea of dashing around in the fog trying to locate the car with the 
crowd of lunatics so close on his heels.
He reached the island in the middle of the road and kept going, trusting luck 
and his instinct for survival to pull him through. To have stopped to look 
around would have been more than pointless; it would have meant his death.
And then, two bright circles lit up before him, and behind the circles, the 
shadowy shape of an odd-looking machine.
212 He heard the roar of its engine and suddenly it was coming toward him. It 
must be the one! It had to be.
But to his dismay, it curved around him, gathering speed, going past. With a 
sickening feeling, he realized the driver's intention. The heavy, bulky vehicle 
plowed into the following pack of bodies, sending them flying, crushing some 
beneath its broad wheels, scattering the luckier ones. Then it reversed and came 
back toward Holman. It didn't have the appearance of having speed, but the tires 
screeched as they tried to grip the ground when the driver braked. He had to 
move fast to avoid being run down himself.
A small door at its side sprang open and a strange metallic voice said, "Sorry, 
sir. But you're a bit more important than those people at the moment. I had to 
do it, it was your only chance. Now please get in, we haven't got much time!"
Crouching low, he clambered into the vehicle and was confronted by a heavily 
garbed figure, the suit similar to those worn by the men in Winchester, but much 
bulkier and more clumsy looking. The man wore a large helmet and Holman failed 
to see his eyes through the dark, narrow visor. The metallic voice came from a 
small mouthpiece positioned in the center of his helmet.
"Close the door, sir. We don't want any of those lunatics or any more of the fog 
getting in."
Holman did as he was told and turned to face the figure again.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
"You'll see, sir," came the reply. "My name is Mason--can't really shake hands, 
these gloves don't allow for it I must say, you had me worried. I've been 
waiting ages."
"I had a few problems on the way," said Holman drily, slumping back breathlessly 
in his seat "Where are we going?"
"Just a moment, sir. Must let them know I've picked you up." He pressed a switch 
and spoke without the use of a hand speaker, reporting that his mission had so 
far been successful and they would soon be returning to base. He turned back to 
Holman.
"Now, sir, I'd like you to drive. These vehicles aren't really meant for 
traveling in thick fog as you can see by the tiny apertures. And my wearing this 
suit doesn't help much, either. Had a devil of a time reaching this spot even
213 though I wasn't wearing a helmet then. Now that I've had the door open, I 
daren't risk taking it off again because some of the fog is bound to have got 
in."
"The suit's lead-lined?"
"Yes, sir. That's what makes it so bloody cumbersome. Meant to be protection 
against radiation, y'see. The whole car is."
"Radiation?"
"Yes. We call it the Devastation Vehicle. You'll find out why, later."
Glancing around, Holman saw it was fitted with hundreds of instruments, gauges, 
and switches.
"I'm not sure I can drive it," he said.
"Oh, don't let all those gadgets put you off," Mason assured him. "They're 
nothing to do with the running of the thing. In fact, it couldn't be simpler; 
just like driving a dodgem. The whole thing's operated on electricity, y'see: 
You push down on one pedal to go, another to stop, that's all there is to it. 
C'mon, there're a lot of people rather anxious to see you!"
Holman had followed Mason's instructions and driven slowly along the Embankment, 
turning left on command and into what appeared to be an underground car park 
belongingto one of the large governmental office buildings. It was in darkness 
but Holman had seen many cars crammed together in the glare from the vehicle's 
headlights, but a lane had been left clear, and this he followed, going deeper 
and deeper below ground. It ended in a solid concrete wall. Mason pressed a 
switch and began saying several words that sounded senseless to Holman; he 
realized they must have been in code. The wall before them suddenly rose into 
the ceiling and he saw a long box-shaped room beyond.
Mason touched his arm and the huge helmet nodded toward the opening. Holman 
drove forward and stopped once inside. The wall behind was lowered again and 
they sat in silence for a full minute until, quite abruptly, the wall before 
them swung open and they were faced with a long, dimly lit corridor which again 
seemed to end in a blank wall. As they passed through, Holman saw that the wall 
that had just opened was in fact made of gray metal and was at least eighteen 
inches thick.
The corridor sloped downward and they passed through
214 two more doors before they entered a large, open area. Holman estimated they 
had traveled at least a quarter of a mile to reach this point. He noticed 
another vehicle that looked identical to the one he had been traveling in parked 
in a far corner. A group of gray-suited men who had been waiting for them, each 
holding a long canister which was connected to a central box, stepped forward, 
pointing the canisters' nozzles at the vehicle, and then began to spray it with 
an almost invisible substance.
"Sit tight just a moment longer, sir," said Mason. "We were decontaminated when 
we first entered the tunnel, but this is a final going over. As a further 
precaution, they'll spray us as we get out."
"Spray us against what?"
"The whole complex is sterile; there's not a germ down here. Everyone and 
everything that comes in is decontaminated. You see, it's built to contain at 
least three hundred people for anything up to ten years. If any bug got loose in 
such a confined space, well, it'd spread like wildfire."
"Ten years?" Holman looked incredulously at the hooded figure. "Just what the 
hell is this place?"
"I thought you knew. I thought you'd been told."
Holman shook his head slowly.
"This," said Mason, "is a fallout shelter. A government fallout shelter."
Mason waited for a comment from Holman, but none came, so he continued, "They 
started building it in the early 1960s and are still adding to it If the country 
were ever to reach the point of crisis--the point where atomic war was 
inevitable--this is where the most important VIPs will come. There's a tunnel 
that leads directly to the Houses of Parliament, another that leads to the 
Palace."
Holman's smile was cynical. "Are there any others like it? For the ordinary 
people, I mean."
"Er, I don't know about that, sir. These things are kept pretty much a secret. I 
know there isn't another in London, but I've visited one in Manchester and I 
assume some of the other major towns have them."
"But all for 'special' people."
"Well, they could hardly cope with the whole population of Great Britain, could 
they, sir?"
215 Holman sighed. "No, I suppose not. But I wonder how you qualify to be a 
'special' person."
Mason changed the subject. 'Time to get out now," he said.
Holman was led along more corridors by a young, unexcited man, who, despite the 
crisis, was dressed immaculately and tastefully in a dark blue pin-stripe suit, 
deep red tie, and spotlessly white collar. He spoke quietly and efficiently, 
explaining to Holman exactly what had happened during the night and how it was 
now being coped with. The Prime Minister was there, together with most of his 
Cabinet; they had been the first to be warned along with the Royal Family who 
were now safe in Scotland. The PM had decided to stay in London and direct 
operations from there, for the shelter was ideal for that purpose: it was 
impenetrable, contained virtually unlimited resources, had contact with any 
point on the globe, and had a large and well-equipped "war" room. It had its own 
source of power, even its own telephone exchange which had proved invaluable 
when London's had broken down (Holman realized now that that was how they had 
been able to contact him). The army was mustered just outside London, mobile and 
ready for whatever action was demanded of them, but most of the Chiefs of Staff 
were inside the shelter helping the PM draw up a plan of campaign. Professor 
Ryker was there along with many other notable scientists and they were already 
hard at work on a new theory of Ryker's regarding the rapid growth of the fog--a 
possible clue to its make-up. Janet Halstead was here with her research team and 
some of the victims of the fog whom she'd been treating. Many people skilled in 
various aspects of life had been brought into the vast underground shelter, from 
doctors to religious ministers, from naturalists to carpenters and plumbers; all 
had been previously earmarked for survival (mostly unknown to themselves) and 
their names and current addresses were kept on a list which was reviewed every 
three months.
As they walked, Holman recognized many familiar faces, familiar only because 
he'd seen them in the media. He was puzzled as to what possible value most of 
them could have in this situation. The fact that most were very wealthy made him 
extremely suspicious. Had they bought their way in? Or had they done certain 
favors for government officials, their price a ticket for survival on Doomsday?
216 A lot of the people, both men and women, seemed to be in a daze. 
Ashen-faced, many of the women in tears, they looked at him uncomprehendingly as 
he passed, some hoping to recognize a friend or relative, others envying him 
because he seemed to be going somewhere, had a task to perform, something 
positive, something active.
"How did you manage to get so many people in here in time?" he asked the young 
man he was following, walking briskly to keep up.
"A decision was made," came the curt reply.
"What decision?"
"It was seen that the whole population of London could not possibly be saved and 
even if it was tried, the panic that would have ensued would have seriously 
disrupted rescue operations for certain key people."
Holman caught his arm and brought him to a halt. "You mean they didn't try? They 
just let people lie in their beds while the fog . . . ?"
"Of course they tried!" the young man snapped. "But they used common sense. A 
third of the force was deployed to warn certain people and bring them here, the 
rest did as much as they could. Thousands escaped into the surrounding suburbs 
because of the army, but London is a big place, you know. Common sense had to 
prevail!" He pulled his arm away and marched on, leaving Holman staring 
open-mouthed after him. Grimly, he followed.
They entered a large hall thriving with people, each of whom had some particular 
task to perform, and filled with electronic equipment, brightly lit maps, 
television screens. Despite the activity, there was an air of calm throughout 
the hall as though whatever turmoil was now taking place above ground was a 
world away, unreal because it was largely unseen, for the television screens 
showed only a gray blankness, an occasional shadowy figure appearing only to be 
quickly swallowed up again.
They don't know, Holman thought. They don't know what it's like up there: the 
complete madness that would have now gripped the town, the chaos that lay beyond 
those mists shown on the screens. They felt shock, he was sure, but not true, 
deep-felt sorrow, for how could they? It was an unreal situation. They knew of 
the tragedy of Bournemouth of course, and of the airplane crash; but how could 
minds possibly accept the fact of one of the world's largest
217 
cities gone mad? Only he could realize its full horror because he had seen it at 
firsthand, had even experienced it But perhaps they would have still acted in 
the same way if it had been the holocaust the shelter had originally been 
intended for. It was those who had nothing to do that were affected, those who 
could only watch and wait. And wonder.
"This way, Mr. Holman," the young man's voice cut through his thoughts. He was 
standing by a doorway guarded by an armed soldier. Holman walked toward them, a 
questioning look on his face.
"This is the Planning Room," the young man told him.
"The Minister is waiting to brief you himself."
As he guided the Devastation Vehicle along the fogbound street, Holman kept a 
wary eye out for groups of people. These would be the most dangerous; the ones 
that traveled in packs, like wolves searching for lone and defenseless victims. 
Most of the people ignored the strangely shaped car, for today everything was 
strange. Mason was now helmetless because the vehicle hadn't yet been opened 
above ground. They were using the reserve vehicle while the interior of the 
other was being carefully decontaminated. Mason grinned nervously at Holman. 
"How are you feeling?" he asked, more to make conversation than out of actual 
curiosity.
"Sick," replied Holman. "I feel like driving on till we reach open country, away 
from this."
"I know what you mean," said Mason. "But a lot depends on us, sir. I need you to 
guide me. I won't be able to see a thing once I get out there, not with this 
gear on."
"The fog doesn't seem to be as bad now."
"No. As I said, it's spreading out, thinning. But our reports say it isn't 
moving on yet Look, we won't be out in it for long; just time enough for me to 
suction some of the bastard into our container and then we'll be off. If I 
didn't need your eyes, I'd do it on my own."
Christ, you don't know the half of it, brooded Holman. He was armed with a 
revolver carried in a concealed shoulder holster and his instructions from the 
Prime Minister himself were that he was to protect his own life at all costs, 
even if it meant killing his companion to do so. It wasn't known yet if the 
protective suit was adequate against the mutated mycoplasma, which was still an 
unknown entity, and if Mason began to behave in the least threatening way,
218 he was to be disposed of immediately and Holman was to carry out the mission 
on his own. He had balked at the order, but the PM had talked long and hard at 
him, telling him the choice was not his, that one life meant little compared to 
the millions that were in danger. A promise that he would carry out the order in 
the event was extracted from Holman, but he knew that only when the moment 
presented itself--if it presented itself--would he be able to decide.
Ryker had been present at the meeting and had assured Holman that the danger was 
getting worse. Because of the fog's rapid growth overnight, he now suspected 
that this was Broadmeyer's intention for the mycoplasma: to feed and grow on 
polluted air, thus the bigger the city, the more industrial, the more effective 
the disease was. The fog itself was a mere side effect of the gathering of 
impure air, deadly only because of the microbes that floated within it. It had 
given Ryker a clue to its source, but it would take time to investigate and come 
up with answers. In the meantime, the quickest way to probe the mutation was 
still to obtain a large sample of it. He had every faith in Holman that this 
time he would succeed. Holman wished he had as much faith in himself.
On his way back to the vehicle he had met Janet Halstead. Her cheeriness had 
gone, her face showed rigid lines of strain: she looked old. She, too, had urged 
him to succeed this time; only if he did could they begin to undo some of the 
terrible damage that had already been perpetrated. If she could inoculate 
against the disease, then men would be free to go into the disaster area and 
prevent others from destroying themselves and each other. He had left her 
without saying a word. How could he promise to succeed? There were too many 
other forces involved; he had thrived on risks before, but they had never been 
of this nature nor so numerous. All he could do was try.
"My God, look at that!" Mason was pointing ahead at four blazing cars that had 
piled up in the center of the road. The flames were too thick to see if anybody 
occupied them, but a large crowd of people had gathered around the blaze, 
silently watching. As Holman and Mason drew nearer, the blood froze in their 
veins at the horror of what was happening. As the crowd watched, individuals 
would break from the ring and rush forward to throw themselves into the fire. 
The
219 crowd cheered and then fell silent until another repeated the action.
"We've got to stop them!" Holman shouted, unable to take his eyes from the 
scene.
"No, we've got our orders," said Mason firmly. "We're not to interfere in any 
way. We mustn't get involved!"
Holman knew it was useless to argue. And Mason was right; they were not to 
jeopardize the mission. If they were to involve themselves in every incident 
that occurred along the way, then the odds were that they would never reach 
their destination.
"All right," he said evenly, "if there's nothing we can do, let's get away from 
it as quickly as possible."
Mason was relieved. "We'll go around," he said. "Back up, there's a turning to 
the left--goes toward the Strand. We'll go that way."
Holman reversed the vehicle, narrowly missing a heavy truck that thundered past 
them, headed directly toward the burning cars and people. They heard the crash, 
for although the vehicle itself was soundproof, it was equipped with receivers 
on its exterior to pick up noise, a function that was necessary because of the 
lack of vision.
"Oh, Jesus," breathed Mason, "this is terrible."
"It's only just beginning," Holman told him cruelly. "It'll get worse."
And it did get worse. They passed many burning buildings, more blazing cars; 
scores of people roaming the streets, insanity evident in their faces; 
individuals curled up in corners, occasionally staring around with wide, fearful 
eyes. They passed bodies that had obviously fallen or jumped from the 
surrounding tall buildings; they heard screams, laughter, chanting; they saw 
people on their knees praying. And, strangest of all, they saw people behaving 
normally: queueing at bus stops, walking along briskly as though on their way to 
work, swinging umbrellas or carrying briefcases, entering the buildings that 
were open, waiting patiently outside others whose doors had not yet been 
unlocked, chatting to one another as though it were an ordinary working day, 
ignoring the chaos that was taking place around them. But that was their 
abnormality.
They drove slowly on down Fleet Street toward Ludgate Circus, steeling 
themselves against the sights, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to stop 
the vehicle and help
220 those in particularly perilous plights. Holman was thankful they had passed 
no children. He realized they probably would later on when they passed through 
the more residential districts, but he hoped they would remain hidden from his 
eyes behind the veiling mist, for he doubted whether he could prevent himself 
helping a child in distress.
Suddenly they found themselves surrounded by a mob of workmen at the bottom of 
Fleet Street. The men began banging on the sides of the vehicle, trying to peer 
into the small but wide windows. They rapped on the glass, trying to break it. 
Holman and Mason heard heavy footsteps clunking overhead as some of the men 
scrambled onto the roof.
"Christ! Must be all the bloody printers in Fleet Street!" said Mason.
"Yes, they must have been working through the night," Holman agreed. "But surely 
they would have been warned?
Mason shrugged his shoulders. "We'll have to drive through them!" he said.
Just then the vehicle began to rock from side to side.
"They're trying to turn us over!" shouted Holman above the noise.
"Drive!" Mason commanded, leaning forward to switch off the sound. He didn't 
want Holman to hear the screams as they mowed their way through the crowd.
Holman pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, sorry for the action he 
had to take but knowing it had to be done. He remembered Winchester and had less 
sympathy for the men and more interest in his own survival.
The car leaped forward and the startled men jumped back. Others were slower and 
disappeared beneath the wheels. Holman felt the car bump as it passed over their 
bodies, but he kept his foot down hard on the pedal, gathering speed, sending 
the man on the roof flying off. It plowed through the thronging mass and Holman 
closed his mind from thoughts of his unfortunate victims. Perhaps it was because 
he regarded them as a threat rather than human beings. Perhaps he thought they 
were less human because of their madness. Or perhaps it was because he didn't 
have time to think at all that enabled him to carry on.
At last they were clear of the mob and traveling up the hill toward St Paul's. 
Only then did Holman's hands begin to shake.
221 Mason noticed and said, "Here, let me take over. You've had enough."
"No," said Holman, "I'll be all right. I'd rather drive than sit and think. You 
check your instruments; make sure we're still going in the right direction."
Mason clapped a steadying hand on his shoulder then turned his attention toward 
the panel of instruments in front of him. He reported their position back to the 
underground base and related some of the incidents they had run into and the 
fact that the fog seemed much thinner. Holman glanced at his watch and saw that 
they had only been out for thirty-odd minutes. It seemed like hours.
He heard over the speaker a voice telling Mason that people were fleeing from 
the town in the thousands; large internment camps had been set up and police and 
troops from all over the country had surrounded London with blockades, and were 
trying to hold everyone who was leaving, imprisoning them for their own 
protection. It was an impossible task, of course, to save everyone, but 
fortunately, most of those who had fled were unaffected as yet by the disease 
and willingly turned themselves over to the authorities in the hope they would 
be protected when the madness struck them.
Helicopters above the cloud had reported that the fog seemed thickest around the 
river and thickest of all around the dockside area past the Tower of London. 
Although it had spread further, they confirmed that it did seem to be thinning, 
particularly on its outer fringes. They could also see the glow of many large 
fires all over London.
The voice informed them that aircraft from all over the country were already on 
their way, loaded with calcium chloride in an attempt to avalanche the city with 
the chemical, but it would take hours for the operation to be put into effect.
It promised to send any further information that would help them and wished them 
both good luck.
Mason switched off and said to Holman, "It all checks. We're going the right 
way--it's somewhere down by the docks."
They were now passing St. Paul's Cathedral and were amazed to see scores of 
people sitting on its steps, their faces expressionless, their lips unmoving.
"Switch on the sound again," said Holman.
222 Mason did so but they heard no noise from the gathering.
"They remind me of a flock of birds," said Mason. "One loud noise and they'll be 
fluttering all over the place."
Holman remembered the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and told Mason of it.
"Christ!" said Mason. "It gives me the creeps--let's move a bit faster."
He increased the speed as much as he dared and they soon left the historic 
building behind.
"You notice how they seem to be mostly grouping together," observed Mason.
"Yes. It's as though with the breaking down of their brain cells, they're losing 
their individuality, flocking together the way animals do. Look how they're 
gathering at bus stops, a natural grouping place for people. At first, I thought 
in their shocked state they were queueing, but now I realize they're grouping 
together at spots that are familiar to that idea."
"Look at him!" Mason was pointing at a figure that had suddenly emerged from the 
fog ahead of them. The man was completely naked and was brandishing a long, 
curved sword. He advanced on the vehicle.
Holman turned the wheel sharply and swerved around him, narrowly avoiding 
running him down. Mason swung his head around to watch him through the rear 
windows, but he had disappeared into the mists again.
"It seems, even in total madness, there are a few individuals though," he 
commented.
They passed fewer people as they drove through the City, but when they left its 
gray canyons behind, they were faced with a spectacular scene.
Across the road in front of them was a mass of white- pink bodies, a sea of 
writhing limbs. As their eyes narrowed to focus, they saw it was made up of 
small groups of people, but packed so tightly together they represented a solid 
mass. AH were engaged in copulation.
"Jesus!" said Mason slowly. "Look at them! A bloody street orgy!"
"It probably started with one couple and others just joined in," said Holman.
"But there's some there that must be in their sixties."
"And others not more than kids."
223 "What do we do?" asked Mason, tearing his eyes away from the scene to look 
at Holman.
Holman smiled thinly, a faint feeling of satisfaction at his companion's sudden 
perplexity causing the smile. Mason's calm throughout had bothered him.
"Well, we don't join them," he said, and then, more grimly, "we go around, of 
course."
He turned the vehicle and found a narrow side street. As he drove away, Mason 
craned his neck to keep the spectacle in sight for as long as possible, cursing 
at the fog when it obliterated it.
"Incredible," was all he could say.
Holman turned into another, wider street to get them back on their original 
course. They had traveled no more than fifty yards when he stopped the vehicle 
with a sudden jerk.
"What's wrong?" asked the startled Mason who had been checking his instruments.
"Look," said Holman, pointing ahead.
Mason narrowed his eyes and peered into the fog. He heard her screams before he 
actually saw the girl. She looked to be no more than fifteen, and she was backed 
into a doorway. Even at that distance, they could see her eyes were wide with 
terror and her screams echoed around the cramped interior of the vehicle.
Advancing on her were two men, both heavyset, both wearing clothes that were in 
tatters, both grinning at the girl. Their faces and hands were black with filth 
giving them an even more menacing appearance. But most frightening of all was 
their actions upon themselves for it made their intent obvious. Each had 
unbuttoned his trousers and was slowly stroking his penis, calling out to the 
girl, mouthing obscenities, informing her of their intentions upon her small 
body. She crouched in the doorway--whether she herself was mad yet was not 
apparent--whimpering, holding her hands up to her face as if to hide the sight 
from her mind.
"Oh God," said Holman.
"Look, we can't go out there. In this suit, I'd be no help to you at all. And 
you're too valuable to risk your life. And if we stopped to help everybody we 
see in trouble, we'll never get to the nucleus."
"Shut up," said Holman quietly. He stabbed his foot down
224 hard on the accelerator and the vehicle leaped forward with a jolt. As it 
gathered speed it mounted the curb and sped toward the two men, two wheels on 
the pavement, two wheels in the road. The two men just had time to see it 
coming, their grinning faces barely registering the fear that had begun its 
swift climb, before the vehicle hit them. One disappeared beneath the wheels, 
the other was tossed into the air to slam against the merciless concrete of a 
building. Their short screams, and the longer, more shrill scream of the girl, 
spun around in Holman's head even when the sound had stopped. He brought the 
vehicle to a screeching halt, throwing the astonished Mason forward onto his 
instruments. Holman swung around in his seat and looked through the rear 
apertures just in time to see the girl running into the fog, her face still 
hidden in her hands in an effort to block the horror.
He saw the crumpled figure of one of the men lying in the road, lifeless and 
somehow withered. The other lay propped up against the foot of the wall he'd 
been smashed into, his neck twisted so that his open eyes seemed to be staring 
after the vehicle which had inflicted such a terrible death upon him.
Holman turned away from the sight and leaned forward on the steering wheel, 
rubbing a hand across his eyes then staring blankly downward.
Mason pushed himself upright and silently placed a hand on Holman's shoulder, 
giving it a little shake of comfort. Without a word, Holman looked up and 
started the vehicle rolling forward again, guiding it back into the roadway and 
slowly building up a steady speed.
As they continued their journey, their minds became more numbed to each new 
incident, whether horrifying or just bizarre: the sight of an elderly woman 
pushing the obviously dead body of a man in a pram, leaving a stream of blood 
trickling from the carriage onto the road behind her, barely penetrated their 
consciousness; three men sitting by the roadside drinking from what looked like 
a can of paraffin, waving dirty handkerchiefs at the vehicle as it passed meant 
nothing to them. For Holman, it was probably the fact that he had just killed 
other human beings; nothing could surpass the horror of deliberately taking the 
lives of other men, whether they were mad or not. Remorse had not yet set in, 
but repulsion for the act had and, be
225 cause he had been forced to take such measures, his resolution to find the 
means of destroying the disease was stronger than ever. For Mason, it was the 
mere consistency of the strange happenings, consistency being the steadiest ally 
to acceptance.
The scenes had not become unreal to them, but they, in their enclosed mobile 
compartment, had become remote from the scenes, observers moving through a 
strange, cloudy world, like explorers in a diving capsule on a seabed.
From time to time, Mason reported back to the underground base, coldly 
describing the scenes around them: the fires, the havoc, the waste of human 
life. Suddenly, he asked Holman to stop the vehicle. Holman had no idea of their 
exact location, but he guessed they must be somewhere near the East London docks 
by now. He looked askance toward his companion.
"We've lost it," said Mason. He checked his instruments again then reported back 
to base speaking sharply and urgently.
"How could we have lost it?" asked Holman.
"We're being guided by a helicopter above the fog," Mason told him. "They have 
sensors that have been keeping track of the mycoplasma's center. They relay the 
information back to headquarters who operate our directional finders from there. 
It has to be that complicated because obviously the chopper can't see which area 
its over through the fog. But now, nothing's happening; our finder's just gone 
loose."
A voice came over the speaker and echoed around the small compartment: "Hello, 
D.V.I. Base here again. Do you read?" Mason acknowledged and the metallic voice 
went on, "Trouble I'm afraid, D.V.I Charlie 2 says they've lost the nucleus. 
Nothing at all shows on their instruments but they're going to scout around the 
area until they find it again. We don't understand how it's happened unless the 
bloody thing's gone into the river--you're near it--but that's hardly likely. 
Anyhow, sit tight for a while until you receive further instructions. Won't be 
long, I'm sure. Over and out."
Mason sat back in his seat. "Sod it!" he said, then added, "We were close."
"D'you think they'll find it again?" Holman asked.
"Who knows? They lost it before." He glanced nervously around, looking through 
the apertures out at the fog
226 shrouded streets. "Must say I don't much like sitting around in the open 
like this."
"Nor me," said Holman. "It's too vulnerable. Let's get over against a building. 
It'll give us some shelter, at least."
He moved the vehicle forward, more slowly this time, angling it across the wide 
road, looking for a building that might give it some protection.
It was just then that the bus emerged from the fog like a huge red monster, its 
lights appearing a split second before it like two glaring, searching eyes. Its 
front was splattered with a darker red, the bloodstains of the many victims it 
had struck down in the course of its frantic journey. It swerved toward their 
vehicle and, guessing the driver's intention, Holman pressed down hard on the 
accelerator in an effort to get clear, but he was too late.
The bus struck their vehicle side on, toward the rear. They felt themselves 
lifted violently as the vehicle was pushed into the air and then over onto its 
back. The gray world became suddenly black.
For the second time that morning, Janet Halstead felt the room spin dizzily 
around her. She was beyond the point of exhaustion, she knew. What little sleep 
she had had during the past few days had been fitful and disturbed, and last 
night's had been interrupted by the fresh, major crisis. But she had to keep 
going; countless lives depended on the work she and her colleagues were involved 
in. She realized Professor Ryker and his team of scientists, microbiologists, 
and virologists were close to the answer and wondered if it had really been 
necessary to send Holman out into the fog once again. She sighed wearily, 
wondering if it was just her concern for the man himself that caused these 
thoughts; she had grown fond of him in a maternal way and it made her uneasy to 
see him used as a pawn, an instrument, by the great body of officials that ruled 
the country.
It was they who had made the mistake, the great, faceless they, and now they 
were using one man, one man who had had nothing to do with their mistake, to 
help rectify it.
But, she supposed, it was necessary. There was a chance he could save them 
valuable time, be it hours, or days, and his life was expendable because of it.
She tried to focus her attention on the report before her:
227 the latest patient they had treated was responding immediately to the blood 
transfusion and the radiology. Fortunately, they had got to him in time; others 
would not be so lucky. And this was just the beginning, the first few of the 
thousands, probably millions, to come. The world was standing by to give 
assistance, for Britain was no primitive, backwater country inhabited by people 
dying because they lacked civilization. And because it was a country populated 
by educated Westerners, other countries were eager to help, not just because of 
a kinship with another race, but because if it could happen to Great Britain, it 
could happen anywhere, on any continent, to any country. And if it, or something 
equal to it, ever did happen to another country, the country concerned wanted to 
be sure they would receive such help as they were now giving.
Still, Janet thought, the help, from whatever source and for whatever reason, 
would be sorely needed over the next few weeks.
Stan Reynolds, the Security Guard for the giant oil company building that stood 
towering over the Thames, again sat with his huge boots on the oak boardroom 
table smoking a fat cigar, sipping an expensive brand of Scotch.
"If it's good enough for the Chairman, it's good enough for me," he chuckled, 
puffing away at the cigar while the flames from the room directly below heated 
the floor beneath him.
Earlier, he had visited many offices in the vast, complex building and emptied 
their desks and filing cabinets of paper onto the floor. He hated the building 
because it represented a life style he had never experienced himself, nor ever 
would. He was expected to protect the executive's offices, to guard them with 
his life if necessary, and for what? A pittance of a salary and the privilege of 
having snot-nosed execs bidding him "Good morning" or "Good night" when they 
felt like it. That was why he had set fire to their "confidential" papers, their 
"strictly private" files. Besides, he liked fires; they reminded him of the 
blitz. He'd been something in those days; a sergeant in the army, respected by 
privates and snot-nosed young officers alike. And when he'd been home on leave 
during some of the worst bombing of the war, his neighbors had come to him for 
help. He'd been respected then.
228 By now, half the bottle of Scotch was gone and he took a long, stiff swallow 
of the remainder. As the heavy boardroom doors burst into flame, he rose 
unsteadily to his feet
"Gen'men," he said, looking along the table at the two rows of empty seats. "I 
wish to perprose a toast." He climbed onto the black leather chair, then onto 
the table, his boots making ugly scratch marks on its smooth surface. He raised 
the bottle high, "Fuck the Chairman!" he shouted and took another swig from the 
bottle, nearly choking when he began to cackle with laughter.
Looking down, he saw the deep impressions his boots had made on the table and 
again went into fits of laughter. He dug a heel hard into the wood and was 
pleased with the result. He did it again with his other heel, then clomped his 
way to the end of the table, stopping and turning to study his trail of scars. 
He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank, then threw it at the picture of the 
previous chairman which hung nearby, and with one final whoop of exhilaration, 
ran back down the length of the oak table and jumped over the leather chair 
toward the huge window behind it.
He was well past his prime and his jump did not have much momentum, but half his 
body went through the glass and its weight toppled the rest over the edge behind 
him. He couldn't see the ground as he fell; all he could see was a soft, 
yellowish-gray blanket ready to receive him.
McLellan and his family slept soundly. Outside his house, in the normally quiet 
Wimbledon Street where he lived, was pandemonium. His neighbors were in combat, 
using bottles, pokers, anything that came to hand; scratching at each other's 
eyes, tearing at each other's throats. They kicked, they punched, they pulled 
the clothes from one another. No one knew why and no one bothered to ask 
themselves; they were too far gone with the madness.
McLellan was lucky, for they ignored the sign he'd left on his doorstep that 
said: "please help, have given
FAMILY OVERDOSE TO KEEP FROM HARM. PLEASE HELP." He
knew when he'd chalked the message onto his child's toy blackboard it was a slim 
chance, but there had been little choice anyway. Better to die in their sleep 
than be at the mercy of a dreadful madness.
So far, they had been left undisturbed and their neighbors
229 were too intent on killing each other to break in and search them out. They 
slept on.
Irma Bidmead, the old woman who had loved cats yet sold their bodies for 
vivisection, was already dead. The cats she had fed and housed still gnawed away 
at her cold flesh mixed with bits of material from the garments she had worn. 
They had clawed and scratched at her eyes first, then when she had been blinded 
and weakened, they had sat on her face and smothered her. When her feeble 
struggles had ceased, they had begun to eat her.
Now they were full, eating out of greed, not hunger, but later they would go out 
and seek younger, more tender flesh. It wouldn't be hard to find.
Chief Superintendent Wreford laughed at the rantings of his wife. He had locked 
her in a bedroom cupboard and sat on the end of their bed watching the door as 
it bulged when she tried to force it open from inside. Her moans had a peculiar 
rasping tone to them for earlier that morning he had climbed the stairs from the 
kitchen holding a kettle full of boiling water in one hand. He had stood over 
his wife and poured the contents of the kettle into her upturned, open mouth. 
Her snoring had always sickened him.
Then, as she had screamed and screamed, he had bundled her up in the bedclothes 
and locked her away in the cupboard.
Soon now, her struggles would grow weaker and he would let her out. She would 
see the joke when he explained it to her and if she didn't, if she began to nag 
at him like she had in the past, well, he would show her the kitchen knife he 
held in his lap. He had seen what you could do to a person with a kitchen knife; 
he had seen many pictures of victims at the Yard. They were funny, those 
pictures; fascinating what you could do to a human face. You could make the lips 
smile permanently if you wanted to. He would show her when he let her out--if 
she whined at him.
He waited patiently, smiling at the cupboard door.
Detective Inspector Barrow had only just woken. He stood by the window, wearing 
a loose-fitting bathrobe, and gazed out at the fog. Abruptly, he turned away and 
walked toward the wardrobe. He took out his best suit and laid it carefully
230 on the bed. Then he opened a drawer and took out a clean shirt which he lay 
on top of the suit. He walked back to the wardrobe again and reached up into the 
high shelf inside and brought down a wide cardboard box. It was his own private 
and strictly against regulations "Black Museum" of weapons, used in various 
cases in which he had been involved. He studied its contents for a while, then 
removed one particular object He replaced the lid and returned the box to its 
resting place.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the bath's taps. While it was filling, 
he carefully shaved.
Samson King had enjoyed his bus ride immensely. He didn't know where he was for 
he had left his normal route, but it didn't matter. He felt free as a bird and a 
million times more powerful. He had smashed down anything that had got in the 
way of his charging red beast. People, cars--anything that had stood before him. 
The passengers on his bus had enjoyed it too, even now they were laughing 
gleefully, pointing out of the windows, calling out at the blank faces that 
stared after them. There were at least fifty people on his bus now for he had 
stopped twice at bus stops to let them on.
Samson giggled as he remembered the bus stop he hadn't stopped at. Instead, he 
had driven into the queue, encouraged by his passengers, fascinated by the 
bodies that disappeared like skittles beneath his wheels.
He couldn't see too far in the fog, and he had crashed into quite a few traffic 
islands and signs. He had been using the curb as a guide but occasionally would 
switch to the other side of the road and for a brief time would be driving blind 
in a no-man's-land. He had enjoyed that. He had also enjoyed the moments when he 
had found himself at a broad junction and had sent the bus spinning 'round and 
'round, almost toppling it over.
But most of all, he had enjoyed crossing the river over Tower Bridge. There had 
been quite a few people on the bridge and he had swerved the bus from side to 
side, making them run before him, chasing them to the very edge where they had 
been forced to climb the parapet and jump into the filthy water. That had been 
best!
And now he raced down the wide road, not knowing where he was going and not 
caring, picking up speed, the
231 excitement rising inside him, heedless to his lack of clear vision, 
regardless of anything that got in his way.
Then he saw the vehicle. It was an odd-looking thing, gray-colored with 
strange-looking objects sticking out from its sides. He ignored its oddity for 
his mind had already determined to ram it. It was moving directly across his 
path and it suddenly gave a spurt of speed as though its driver had spotted him 
and was trying to get clear.
Samson laughed aloud. It couldn't escape him! He pressed down even harder on the 
accelerator and two seconds later the bus was on the vehicle, catching it at its 
rear, lifting it up and over, pushing it onto its back, knocking it aside. He 
lost control of the bus for a moment but didn't try to regain it. He was too 
busy laughing.
The bus sped across the road and plowed into a shop front
232 TWENTY
Holman shook his head to try to clear the haze. It made it worse so he stopped.
He lay there for several moments longer, giving his body time for feeling to 
return again, for the shock of the crash to wear off. Slowly, he opened his eyes 
and was surprised to find himself in daylight, gray though it was. He could hear 
a strange voice speaking from a distance. Unreal as it sounded, it managed to 
convey urgency, anxiety.
Lifting his head slightly, he tried to look around to find out where it was 
coming from, and, to his surprise, discovered he was lying in the road with the 
Devastation Vehicle on its back a few yards away from him. The voice was coming 
from the open doorway to its cabin and he realized it was the voice of the 
radio. Base was demanding to know what had happened.
He must have been thrown clear from the vehicle, but as yet could not ascertain 
whether he had been fortunate or not. The door must have been smashed by the bus 
as it had hit it, and then swung open as it turned over, spilling him out into 
the road. He didn't feel as though anything was broken: his face felt raw as if 
he had skidded along the
233 road on it and both his knees hurt like hell, but apart from that, he seemed 
to be all right He tried to lift himself and found he could, although it made 
him feel slightly giddy.
Mason! Where was Mason? Holman's senses were returning rapidly now and he sat 
up, turning his body toward the vehicle, using one hand for support. He must 
still be inside, he told himself. God, he mustn't be hurt too badly! Trembling, 
he got to his feet, then staggered forward to the open doorway.
"Mason!" he called out, poking his head into the dim interior. It was empty.
Holman spun around, leaning back against the vehicle for support. "Mason!" he 
called out again, this time louder. Then he saw the gray-clad figure.
Mason was stumbling away from the vehicle, leaning forward at the waist, both 
hands to his face as though in pain. He was making for the red bus, whether by 
intent or because he was walking blind, there was no way of knowing, and as he 
drew nearer, several people were alighting from its platform and staring 
silently at him. One of them pointed at him and began to giggle.
"Mason, come back!" Holman shouted, realizing that without his helmet his 
companion was exposed to the fog.
But Mason hadn't heard him. He fell to one knee as he reached the crowd that was 
still climbing off the bus. Several of them began to laugh now, pointing down at 
him, calling out to their fellow passengers to come and see the 
ridiculous-looking man. The front of the bus was embedded in a shop window, but 
now a figure was emerging from the wreckage, crunching through the shattered 
glass, leaning against the side of the bus to steady himself. He was wearing the 
uniform of a London Transport driver and blood trickled in a thin line from his 
crinkly scalp down his brown face. He was grinning broadly.
Holman started forward to warn Mason, but he was still unsteady on his feet and 
fell painfully onto his knees. He called out again, one hand reaching out toward 
the crowd, but nobody seemed to hear him.
The driver was now standing over Mason, who was still on one knee, rocking his 
body backward and forward inpain, low moans coming from deep down in his throat. 
The black man swung a foot at him then stepped back and roared with laughter as 
the clumsy figure toppled. Someone
234 else stepped forward and aimed a kick, retreating when the blow had been 
accomplished. The rest of the crowd joined in the laughter. At once, as if by 
some silent, mutual agreement, they all gathered around the prone body and began 
to kick at it.
"Don't, don't!" Holman screamed at them, but they took no notice, absorbed in 
their own violence. To his amazement, he saw the figure of Mason emerge from the 
tangle of legs, crawling on all fours, protected from the worst of the blows by 
the heavy suit he wore. His eyes met Holman's and they registered recognition, 
but his hands were kicked from beneath him even as he opened his mouth to cry 
out. His exposed head hit the pavement with a loud thud and he lay motionless in 
the road. The crowd's laughter took on a new, more hysterical pitch as they 
leaped upon his body, using their feet to stomp the life from him.
With a shout of pure rage, Holman gained his feet and staggered toward them, his 
anger pumping adrenalin through his body, helping his strength to return. He 
leaped into the throng, taking several people down with him and was on his feet 
again instantly, swinging punches, kicking out at them. For a moment they 
cowered away from him, afraid of his anger, afraid because they sensed he wasn't 
like them.
All except the driver. He wasn't afraid of anybody. Heroared at Holman for 
spoiling the fun and threw himself at him. Holman went down under the weight and 
found his face pressed hard against the road's surface and his eyes staring into 
those of a dead man.
Mason's face lay a foot away from his own and it was turned toward him, the eyes 
unseeing, the expression rigid. A thread of blood came from one corner of his 
mouth, an indication that some of his ribs had torn into his lungs. Whether it 
had been caused by the accident or the cruel kicks of the lunatic mob, Holman 
would never know; all he felt was despair and the urge to lie there on the 
ground until the crowd left him alone. But he knew they would not leave him 
alone until he too was dead. The heavy weight was suddenly released from his 
body as the black man stood up and a boot kicked Holman viciously over onto his 
back. He saw nothing but the grayness above him at first, the eddying, drifting 
clouds of fog, tinged with yellow, filled with manmade impurities. A ring of 
grinning, evil-looking heads intruded upon the periphery of the soft gray 
picture as the
235 crowd gathered around him, looking down at him as though he were an animal 
about to be slaughtered for the sheer fun of it. They reminded him of the faces 
of his school friends when, many, so many years ago, they had trapped a wasp in 
a jam-jar and had begun to fill the jar with water through a small hole in the 
top. The ring of expectant faces had smiled gleefully at the wasp's struggles to 
get free as the water rose, frantically buzzing around the inside of the jar, 
its circuit became smaller and smaller, its tiny legs beating against the smooth 
glass in an effort to grip it, all to no avail. To Holman, the smiles had seemed 
to turn into sadistic leers as the water crept up, inch by inch, the space 
between the top of the water and the roof of the jar physically encapsulating 
the wasp's remaining lifetime. The grinning lunatics reminded him of the 
incident, for their expressions were not unlike those of the schoolboys and the 
circumstances now were not dissimilar. But this time there would be no one to 
save his life as he had done for the wasp by stepping forward and knocking the 
jar from the ringleader's hands so it shattered upon the ground, giving the 
insect its small existence back. He had paid for that action with a beating, but 
it had been worth it for the astonished, cheated looks on his companions' faces 
alone.
One head came closer to his, bringing his fleeing mind back to the present, and 
he saw it was the black man's. The bus driver's hand shot forward and grabbed 
him by the hair, pulling his head up and forward, the large brown eyes looking 
into his own. Holman recognized the slightly glazed look of the madness, even 
though the eyes were filled with cruel amusement. He remembered the revolver.
Carefully, he reached for the shoulder holster beneath his coat, flicked the 
gun's hammer free of its -retaining loop, drew it out steadily, clicking off the 
safety catch as he did so, put the short barrel under the man's chin, and pulled 
the trigger.
The driver's head exploded, spattering the crowd with blood and brains, tiny 
bone fragments flying into the air acting as shrapnel. The force of the blast 
sent the body reeling back away from Holman, the grip on his hair tightening so 
some of it came away at the roots. He jumped to his feet, holding the gun 
forward, ready to use it again, but the mob was too stunned to attack him. They 
stood looking 
236 at the twitching body on the ground, their crazed minds unable to understand 
exactly what had happened.
Holman began slowly to back away, his eyes never leaving the faces of the crowd, 
waiting for the first sign of hostility toward him to resume. Several were 
wiping blood from their faces and looking at their hands in amazement. He saw 
one middle-aged woman, a woman who normally would have probably fainted at the 
sight of blood, lick the red stains from the fingers of one hand, then repeat 
the process with the other. Her glazed eyes looked around her at her companions, 
then at the bodies on the ground, then over toward the cautiously retreating 
Holman. A snarl broke from her lips.
Holman turned and fled. Away from the bus, away from the crowd, away from the 
dead bodies, away from the vehicle. Into the fog.
He heard a cry from behind and knew they were following. His legs hurt and still 
felt unsteady as a result of the crash, but he refused to succumb for if he 
stopped running, he would have to kill again. And then they would kill him.
From nowhere, a car appeared, screeching to a halt in front of him, pitching him 
forward onto the hood although it hadn't actually hit him; it was the momentum 
of his own pace that had sent him sprawling. The car was an old Ford Anglia, 
rusty with age but obviously still having some life in it. Holman rolled off the 
hood and ran around to the driver's door. He yanked it open and was about to 
haul its occupant out when the startled man said, "Please let me go. I've got to 
get away from these lunatics!"
Holman hesitated and then bent forward to get a closer look at the man behind 
the wheel. He appeared to be in his early forties, fairly well dressed and, most 
important of all, his eyes, although frightened, did not appear to have the 
glazed look that was a symptom of the disease. He looked up at Holman, a 
pleading expression on his face and said,again, "Please let me go."
"Get over!" Holman commanded, pushing his way in, using his weight to get the 
trembling man into the passenger seat. He revved up the engine and engaged first 
gear, pulling the door shut as the car shot forward. He was just in time, for 
outstretched hands clutched at the windows but were knocked aside by the sudden 
jerk of the car. A figure ran into their path and was sent spinning back into 
the road. He
237 swerved to avoid another and skidded violently when he was confronted with 
the overturned Devastation Vehicle. The Anglia did a screeching U-turn, mounted 
the curb on one side of the road and sped on along the broad pavement for fifty 
yards or so, leaving it with a resounding thump only when Holman saw he would 
not get through the gap ahead caused by a concrete street light and its 
neighboring wall. When he considered he was far enough from the pursuing crowd, 
he reduced speed, afraid that he might run into another vehicle in the fog. He 
became aware he was still holding the revolver in one hand and the man he had 
pushed roughly into the passenger seat was staring at it apprehensively. He 
shoved it back into its shoulder holster and heard the man breath a sigh of 
relief.
"You're not the same as the rest, are you?" the man asked nervously.
Holman took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at him. He was backed 
away as far as he could get against the door, one hand on the dashboard, the 
other holding on to the back of his seat to steady himself. He looked white and 
frightened.
"As the rest?" Holman asked cautiously.
"You know, mad. Everyone's gone mad. It's the fog. Please tell me you're okay. 
Like me."
Was it possible? Holman stole another quick glance at the man; was it possible 
the disease hadn't affected him? He seemed normal enough. Scared, his eyes were 
frightened, but he seemed rational under the circumstances.
"I'm sane," Holman said, but wondering if he still was. Could anyone remain sane 
after all he'd been through?
The man smiled. "Thank God for that," he said. "I've been living through a bad 
dream. I thought I was the only one left. You've no idea what I've been 
through." He rubbed a hand across his eyes that were becoming moist with self- 
pity. "My--my wife tried to kill me. We were having breakfast; we didn't realize 
what the fog was, what it meant. I don't know why, we just didn't associate it 
with the fog we'd heard about, the Bournemouth fog. I looked up and she was just 
sitting there, staring at me, a sort of smile on her face. I asked her what she 
was smiling about and she didn't answer. Just smiled even more. Her eyes--her 
eyes were different somehow. Wide. Not really seeing." He began to sob quietly. 
"It was horrible," he said brokenly. Taking a deep
238 breath, he continued, "She got up from the table and walked around it until 
she was behind me. I didn't know she'd picked up the bread knife. I turned 
around to ask her what was wrong and I saw her bringing the knife down. I--I was 
lucky: It caught my shoulder and the blade snapped. It was only then I realized 
what was happening. The fog. I realized it was the fog! I jumped up and we 
struggled. I didn't want to hurt her but, God, she was so strong. She, she's 
only a tiny thing, my wife, you know, but suddenly, she was so strong. She 
pushed me back across the table and we fought there, over the breakfast things, 
until we rolled off onto the floor. She cracked her head, knocked herself out. I 
didn't know what to do." His body began to shake and once more he had to stop 
talking until he had calmed himself.
'Take it easy," said Holman soothingly, feeling pity for the man. How many 
countless others had gone through the same thing that morning? How many loved 
ones had turned on one another, tried to kill, to maim the people that meant 
most to them? How many had killed themselves so far? Was this man lucky because 
the disease had not affected him or was he unlucky because he'd had to witness 
what had happened to his wife, to watch her go insane, to fight her to save his 
own life? "Don't talk about it anymore," he said. "I'll try to get you to a safe 
place."
The man looked up at Holman, his tears under control again. "No, I want to talk 
about it. You're the only normal person I've spoken to. I tried to get help from 
others, but they're all the same; they're all mad. Why not us, why haven't we 
gone mad? Why hasn't it done anything to us?"
Holman hesitated. Should he tell him that the chances were that eventually the 
disease would destroy his brain cells and he, too, would become insane; that the 
time varied from person to person, that the parasite cells took longer to 
multiply in some than they did in others? Perhaps he could get him back to base 
in time for Janet Halstead to go to work on him. He was only one, one life, but 
at least it was something positive amidst all this carnage. The mission was 
scrapped now, there was nothing he could do on his own; perhaps he could come 
back in the other vehicle once they'd located the nucleus again, but in the 
meantime, he could try to save this one life.
Fortunately, he did not have to answer the man's question, for he was talking 
again, reliving the horror of that
239 morning. "I tied her up. I didn't know what else to do, I was afraid of her, 
afraid of my own wife. She came out of her daze as I was tying her. She didn't 
struggle, didn't say anything at first--just stared at me with those eyes. Those 
terrible eyes. I was afraid to look at them; they were so--sohate-filled!" He 
shook his head as though to erase the memory. "And then she began to speak. Such 
filth! I couldn't believe it. I'd never known her even to swear before, but the 
filth, the obscenities that came from her! I couldn't believe such thoughts 
could exist in someone, especially not her! She'd always been so good, so 
gentle. I couldn't stand it; I couldn't stand to listen to her, I couldn't stand 
to look at her eyes! Oh God, I didn't know what I should do!
"I knew I had to get away, to get out of London, and I knew my only chance would 
be in the car; I didn't know what it would be like out on the streets, but I 
knew I couldn't stay there. The drive was terrible. I couldn't go too fast in 
the fog, I was afraid of crashing, and the people that I saw . . . lunatics. 
Some were like vegetables; just standing by the roadside, not moving. I saw 
people crawling along the gutters. I saw some sitting in burning cars, others 
making love in the streets. One man I saw was stabbing himself; standing in a 
doorway stabbing his own body with a knife. Oh thank God I met you! I think I 
would have gone mad myself if I hadn't I got lost, you see. I didn't know where 
I was going and things just seemed to be getting worse and worse."
"Did you make sure your wife was securely tied before you left her?" asked 
Holman, still keeping a wary eye on the road ahead, knowing he would have to 
make a turn soon if he were to go in the right direction back toward the 
underground base. "Did you make sure she wouldn't be able to harm herself!"
"Oh, I didn't leave her," the man replied. "I couldn't have left Louise. I love 
her too much to have left her there alone at the mercy of anyone who might break 
in. But it was her eyes, you see, and the things she was saying. I couldn't 
stand it I had to stop her from looking at me like that and saying those 
horrible things. And I couldn't leave her, not Louise, she's too precious to me. 
So I brought her with me; she's in the back. I stopped her saying those foul 
things and stopped her looking at me that way and put her in the back seat There 
she is, my Louise, behind you, in the back."
240 Holman quickly glanced over his shoulder and found himself transfixed, the 
car moving ahead unguided, picking up speed as his foot involuntarily pressed 
down on the accelerator.
On the back seat was slumped the bound figure of a woman, recognizable as a 
woman only by her clothes, for the body ended in a bloody stump at the neck. She 
had been decapitated.
"I couldn't leave her, you see," the man went on, "and I couldn't stand the 
things she was saying and the way she was looking so I used a saw. It was 
terribly messy, I must say. The kitchen was in a terrible state and I had to 
change my clothes. And, you know, she kept talking, even while I was doing it, 
but she had to stop in the end." His voice grew sad. "But I couldn't stop her 
eyes looking at me like that, even when the head came right off. She just kept 
glaring at me in that lunatic way. Look, she still does."
He reached behind him, half kneeling on his seat, stretching for something that 
lay on the floor at the back. He brought his hand up again, his face looking 
seriously into Holman's. "Look," he said.
He held the blood-dripping head by the hair, pushing it toward Holman's face. He 
was right--the eyes were still staring.
A cry of horror escaped from Holman's lips as he backed away, the hairs on his 
body stiffening, the vertebrae of his spine seeming to contract and lock 
together. He thrashed out with his hand knocking the disembodied head aside, 
causing the car to swerve violently across the road. His fight to control it 
gave his mind a brief respite from the shock it had just received.
The man beside him was astonished that Holman had smashed his wife's head aside. 
"Don't do that to Louise, you bastard!" he shouted, placing it gently on his 
lap. He reached behind him again, careful not to dislodge the head between his 
legs, and this time his hand came up with a bloodstained saw. "I'll kill you!" 
he screamed. "You're the same as all the rest!"
He tried to bring the sharp-toothed blade down on the back of Holman's neck, but 
the car bumped over a curb, mounting a narrow pavement that ran along the center 
of the broad road, knocking him back against the door on his side, the saw 
falling harmlessly against Holman's shoulder
241 blades. Even as he tried to control the car's skid as it thumped down onto 
the other lane of the road, Holman struck out with his fist at the figure beside 
him, catching the man on the side of the jaw. His foot was jammed down hard on 
the brake pedal and the tires burned into the road, struggling for a grip. He 
thought the car was bound to smash into a building on the other side of the 
road, but to his surprise and relief he found the way clear; there was a side 
road dead ahead. The road dipped and the car skidded down its incline, finally 
stopping broadside across it, the sudden jolt throwing the man forward against 
the windshield. Before he had a chance to recover, Holman had leaned across his 
back and pushed the door catch down and shoved the door open. Still in one 
motion, he pushed the man's rising figure out of the car and into the road, 
raising his foot and using it to clear the man's legs. His efforts were helped 
because the car was slightly angled on the slope of the road, and the man's body 
easily fell forward. Holman saw the woman's head, with its ghastly staring eyes, 
begin a slow roll down the incline.
Not bothering to pull the door shut again, he restarted the stalled engine and 
swung the car around, heading down the slope, narrowly missing the head that had 
come to rest in the middle of the road. He corrected his turn and held the car 
steady, the door on his other side swinging shut with the momentum. He didn't 
want to stop; he didn't want to think. He just wanted to get away.
A black hole opened up ahead of him and he suddenly found himself swallowed up 
by darkness. Once again, his foot hit the brakes, and the car screeched to a 
halt. He looked around in panic but could see only blackness ahead and to his 
sides. He remembered the decapitated body behind him and turned swiftly as 
though to assure himself that it was still lying prone. Gray light flowed in 
from a high square arch about thirty yards back and he saw that the body had 
slumped to the floor behind the front seats. He looked up again at the light and 
then he realized what had happened. He had driven into a tunnel! He should have 
realized it instantly, but because of circumstances, everything that happened 
seemed abnormal.
A tunnel! And suddenly it came to him which tunnel.
"The Blackwall Tunnel," he said aloud. It had to be; they'd been driving in that 
direction, into the City, through
242 Aldgate, down Commercial Road toward Poplar. The road he had just driven 
down must have been a ramp leading into the tunnel from the main road. The long 
winding tunnel stretched beneath the Thames to the south side of London, cutting 
out miles of snarled-up roads for motorists who would otherwise have had to use 
distant bridges. There were two tunnels in fact, running parallel to one another 
but completely separated; the old, built in the 1890s and the new, completed in 
the late 1960s, one for the northbound traffic, the other for southbound. Holman 
was in the old tunnel, used for access to the north. He would use it himself now 
and get back to Westminster by following the river along its southern side. For 
a full minute he debated whether to go back to his flat, collect Casey, and get 
the hell out of London, but he finally dismissed the thought because he knew 
really there was no choice.
Before he made his way back, there was one thing he would have to do: get rid of 
the grotesque figure on the floor behind him. He opened the side door and got 
out, pulling the driving seat forward so he could reach the body, the old car 
being a two-door model. He could have switched the car's headlights on to give 
him more light, but he had no desire to see too clearly what he was doing; the 
dim light from the opening farther back would suffice for his purposes. He 
groped around until he found the tied ankles and gave the body a tug, finding it 
surprisingly light as it came out smoothly. He avoided touching anything but the 
woman's ankles; the thought of coming in contact with her headless shoulders 
made him feel nauseous. He pulled the body to the side of the tunnel then 
straightened up and wiped his hands down the sides of his jacket to rid himself 
of the feel of her cold flesh. Looking down into the depths of the tunnel as he 
did so, he was forced to blink his eyes to clear them.
Was it his imagination, or was it lighter down there? The underground passage 
was filled with fog but much less than there was above ground so his vision was 
not seriously hindered, and his eyes had become fairly accustomed to the gloom. 
He was sure there was light coming from ahead, from around a bend, but it 
couldn't be daylight, for the exit would be at least a quarter of a mile away on 
the other side of the river and there were more bends that would diminish any 
daylight coming from that source. The
243 only other possibility was that there was another car down there with its 
headlights full on. Before he drove any farther into the tunnel, he would have 
to investigate; he was more than reluctant to run into more trouble. Cautiously, 
quietly, he began to walk down the tunnel toward the eerie light.
It grew brighter at his approach, a strange yellowish light, reminding him of 
the light he'd come across before, in Winchester. The familiar dread crept 
through him again; he began to suspect the source of the light. His heart seemed 
to be pounding almost painfully as he neared the bend and he had to take short, 
shallow breaths to combat the acrid smell that was growing stronger. He kept 
close to the wall, one hand touching its rough surface with every step he took, 
and then he was at the first curve of the tunnel.
The bend was casual, not sharp, and there was no need to go to its apex to see 
what lay beyond. The whole tunnel farther ahead was filled with the glow, the 
strange incandescence peculiar to the mutated mycoplasma. He had found it! Now 
he knew why the instruments of the helicopter above had lost it: it had 
literally gone to ground, slunk into a hole beneath the ground almost as though 
it remembered the hole it had been buried in for so many years. Could it be 
possible? Had it actually sought shelter like an animal searching for a lair? 
No, it was too ridiculous. And yet he had found it lurking inside the cathedral, 
and they had lost it once before. Could it really have drifted accidentally into 
these enclosures, into these man-made shelters?
He stood gazing into its hypnotic shine for several minutes, leaning back 
against the tunnel's wall, suddenly realizing he was actually resisting walking 
toward it, that it seemed to be pulling him forward, that a small part of his 
mind was urging him to envelop his body in the glow, but the fact that he had 
become conscious of its mesmeric influence made him back away. He felt certain 
his immunity would not hold if he were to enter the mycoplasma in its strongest 
form.
As soon as it was out of his vision, the magnetic pull on his mind was broken 
and, suddenly, he wasn't sure if it had been his imagination or not. He hurried 
back toward the car, his brain racing with new thoughts and, by the time he had 
reached the car, an idea had formed in his mind.
He jumped into the Anglia, switched on the engine and, without turning on its 
lights, he began to reverse it toward the entrance. Looking over his shoulder 
through the rear
244 239
window, he saw a shadowy figure silhouetted in the cloudy entrance and, as he 
drew nearer, he saw it was the man he'd thrown from the car. In his arms he 
cradled the head of his dead wife.
245 
Holman crouched in the dark interior of the shop away from the eyes of the 
groups of lunatics roaming the streets, but positioned so that he could see the 
overturned Devastation Vehicle lying in the middle of the road. The fog seemed 
much clearer now, although there were still thick pockets of it drifting through 
and the very air seemed to carry the yellow tinge to it. Holman had taken 
extreme care in driving back to the vehicle for everything depended on his 
reaching the radio; he needed help from the base if he were to carry out his 
plan. And certain materials.
He had driven slowly, and every time he came across a menacing individual or 
mob, he had speeded up until he was a safe distance away from them. Twice he had 
had to mount the pavement to avoid recklessly driven cars and once he'd 
deliberately run over a dog that was running amok attacking people, but that was 
the only time he'd allowed himself to interfere in the surrounding chaos and 
that was only because the dog had presented itself directly in the path of the 
car. If he had had to chase it, he wouldn't have bothered. He had detached 
himself from the nightmare and had become a mere observer. He knew it was the 
self
246 protection of his own mind: he'd always had that ability (or perhaps 
misfortune) to allow his feelings to go cold, remote, whenever circumstances 
became intolerable. He could either bury himself in action or retreat into 
insensitive logic; it wasn't callousness, for emotion always flooded through him 
after the event. It was a natural ability to survive.
He no longer felt any strong sympathy for the people out there; his feelings 
were more akin to fear. It was strange how madness, which, after all, was only 
an illness of the mind, was so repulsive to the "normal." Was it due to fear? 
Even with Casey when she had been under restraint, he'd felt the tension, the 
urge to get away from her, to shut her from his mind, and she must have 
experienced the same feelings when it had been he who was insane. That was what 
made madness so cruel for the relatives or friends of its victim: the fear of 
the person they loved. And now, there was a whole city full of the insane.
And yet, his detachment wasn't complete: it was the sight of the children, 
infants some of them, who were walking the streets, many on their own, still 
clad in pajamas and nightclothes, that lost dazed look on their tiny faces. It 
was this that stirred his emotions most. He wanted to help them, to gather them 
up and lead them to safety, to keep them from harm until help was at hand, but 
he knew the best way he could help them was to carry out his plan.
The idea was simple: the mutated mycoplasma had been locked away below ground 
for many years, trapped and contained by tons of earth; now it had returned to 
another underground sanctuary, a man-made open womb that could be made into a 
prison if both ends were sealed. So he had returned to the vehicle and, with 
relief, found it untampered with; the radio was still buzzing (a voice had been 
calling in every ten minutes, desperate for a reply from the two passengers of 
the vehicle) and he'd used it to tell headquarters of his plan. There had been 
great excitement and relief at the sound of his voice, but the men on the other 
end were professionals and had soon acknowledged his instructions. He asked for 
explosives, the "brisant" kind, the type used for quarrying and demolition work 
because of its shattering power. He asked for as much as could be loaded into 
the second Devastation Vehicle in case the first attempts failed, and an 
explosives expert, because his own knowledge was
247 
extremely limited in that field. He gave them directions as to his exact 
location, for he had checked on the names of the streets on his way back to the 
vehicle. They would find him and the overturned vehicle at a point along the 
East India Dock Road close to a turning called Hale Street He told them to 
hurry.
The voice at the other end urged him to sit tight and wait, no matter how long 
it took them to get there, and to avoid any trouble. If he were to be attacked, 
he was to use the gun without hesitation.
He had smiled grimly. He had little compunction about killing now, for he 
thought of the people out there as hardly human anymore, their hostility helping 
to negate his compassion. He had remembered the demented man clutching his 
wife's disembodied head at the entrance to the tunnel; he had backed the car 
right into him, repugnance at what the man had done filling him with 
hatred--unreasonable hatred, he knew, for the man could not help the actions of 
a sick mind. The impact had killed him, Holman was sure, and he felt no regret. 
Perhaps later, when he had time to reflect, he would feel pity, but now, he had 
become quite ruthless; partly because of fear of the illness, but mostly because 
he now had a mission that he couldn't allow to be jeopardized.
Two hours went by before he saw the other vehicle appear from the fog and halt 
beside its ill-fortuned twin. He rose from his hiding place behind the shop's 
counter, amid shelves filled with confectionery, and walked toward the door, 
unbolting it and stepping outside into the misty street. He had found the door 
wide open when he'd arrived and assumed the owner had left it so on leaving the 
premises. He walked over to the second vehicle just as one of its side doors 
began to open. A heavy-suited figure clambered out carrying what appeared to be 
an ordinary rifle except that its trigger was at least three inches long and had 
a wide, looping guard to accommodate it. The figure wore a helmet fitted with a 
dark, narrow visor for vision, and he had to swing his whole body around from 
the waist in order to see about him. The black visor came to rest in the 
direction of Holman as he walked forward, his arm slightly raised in a gesture 
of greeting turning into one of apprehensive placation as the rifle swung up to 
meet him. The four fingers of the clumsy
248 glove tightened on the long trigger and a voice with its familiar metallic 
tone said sharply, "Stay there!"
"It's all right," said Holman wearily, "it's me, Holman." He stopped 
nevertheless.
Another gray-suited figure was now climbing from the car. "Yes, Captain, it's 
Holman. Put your gun down."
"Sorry, sir," the man holding the gun said, "but I'm a bit jumpy after what 
we've seen coming here."
"It's okay," said Holman, "I know what you mean."
The second figure pushed by the Captain and advanced on Holman. "Well done, Mr. 
Holman," said a voice, familiar although distorted by the helmet's speaker. "Let 
us hope we are in time to carry out your plan, eh?"
He recognized the slight German accent. "Professor Ryker?" he asked.
"Yes," came the reply, "I decided to see the mutation firsthand before we sealed 
it off. Once it is trapped, the fog itself should be easy to disperse. Later, we 
will be able to drill holes and draw the mycoplasma off into containers. It 
should in itself provide us with enough vaccine to cure a large majority of the 
people we catch in time. But first, I must have that sample, for I'm afraid we 
still do not know exactly what the mutation is."
"But you must have some idea by now," said Holman.
"Brain cells perhaps, broken down, crystallized in some way, infected with the 
mycoplasma, multiplying, somehow feeding on impurities and carbon dioxide from 
the air. Yes, we have some idea," said Ryker, "but that is not enough. We still 
need the thing itself. And soon, if it is to be of any use." He pointed toward 
the vehicle he'd just arrived in. "Now, please, let us go to this place, this 
tunnel. We must not waste any more time."
He walked back to the vehicle, pulling Holman gently by the arm along with him. 
"This is Captain Peters, our explosives expert," he said as they passed the 
figure still clutching the gun.
"Sir," the Captain said to Holman, "you didn't say what had happened to Mason 
when you reported back."
Holman pointed toward the two dead figures lying beside the bus across the road. 
"One of them's Mason. He was injured in the crash and ran into a mob. They 
kicked him to death."
He thought he heard the Captain cursing softly as he
249 climbed into the vehicle. Inside, he was surprised to find the figure of 
another man, also clad in the usual grotesque garb.
"This is Sergeant Stanton," the Captain introduced him as he squeezed in behind 
Holman. The Sergeant's helmet nodded toward him.
"Did you find room for the explosives?" Holman asked, quite seriously. The small 
cabin was fairly cramped with all four of them, especially with the other 
three's suits making their bodies even more bulky.
"I think you'll find we have enough, sir," the Sergeant replied, equally 
seriously. They had all seen enough distressing sights that day to dismiss any 
joviality they might normally have. "Blasting gelatine we brought. Enough to 
blow up the 'ouses of Parly. You're sitting on most of it!"
Holman shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
"Don't worry, sir," the Captain said, "it's quite safe for the moment."
"So long as nobody bashes into us," Stanton remarked drily.
"Yes," agreed the Captain. "I think it might be better if Mr. Holman drives, 
providing he feels up to it; he'll have a clearer view than any of us. We 
daren't take off these helmets now that the door has been opened."
Holman struggled forward into the driver's seat and the Sergeant squeezed back 
into the place he had vacated.
"Of course, we still do not know if these suits are strong enough to resist the 
mycoplasma," said Ryker. "At least not near its center, in its purest form. That 
is why it is still you, Mr. Holman, who will have to draw off the sample."
As Holman shuddered, Ryker went on reassuringly, "Don't worry, my friend. You 
will not have to go too near; we have long tubing that you will only have to 
direct into the nucleus. And one of us will come as far as possible with you to 
see that you come to no harm."
The vehicle moved on and once again the four men were subjected to the wretched 
sight of fellow human beings in the depths of degradation. Holman noticed they 
were banding together more now, solitary figures becoming less and less frequent 
He remarked on it.
"Yes, we have seen it too as we drove here," said Ryker. There were thousands of 
them by the river. We had to take an alternative route to get through."
250 "Oh, God, you don't think " Holman began, remembering Bournemouth.
"It's possible," said Ryker gravely, guessing Holman's meaning. "That's why it 
is essential that we are successful this time and can clear the fog."
"Why, what can you do? Thousands, millions more likely, are going to commit mass 
suicide. They'll throw themselves into the river. The Thames will be full of 
bodies--there'll be so many you'll be able to walk across it!"
"Calm yourself, please, Mr. Holman." Ryker placed a gentle hand on Holman's arm. 
"We are going to spray the city, the whole town, with sleeping gas."
"What? That's impossible!"
"No, it isn't," Ryker answered quietly. "Ever since the crisis began in London, 
small aircraft and helicopters--commercial as well as military--have been 
loading up with two things: calcium chloride and nitrous oxide, a gas you might 
describe as knockout gas. The intention is to send the city to sleep for as long 
as it takes to find and administer a serum. And remember: many will not have 
been affected by the disease yet for it varies from body to body as to how long 
it takes for the infection to begin its work; these people will have the best 
chance of all. Hundreds will still die, of course--thousands, perhaps--but we 
will save the majority. Providing we have a serum and providing we are in time!"
Holman picked up speed. It was plausible; countless lives could be saved! They 
had to succeed; no matter what they came up against, they had to succeed this 
time.
Soon, by carefully skirting likely trouble spots, they arrived at the black 
entrances to the twin tunnels. He stopped the vehicle and they clambered out, 
the two soldiers going first, each clutching their rifles, ready to use them if 
necessary.
"There's a body over there just inside the tunnel," the Sergeant said flatly, 
pointing toward the recumbent figure of the man Holman had knocked down.
"I killed him," he told them, and they accepted it without comment, as though he 
had told them he'd stepped on a bug.
"Now," said Ryker, who was emerging last from the vehicle, "we have to make sure 
the nucleus is still there and if it is, then you know what you must do, Mr. 
Holman." And then he added, in surprise, "But there are two tunnels!"
251 Holman nodded. "Yes, one is the old tunnel--the right- hand one--used by 
northbound traffic; the other, more recent one, is the south. The nucleus is in 
the old one." He indicated with his hand, adding, "At least, I hope to God it's 
still there."
The four men walked into the entrance, three lumbering along, small oxygen tanks 
strapped to their backs; one, unencumbered, but looking humanly frail beside the 
others.
"It's pretty solid," the Captain remarked, peering up at the roof of the 
entrance. "Lovely solid chunks of concrete to come down and fill up the hole. 
Yes, should do very nicely."
"Fuck me," said the Sergeant through clenched lips, "there's a bloody 'ead lyin' 
over there."
"Forget it," said Holman coldly.
He walked into the blackness for about six yards, then stood there, allowing his 
eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. "It's there," he said after a while.
The two soldiers returned to the vehicle and unloaded a lead container mounted 
on wheels from its side, similar to the one Holman had used in Winchester, only 
bigger. The Sergeant unstrapped a long length of flexible steel tubing, narrower 
at one end. He coiled it over his shoulder and followed the Captain, who was 
leading the motorized container back toward the tunnel's entrance.
"You know how to use the machine, Mr. Holman," Ryker said, facing him and 
placing one hand on his shoulder as though contact would make his words more 
intelligible. "As I told you, there is no need to go too near the nucleus. You 
have sixty yards of steel tubing that is just stiff enough for you to push into 
the mycoplasma, and by switching on the machine, it will be sucked back into the 
container. I will come with you myself; I want to get a closer look at this 
monster."
"Take this with you, sir," the Captain said, handing Holman a small oxygen tank. 
"You may find you need it. And here's a torch."
Holman thanked him and put his arm through the strap of the tank, sliding it 
onto his shoulder. Switching on the torch, he took the arm of the mobile 
container in his other hand and said, "I'm ready, Professor."
They walked down the slope of the tunnel toward the first curve and Ryker 
stiffened as for the first time he became aware of the light shining from ahead.
252 
"I can see it now," he said to Holman.
Holman didn't bother to reply; he could feel his nerves tensing at every step 
nearer to the bend and the now familiar clammy coldness creeping up his back. He 
kept the torch shining onto the ground just ahead of him, knowing it would only 
reflect back at him if he shone it directly at the fog in the tunnel. He moved 
to the side of the tunnel as if to keep out of vision from the brightness ahead, 
as if it were a seeing thing. Strangely, Ryker followed suit.
They reached the bend and stopped for a moment, Holman turning to look at the 
scientist as though seeking reassurance. Ryker nodded and pointed ahead. "I'll 
come with you around the curve so I can get a better look at it, but that's as 
far as I think I should go."
Holman took a deep breath, then was forced to cough to clear his throat from the 
fumes. It wasn't too bad yet, but he would soon have to use the breathing 
apparatus as he went deeper into the tunnel. He moved on, Ryker following.
They were a long way down the next straight run before Holman said, "You'd 
better stop here, Professor, the light's getting much stronger."
"Yes, yes, I think you're right," came the reply. "I cannot see too well through 
this visor, but I think we must be very close to the main body of the 
mycoplasma."
"The worst of it seems to be around the next bend; I can see the light shining 
brilliantly at its corner. I'm going forward, you stay here. I won't go out of 
your sight around the curve if I can help it"
Once again, he felt the compulsion to approach it, but he did so only because he 
had to. The fog seemed thicker but he guessed it was only because the light 
bouncing off its particles made it more difficult to see. He turned his head to 
make sure Ryker was still in view; he didn't want the professor to lose sight of 
him! He soon reached the next gently sweeping curve, this one bending to the 
right as opposed to the first which had bent to the left, but he stayed on the 
same side of the tunnel, hoping he would be able to reach the nucleus from as 
far back in the curve as possible.
The light was dazzling as he reached the point of the bend that allowed him to 
see farther up the tunnel. Either it was just the confined space creating an 
illusion or the nucleus
253 
was growing larger; he was sure it hadn't been as bright as this in Winchester. 
True, he hadn't been as close as this there, but because of the old cathedral's 
vastness, he had been afforded an unhindered view. He began hastily to assemble 
the machinery, pushing the end of the steel tubing into its cavity and clicking 
the switch that released grips that would hold it securely; the sooner he had 
completed his task and could get away, the better he would like it. Before he 
began to push the tubing toward its goal, he placed the mouthpiece of the oxygen 
cylinder over his mouth, for the acrid smell was becoming stronger. Then he 
began unwinding the coil of steel, placing its rigid end on the ground and 
slowly sliding it along the center of the tunnel's flat surface. It began to go 
off course after a while, but that didn't matter; the side wall would guide it 
forward into the glowing mass ahead. Beads of perspiration broke out on Holman's 
forehead, due to the clammy heat inside the cavernous tunnel and the tension 
that had gripped him.
Finally the tubing began to disappear into the light, meeting no resistance, a 
fact that surprised Holman; he had almost expected the nucleus to have some 
substance, at least some kind of resilience, but he realized again it was 
organism he was probing, millions of tiny microbes. He pushed the steel tube to 
the limit of its extension then pressed the switch on the container which would 
operate the suction unit. The machine began to buzz and draw off the deadly 
mutation into its reinforced container, the snaking coil of steel stiffening and 
straightening out as it did so. Previously, at Winchester, he had been 
instructed to leave the machine on for at least two minutes to allow the 
container to fill itself with the mutated microbes, but as this container was 
larger, he decided to leave it on for at least three minutes. He crouched on one 
knee, bathed in the yellow glow, studying the phenomenon before him.
He had come to regard it almost as a living, thinking thing. Ryker had called it 
a monster. It seemed apt. The feeling that it was protesting in some way against 
this violation against it still persisted but, of course, it was only the 
high-pitched humming of the machinery, the quivering stiffness of the steel 
tubing combining with his imagination that produced and heightened the effect. 
At least, that was what he told himself.
The urge to go closer to the source was becoming stronger
254 and several times during that long three minutes he found himself staring 
blankly into the bright mass. At last, with a sigh of relief, he switched off 
the machine, pushed another button that would seal the container, then detached 
the tubing, leaving it lying limply along the ground. He stood up and once again 
looked into the radiance. Perhaps he should get a closer look at it. Perhaps 
behind the veiling mists that swirled in front of it he would find some clue to 
its beginnings, some idea of its structure he could inform Ryker of, who would 
perhaps recognize a vital factor in the progress of his theory. He was immune, 
after all; it couldn't harm him.
He began to walk toward it.
A gloved hand clamped down heavily on his shoulder, when he had only gone ten 
yards, spinning him around roughly.
"What do you think you are doing?" Ryker demanded to know, his body heaving with 
the exertion of running in the cumbersome suit.
Holman could only stare at the darkened visor.
"I could barely make out your figure through the fog," Ryker went on, "and when 
it disappeared altogether, I knew something was wrong. It has been a long time 
since I have run so fast. Now tell me: what are you up to?"
Holman rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Christ," he said, "I don't know. I 
was walking into it. I just had a compulsion to get nearer to it."
"Yes," said Ryker slowly and thoughtfully. "Well, do not look at it again. Turn 
your back on it and let us return to the machine. Did you complete your task?"
"Y-yes. Yes, it should be full. But you shouldn't be this close--your suit may 
not be enough protection."
"I know, I know, but you had to be stopped. Come along, let us get away from 
here."
They collected the machine and made their way back to the tunnel's entrance, 
much to the relief of the two soldiers, who had been growing more anxious by the 
minute.
"Everything okay, sir?" inquired the Captain, stepping forward to take the 
machine.
"Everything is fine," Ryker told him. "Now, we will not waste any more time; we 
must seal the tunnel entrance immediately. Take the container back out of harm's 
way--we will worry about loading it onto the vehicle later, when
255 our next job is done." He looked up at the arch of the tunnel and smiled 
inside his helmet.
"It is very fortunate that they thought of building another tunnel. Captain 
Peters and I will take explosives through the southbound passage and plant them 
at the other end. We must seal both openings at the same time so that the 
mycoplasma will be trapped; we will time our blasts so they occur 
simultaneously."
They went over to the vehicle and the Sergeant began to unload three cases of 
explosives. "This will be more than enough," he told them. "If we fail the first 
time, we've plenty more for as many goes as we like." He reached in and brought 
out another box, smaller than the others. "Detonators," he explained.
They turned as they heard the lumbering figure of the Captain returning. "I've 
put the container halfway up the incline," he said, "where the road branches off 
to the ramp we've just come down. It'll be quite safe there for now; it's 
virtually indestructible and nobody can move it unless they know how to operate 
it."
He poked his head inside the cabin of the vehicle and emerged again holding a 
small two-way radio. "We'll keep in touch constantly," he said. "You take this, 
Mr. Holman. It's simple to operate, and you can speak to us while Sergeant 
Stanton is setting up his explosives." He handed the radio to Holman who 
examined it briefly, then nodded.
"It should take us about twenty minutes to get through the tunnel and set 
ourselves up, providing we don't run into trouble on the way," the Captain went 
on, glancing at his watch. "But we'll radio through and synchronize our blasts 
that way. All set?" he turned toward Ryker.
The figure nodded and clambered into the vehicle. Before he was completely 
through, he turned and said, "Good luck to all of us. And may God help us."
Holman stood well back while the Sergeant went about setting his explosives 
thirty feet inside the tunnel, even though he was assured it was quite harmless 
until it had been "primed." "In fact," Sergeant Stanton had explained, "it's the 
blasting caps that are more dangerous. Highly explosive, they are." He had shown 
him the small metal tube that was the primer. "There's a little bit of lead 
azide in there, with a larger amount of trinitrotoluene--TNT to you. Very 
sensitive." He had grinned through his mask at
256 Holman, enjoying the man's discomfort. "Don't worry, sir, you'll be all 
right with me." He had gone into the tunnel whistling tunelessly, happy now that 
he was at last doing something positive, something he was an expert at.
Holman dragged clear of the entrance the dead body of the man he'd thrown from 
the car, for some illogical reason not wanting it to be buried beneath tons of 
concrete. After a short while, the Sergeant came out of the tunnel, unwinding a 
long thin cable from a spindle behind him. "That should do it," he said, almost 
cheerfully now.
The radio crackled in Holman's hand. "Hello, can you hear me, Mr. Holman?" It 
was Rykei's voice sounding distant and even less human than it had through the 
mask's speaker. Holman acknowledged. "The Captain is inside the tunnel now," the 
voice went on. "The southbound passage was clear. Filled with the fog, of 
course, but not the nucleus. We had to take it steady--our vision was not too 
good--but we used dipped headlights and stayed close to the wall. As yet, we've 
seen no people over on this side and I must admit we have no desire to. The 
exit--or should I say entrance--at this end is perfect for our purposes. It is 
enclosed by heavy concrete slabs all the way along the incline leading from the 
tunnel. We have parked our vehicle on the opposite road of the other tunnel 
which is much higher than its sister road. That is where I am perched at this 
moment, looking straight down into the exit; we will move back to a safer 
position as soon as we are ready. How are things at your end?"
"Sergeant Stanton is just running out the fuse. We should be ready at any time."
"Good. Captain Peters asked me to tell the Sergeant he will place one charge as 
near to the roof as possible, another at the bottom of the opposite wall. Could 
you pass that on to Sergeant Stanton please?"
Holman shouted the message after Stanton who was now some distance away up the 
incline. He looked up at Holman, nodded, pointed at his chest, and gave the 
thumbs- up sign.
"The Sergeant's done the same," Holman said into the mouthpiece.
"Good, good. Now I suggest we find cover. The Captain is coming out of the 
tunnel now so we should soon be ready to proceed. I will speak to you again in a 
few moments."
257 The radio went dead and Holman walked back toward Sergeant Stanton, who had 
now climbed the parapet onto the small side road that overlooked the incline 
leading down to the black hole.
"We'll be all right up here, sir," the soldier said as Holman scrambled up after 
him. "I've set it so that the tunnel will come down causing very little to come 
our way--but we'll have to be wary of a few flying rocks."
"What about the container?" Holman pointed toward the mobile box that stood 
farther down, closer to the entrance.
"Oh, that'll be all right, sir. There's not much that can harm that thing." He 
connected the plastic-sheathed fuse to a small handbox. "One twist of this knob 
here, sir, and we'll have that entrance down in no time."
"No plunger?" asked Holman, feeling naive.
"Not for this." The Sergeant grinned, his enjoyment increasing as the time for 
his blast grew nearer.
The radio crackled into life again and a voice said, "Captain Peters, here. Can 
you hear me, Sergeant?"
The Sergeant leaned toward the speaker. "I can hear you, sir."
"Right. We're in position here. We'll give it a countdown of one minute. Check 
your timer."
Holman saw the soldier look at a small clockface on the detonation box he held 
in his hand. His gloved finger poised above a catch at its side. The voice from 
the radio said, "Start it after three." The seconds were counted and the 
Sergeant's clumsy finger pushed the catch down, starting a tiny red second hand 
on its circular course.
"All right, Sergeant, I'm handing the radio back to Professor Ryker now," the 
Captain's voice said. "Be ready on the stroke of sixty. Good luck and keep your 
bloody heads down." The radio went silent again.
Holman watched in fascination as the red hand crept around the dial. Several 
times he thought it had stopped but realized it was only an optical illusion. As 
it reached the forty-five-second mark, he felt the urge to blow his nose, but he 
knew it was only nerves and rubbed it with a shaking finger instead. Ten. His 
throat felt dry. Seven. He cleared it. Five. He remembered to breathe. Three. 
Would the blast be powerful enough to completely block the entrance? Two. It had 
to be. One.
258 He buried his head in his hands as he felt rather than saw the Sergeant 
briskly turn the knob.
He felt the whooshing of air before he heard the explosion, sweeping his hair 
back, dragging at his clothes. He thought the ground had actually trembled 
beneath him. Then he heard the roar, a split second behind the actual blast, 
muffled at first, then developing into a loud, rumbling crack of thunder.
He kept his head down close to the concrete surface, expecting to feel fragments 
of rubble descending upon them, but none came. Still, he lay there, covering his 
head until the Sergeant's hand prodded him on the shoulder.
"It's all right now, sir. A nice clean one, that"
The Sergeant was on his knees looking toward the tunnel's entrance, nodding his 
head in self-admiration. Holman looked up, deafened by the blast, but anxious to 
see its results.
Dust was swirling around the entrance, mixed with the fog, but after a few 
seconds, it began to drift away. Holman managed to smile at what he saw.
Tons of broken concrete and rubble had completely filled the high entrance--if 
one could call it an entrance anymore. For some inexplicable reason, he had 
expected just to see the entrance blocked up, but of course, the beginning of 
the hole had now moved back forty feet or so and a steep slope of broken rock 
led up to its broken roof.
He clapped the grinning Sergeant on the arm and picked up the radio. "Hello, 
Professor Ryker," he said into it and was puzzled as to why he couldn't hear his 
own voice. Then realized his head was still ringing with the blast so he placed 
the radio on the ground while he studied the wreckage more thoroughly. The 
Sergeant had already dropped down onto the incline and was now walking toward 
it. He reached its foot and stood there, examining the damage. At last 
satisfied, he turned and waved at Holman and once more gave him the thumbs-up 
sign.
By now, Holman's head was clearing so he picked up the radio again and spoke 
into it "Hello, Ryker, can you hear me?"
There was a few moments of static then the professor's voice came through. 
"Hello, hello, Mr. Holman. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, I can, Professor."
259 "Quite a blast, eh? Well, it seems to have done the job at this end. Captain 
Peters has just gone for a closer look, but from here it looks fine. How about 
your side?"
"It's completely sealed at this end. Sergeant Stanton is just climbing the slope 
to the top, but he's already indicated everything's fine."
"Excellent, excellent. I shall move forward myself now along the top road, and 
examine the damage from there. The dust is settling and the air over here seems 
to be clearer than on your side, so I am getting a pretty clear picture of the 
results of our little blast. Yes, yes, the nearer I get the better it looks. I 
can see Captain Peters directly below me; I think he will be satisfied with his 
work. He is looking around for me--ah, yes, he sees me. He is waving. Good, 
good, I think he is happy--he is shaking hands with himself." Holman heard a 
strange metallic rasping through the receiver which could only have been the 
professor chuckling to himself. The voice went on, "I am moving past the 
blockage now and I must say it looks very, very solid to me. There is one 
enormous concrete slab at an angle at the top, it must
be at least twenty feet across, that is " the radio went
silent for a few moments, then the voice continued, and Holman could sense a 
sudden tension in it, even through its distortion. "There is something wrong. 
There--there is dust spewing from the top of the concrete--no, from behind it. 
Is it dust?" There was a long pause. "Or is it just the disturbed fog? No, the 
fog is clearer over here, it must be dust. I will look closer. It seems to be 
coming out rapidly, like steam. I am near to it now, I can see behind the con " 
again his voice broke off. "There is a gap!" Holman started at the sudden 
exclamation. "There is a gap in the roof! The fog--it is escaping from it! But 
this is impossible. It must be the force of the blast. The air inside the tunnel 
must be forcing the fog out. It must be that, surely the fog couldn't--God! 
There is a light! The hole is beginning to glow. The light is coming out. It is 
the light we saw in the tunnel, the yellow light. No, no, the mycoplasma is 
escaping. It is emerging with the fog! I must get away from here! I must get 
away."
The radio went dead, except for the sharp crackle of static, and Holman, for the 
first time in many years, broke down and wept.
260 "Holman! Sergeant Stanton! Can you hear me?" Holman raised his head at the 
sound of the voice and made a grab for the radio. He had no idea of how much 
time had elapsed since the receiver had gone dead: it might only have been 
seconds, but more likely it had been several minutes for his tears of 
frustration had blotted out all sense of time. Was there no answer to this 
nightmare? Was there no way to succeed in destroying it?
"Hello, this is Holman," he said hastily into the speaker. "Ryker?"
"No, this is Captain Peters. Professor Ryker is beside me in the vehicle; I 
don't think he's too good."
"What happened?"
"The mycoplasma: it got loose. I heard Professor Ryker shouting and scrambled up 
to the top of the slope to see what was wrong. He was down the road apiece, near 
the vehicle, lying in the road. Ahead of him, I could see a--I can only describe 
it as a solid mass of light, although that hardly fits. It seemed to be drifting 
away with the fog; it must have passed right over him!"
Holman drew in his breath slowly. "Is he all right?"
"I don't know. He seems sort of dazed. I dragged him into the vehicle, but 
couldn't risk taking his helmet off to examine him. I think it's more fright 
than anything; the sight of that thing escaping and coming toward him. Anyway, 
he seemed to come out of it a minute ago; he told me to follow it, said we 
mustn't lose sight of it this time, and then he just slumped back and seemed to 
black out. I think he's coming around a bit now."
"Peters, be careful," Holman urged. "He may have been infected."
"No, I don't think so; these suits are pretty bloody tough. I think it's just 
shock. Anyway, I'm following the thing, the nucleus, whatever it is, just 
keeping it within visual range. We haven't got far yet, but it seems to be 
heading due east
toward " again, the agonizing silence. "Holman, there're
two enormous buildings rising up ahead of us in the fog," the voice broke in 
again. "They look like--yes, they are. Gas holders. Giant gas holders!"
Holman's mind raced back to the occasions he had used the three-lane motorway 
leading from the Blackwall Tunnel. He remembered the last time had been late at 
night, and on his left, just as he'd emerged from the southbound
261 
tunnel, he'd seen a fantastic sight that had resembled a scene from a 
science-fiction movie. It had been a vast gas refinery, its silver towers and 
tanks floodlit at night giving it an awesome and spectacular appearance. There 
were two main gas holders (those Peters had just seen presumably) and rows of 
smaller tanks farther back. The refinery had been built on the river bank to 
give it easy access for the coal that was brought up the Thames in barges to be 
processed for the manufacture of town gas. He knew it was one of the largest 
plants of its kind in England, for it helped serve a vast area of the South 
East.
"Holman, what is this place?" It had sounded like Ryker's voice.
"Professor, is that you?" he asked anxiously. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes, I'm a little bit dizzy, but otherwise fine. Now, quickly tell me, 
what is this place ahead?"
Holman told him all he knew of the huge gasworks and how, if necessary, they 
could get into it.
"I think it is necessary," the voice came back. "The nucleus is making straight 
for it. How strange: it is the large quantities of carbon dioxide and sulphur 
dioxide that are formed in the combustion of gas that add greatly to the 
pollution of our atmosphere; and now, the mutated mycoplasma is seeking it out, 
going to it as if it knows it is under threat and needs replenishment, needs to 
grow stronger.
"Ah, Captain Peters has seen the side road you spoke of: we are turning into it. 
We are close to the holders now, they are looming above us. There is a gate 
ahead; we will go through. I can see the nucleus."
"Where is it, where is it now?" Holman shouted into the receiver.
He thought he heard a dry laugh at the other end. "Why, where you would expect 
it to be, Mr. Holman, nestled between the two gas holders, like a tiny child 
between two monstrous parents."
Holman stared at the receiver. Ryker's voice had sounded almost whimsical. 
"Ryker?" he said.
The voice that returned was brisker, sharper. "Do you know what town gas is 
comprised of, Mr. Holman? Let me tell you: it is a toxic mixture comprising 
fifty percent hydrogen; twenty-thirty percent methane, seven-seventeen percent 
carbon monoxide, three percent carbon dioxide,
262 eight percent nitrogen, and two percent hydrocarbons. Furthermore," Ryker 
went on, as though lecturing an inquisitive student, "it contains ammonia, 
sulphur, hydrocyanic acid, benzene, and other substances. In other words, a 
highly combustible mixture. I think the mutation has provided us with another 
answer, don't you agree, Mr. Holman?"
The radio went frustratingly dead again before he had time to answer. My God, he 
thought, he means to blow the tanks up and the mutated mycoplasma with them! But 
what sort of damage would an explosion of that force do to the surrounding area? 
But he was right; it was worth the risk!
Holman scrambled to his feet, intending to cross the river through the tunnel 
that was still intact and give help to the two on the other side. Hanging the 
radio over his shoulder by its strap, he raised a hand to his mouth to call the 
Sergeant, who was still unaware of what had happened. It was then that he 
discovered he had problems of his own.
Before he could utter a sound, Holman became conscious of the fact that he was 
not alone. A crowd, attracted by the noise of the explosion, had gathered behind 
him; there seemed to be a couple of hundred of them, filling the road leading to 
the tunnel. Whether the crowd had already assembled before and were mindlessly 
roaming the streets en masse, he had no way of knowing, but their complete 
silence was more disturbing than if they had been yelling and screaming. 
Somehow, he knew, they sensed he was different
He backed cautiously away from their cold, staring eyes, not wanting to make any 
sudden movement that would alarm them and jerk them into action. But there was a 
stirring in the crowd and a small boy of about fourteen pushed his way through 
and said in a quavering voice, "Please tell me what's happening, mister?"
Holman looked down at him in surprise. The poor kid, he thought. He hadn't been 
affected yet. He's wandering around with the pack wondering what the hell's 
going on. He stepped
toward the boy and said, leaning forward. "Listen, son "
He got no further. The crowd suddenly surged forward like a human tidal wave at 
the sound of his voice. The boy went down instantly, and Holman knew he was 
lost. Hands grabbed for him and he was swept backward with the motion of the 
people, striking out at them, trying to break their grips
263 
on him. He felled one man directly in front of him with his knee, back-handed a 
woman who was grabbing for his hair, struck another man who was trying to choke 
him with a hefty blow from his elbow. But there were too many of them. He felt 
himself going down, his breath being crushed from his body.
Then a shot rang out. A body close to him screamed and fell forward. He couldn't 
tell by the scream if a man or a woman had been hit, but at that stage, he 
couldn't have cared less. The crowd froze, then fell back, scrambling over one 
another to get clear. It was the noise of the rifle shot that had frightened 
them more than anything else.
"Quick, sir, make a break for it!" He heard the mechanical voice of Sergeant 
Stanton call out.
In a flash Holman was on his feet and, using one hand for support, cleared the 
iron balustrade that ran along the road overlooking the ramp, dropping six feet 
onto the incline. He fell forward onto his knees, but the Sergeant allowed him 
no time for pause. 'This way, sir, quickly," he shouted, and another shot rang 
out.
Holman sprang to his feet and ran toward the gray-suited soldier. "Thank God you 
hung onto your gun," he gasped.
"After what I've seen today, mate, I wouldn't go anywhere without it" He fired 
into the crowd again. "Not very accurate in this getup, but with this mob, who 
needs accuracy." He raised it again and fired. "Quick now, into the tunnel. I 
won't be able to keep up with you, so you go ahead, get to the Captain. I'll be 
able to hold them as I beat a slow retreat."
It was pointless to tell him what had happened at the other end of the tunnel, 
so he said, "I'll stay with you, I'll help you."
"What you gonna do, spit at them?"
"I've got a gun." Holman showed him the revolver.
'They'd have to be on top of you for that squirt to work, and if they're on top 
of you, well, that's not going to help much, is it? No, you go on, sir, I can 
hold 'em. Look at 'em now, cowering like animals. They won't come any nearer." 
To show Holman what he meant he raised the rifle and shot at the nearest figure, 
a woman who was crawling forward toward them on all fours. As she screamed, the 
crowd moved several feet back. "You be on your way, mate,"
264 he said, and Holman could almost imagine him grinning beneath the mask.
He was staggered by the soldier's cruelty: he knew they were in a dangerous 
predicament and his feelings for the demented people were becoming less and less 
sympathetic by degree, but he could not understand the Sergeant's inhumanity. He 
was taking potshots at the mob as if they were diseased sheep that had to be 
slaughtered. Had the madness touched him, too?
"What about the container?" was all he could manage to say.
"That'll be all right. They can't harm it and they can't move it. We'll collect 
it later when we come back in the vehicle. Now for the last time: will you get 
into that fucking tunnel... sir?"
Holman turned, and with one last look at the intimidated but still slowly 
advancing crowd, he disappeared into the tunnel leaving the Sergeant at the foot 
of the broken concrete slope he had created. As his running footsteps echoed 
around the walls of the tunnel and he sank deeper into the blackness of its 
interior, he heard two shots ring out in rapid succession. He hoped the Sergeant 
would retreat into the tunnel where he would be safer; the crowd might not even 
follow him into the darkness.
But Sergeant Stanton had been foolhardy in his contempt of the crowd for, as he 
had shot at them, taking his time, picking off the more dangerous looking of 
them, one had climbed around behind him to the top of the twin tunnels; madmen 
have a special kind of cunning. The man picked up a solid rock of concrete from 
the many scattered around the top of the bridging structure of the tunnels, and, 
almost nonchalantly, hurled it down at the unsuspecting Sergeant Even the tough 
helmet could not prevent Sergeant Stanton's head from caving in under the 
impact. The gray-clad figure crumpled and the mob surged forward again, 
screeching with delight, grabbing the dead body and holding it aloft, throwing 
it high into the air and letting it drop to the ground with bone-shattering 
thuds. Then they stripped it of its clothing and ran into the tunnel with it, 
holding it high above their heads.
Holman heard the noise of the crowd behind him. He listened for gunshots but 
when none came, he knew what had happened; they'd got the Sergeant
265 
He was in total, frightening darkness now, halfway down the tunnel, he guessed, 
but both ends out of sight because of its many curves. How he prayed to see that 
patch of gray light ahead that would mean the tunnel's exit, for the blackness 
made him feel as though he were in a void, without a body, inside his own mind, 
his fears intensified because his imagination had no barriers of vision now. At 
least earlier that day (God, had it been the same day, it seemed like an 
eternity away) in the Underground tunnel, he'd had a torch; he had been able to 
relate to what he actually saw, but now he only had the touch of the rough 
concrete wall and the feel of the road beneath his feet to tell him he still 
existed as a living person. He barely took his groping fingers off the wall for 
fear of it not being there when he reached for it again. He moved along at a 
careless speed, trusting to chance that he would not meet an unexpected obstacle 
in the dark. Ryker had said the tunnel was clear, but then he had been traveling 
in the vehicle.
He could hear the frenzied mob behind him, sounding much closer than he knew 
they actually were because of the confined space, but nevertheless, he increased 
his pace. He felt the wall curve gently and the road begin a subtle ascent. Were 
his eyes playing tricks, or was the blackness really less solid to the right of 
his vision? He blinked his eyes, knowing he had only by the flexing of his small 
eye muscles. Yes, there was definitely a grayness ahead. There would be another 
bend, the incline would become steeper, and there, at the end, would be 
daylight! He was breathing heavily and the muscles of his thighs ached 
abominably, but the effect of the dull light and anticipation of the brighter 
light to follow gave him new stamina. His fatigue wasn't overcome; it was just 
ignored.
It took him another five minutes to emerge from the tunnel, the cries of the 
demented mob behind and the promise of daylight ahead continuing to keep his 
weary legs pumping away, refusing to slacken their cruel pace. The fresh air, 
fog-filled though it was, managed to revive him a little, which was fortunate, 
for the final slope leading on to the motorway above ground was the most 
exhausting. He was almost at the top when the radio hanging from his shoulder 
began to crackle into life again. Several times, in the tunnel, he had been 
tempted to dump it as an unnecessary encumbrance, but now he was glad he hadn't.
266 "Can you hear me, can you hear me?" a voice asked urgently.
He pressed the transmit switch. "Hello, yes. This is Holman! I can hear you. 
Ryker? Peters?"
"Thank God," the voice said. "It's Captain Peters, here."
He slumped down against the wall which sloped down toward the tunnel. "Have you 
planted the explosives yet?" he asked, trying to make his words intelligible 
through gasping breath.
"Yes, I've done that. As much as I could beneath each gas holder. They're made 
of steel, those things, but they'll crack like eggs with the amount of gelatine 
I've used. I'm going to set the timer for five minutes, which will give us 
plenty of time to get back into that tunnel. We're going to need all the shelter 
we can get." Before Holman could tell him of the mob in the tunnel, the Captain 
went on, "Here comes Ryker now. He was just getting a last look at the bloody 
thing while I was setting up the wires here. I think he's still in a state of 
shock, you know. One minute he's quite rational, the next he seems to go off 
into--my God! He isn't wearing his helmet!"
Holman heard the Captain calling out Professor Ryker's name, then the radio went 
dead. He raised himself and looked over the top of the wedge-shaped wall, narrow 
at his end, but deep by the tunnel's exit. He could just about make out the huge 
structures of the gasworks through the fog which, he noticed, was thinning out 
considerably.
"Peters, Peters!" he shouted into the receiver. "What's happening? For Christ's 
sake, answer!"
He was still shouting into the speaker when he realized it was answering. Again, 
it was the Captain's voice, but his words sounded even more distant. The brisk, 
military coolness had gone, and the words carried an edge of panic to them. 
"H-he's taken the detonator box from me. He's become infected by the fog, I'm 
sure, and yet . . ." The voice struggled to control itself. "He seemed quite 
rational. He said we couldn't wait for five minutes, the risk of the nucleus 
moving away was too great--it had to be destroyed now while we had the chance. I 
refused, but h-he pushed me back and grabbed the box. I didn't dare struggle 
with him in case the mechanism was jolted and it went off there and then. 
He's--he's walking back now, into the fog, into the nucleus! Holman, wherever 
you are now, try and find
267 
shelter. Get into the tunnel if you can. I'm coming out! I'm beside the 
vehicle--I may just have a chance!" Static, then silence.
Holman knew better than to try to call the Captain again; the poor bastard 
needed all the time he could get! He looked toward the vast refinery, shaking at 
the thought of what was about to happen, and then he thought he saw movement. He 
couldn't be sure because of the drifting fog, but yes, it looked like the 
Devastation Vehicle! He might just make it!
Then two things happened at the same time: the mob poured from the tunnel below, 
carrying what looked like a bloodied naked carcass above their heads, and, as he 
turned their way, a searing flash, followed by a deafening explosion, and then 
in turn followed by a thunderous whoosh of exploding gas rocked the very earth.
Holman curled up into a tight ball, trying to make himself as small as possible. 
He could feel the hot air burning into his back, his hair crackling as it was 
singed from his scalp; he thought his eardrums would burst with the noise, he 
could feel the trickle of blood as it ran from his nose. The roar seemed to be 
going on forever, the concrete was cracking beneath him. Although he could not 
hear them with his deafened ears he could feel fresh blast-waves sweeping over 
him, more violent trembling of the ground, and he knew the other smaller tanks 
were going up one by one. He was afraid to look even had it been possible, for 
he knew the world above him was now a blazing inferno and if he raised himself, 
the heat would scorch his eyes. He was luckier than most of the people below at 
the tunnel's exit; he was tight up against the solid wall which was reinforced 
by the width of the road running along its top, but they, although sheltered 
from the worst of the blast, were relatively exposed. Many were burned to death 
instantly by the scorching blast of dry air; others were swept back into the 
tunnel, their bodies shattered by fragments of flying steel and masonry; and 
many more were crushed to death by the falling concrete slabs as parts of the 
tunnel caved in.
It was a long, long time before Holman had the courage to uncover his head from 
his blistered hands and look up. He saw that the ramp he had crouched in was 
littered with debris, much of it solid pieces of rock and metal that, if they 
had struck him, would have killed him instantly. He did not
268 look down toward the tunnel for he had no desire to see the carnage to human 
bodies the explosion would have wreaked; instead, he slowly and painfully raised 
himself to his knees and cautiously, inch by inch, lifted his head so that he 
could see what lay beyond the wall.
The whole area before him seemed to be a gigantic ball of flame. He could no 
longer see the structures of the gas plant or any buildings at all for that 
matter; anything that had been left standing--// anything had been left standing 
--was completely obscured by the billowing fire. He couldn't hear the rumble of 
new, smaller explosions, but he could see the sudden bursts of yellow flame 
among the deeper orange and red billowing fire. He ducked down again for his 
eyes were already becoming sore with the heat and he blinked rapidly to moisten 
them. After a minute had passed, he looked over the top again.
The fire seemed to stretch from the river for at least a quarter of a mile to 
his right, covering the whole of the plant and most of the smaller factories 
nearby. He turned his head and saw that even the buildings across the wide 
motorway had been completely gutted. The devastation was appalling: the gas 
holders had obviously been full, the steel containers raised to the limits of 
their height for the use of gas that day would obviously have been small, and 
the two explosions beneath them had cracked them both wide open, igniting the 
highly combustible gas they held, setting off a chain reaction among the 
surrounding refining tanks, spreading the destruction with rebounding swiftness.
A few hundred yards away he could see what must have been the broken shell of 
the Devastation Vehicle lying on its side, almost completely burned out now. He 
sank back down, his head against the wall, and closed his aching eyes. What a 
terrible price to pay. His thoughts were no longer angry--not even at those who 
had first instigated the malignancy, then set it free by their stupidity--nor 
were his thoughts filled with fear of the madness it had caused. He was drained 
of feelings of that extremity; all he felt now was a deep, wearying sadness. He 
knew the mutation was gone, destroyed by the intense heat, the enemy and the 
ally of mankind. Nothing could have withstood that destructive but purifying 
inferno, not even the man-inspired disease, the mutated mycoplasma that seemed 
somehow more than just a formation of malignant and parasitical cells. Had its
269 
deviousness been imagined? Had it really possessed the power to evade its 
would-be destroyers, or had its movements been controlled merely by the drifting 
air currents? Had its mesmerizing quality only been the imagination of man, part 
of the subconscious will for self-destruction every mind possesses, hidden deep 
down in the darkest recesses of the brain, but always ready to be brought to the 
surface? Had Ryker really gone mad, or had he seen it was the only sure way? 
Perhaps he had known the disease had already got a grip on his brain and was 
steadily duplicating itself, destroying his healthy brain cells one by one, 
gaining control of his mind. Perhaps he had known this and decided in his last 
rational thoughts to end it both for himself and the disease. Or perhaps his 
suicide had been a combination of the madness and the compulsive drawing power 
of the nucleus itself. There was no way of knowing the answers to any of these 
questions now, and at that moment, Holman had no wish to know. All he wanted was 
to rest.
A sudden rush of colder air stirred him from his apathy. His hand stretched to 
the top of the wall and he pulled himself up once again. The fire was rising, 
drawing itself together in a great mushroom shape, spreading out with fire and 
black smoke at its head, the flames at its base almost white in their intensity. 
As it rose into the air, terrifyingly awesome in its furious beauty, the warm 
air rose with it, drawing in the cooler surrounding air, the heat repeating the 
process, creating an ascending maelstrom, reaching into the sky. He could see 
the fog being drawn in and sucked up, the streaked yellow-gray vapor making the 
fast currents of air visible, sweeping over him in swirling drifts, soaring 
upward with the flames to be dispersed into the sky. Holman knew all the fog 
would not be cleared in this way, but at least a vast area would be free of it; 
the rest would be thinned and then dispersed by the wind now that its core, its 
nucleus, the mutation that had been creating and feeding from it, had been 
destroyed.
With his back against the wall he sat with his hands hanging loosely over his 
raised knees, staring into the sky, waiting for the first clear blue patch to 
appear.
270 
Holman had moored the small launch beside the jetty near Westminster pier. He 
had left the lead container in the boat; they could send men in protective suits 
from the underground headquarters to collect it; he was too exhausted to attempt 
bringing it to dry land. He had waited by the tunnel exit for more than an hour 
before summoning up his reserves of power to make the journey back. He'd gone 
through the tunnel again, this time using the narrow catwalk at its side 
slightly above the level of the road, intended for motorists whose cars had 
broken down, using its rail as a guide, ignoring the moans of torment and pain 
from the people in the darkness below him. On the other side he had found the 
trampled body of the boy who had come forward from the crowd, lost and afraid, 
wondering what had happened to the world around him. Holman's mind had gone back 
to the beginning to the little girl he had rescued from the earthquake in the 
village, the first victim to die from the disease. He tried to contain the 
sorrow for there was more for him to do.
He had found the container where they had left it and he led it toward the 
river. There, he had soon found a small
271 rowboat which he had used to reach a motor launch moored farther down. 
Starting the launch had caused no great problem for it had a self-starter and by 
the simple trick of touching wires and completing the circuit, the engine had 
soon been running. With satisfaction he had noted its tanks were half full, more 
than enough for his purposes. He had run the mobile container off the dockside 
onto the deck and it lay there on its side, undamaged and, for him at least, 
immovable.
As he had guided the launch out into midstream and begun his journey up the 
long, winding river, the sun had been breaking through the patchy gray sky 
above, its rays, where they managed to strike the brownish water, reflecting 
schools of bobbing silver light shards. He could see both banks of the river and 
knew an enormous hole was being created in the fog. The fire behind him raged, 
its blazing column still rising and its base spreading outward. The fire would 
last for days, consuming more lives, more property but, most important, the fog. 
Then it would burn itself out, finally subdued by its own ferocity.
All along the riverbanks, he could see people staring toward it, white-faced, 
shocked by its enormity, the sight filling their sick minds to the exclusion of 
all else. The blaze would be seen for miles and he hoped it had the same 
paralyzing effect on many more; at least this way they had no thoughts of 
harming themselves or others. He avoided the floating bodies in the water where 
he could, but others were knocked aside by the launch, their stiff, puffed-up 
limbs turning lazily in the water.
The fog had been thicker near Westminster, but not as thick as before. He had 
left the launch and found his way back to the underground car park. They had 
seen him coming through their television scanners, but had not recognized him at 
first because of his scorched hair, his blackened and bruised face, his tattered 
and bloody clothes, but when he began pounding on the blank concrete wall at the 
back of the basement car park, they had realized who he was and immediately 
opened the massive door.
He had told them of all that had happened: of the journey through the city; the 
death of Mason; the sealing off of the Blackwall Tunnel; the final destruction 
of the mycoplasma with the destruction of the gas plant. They had fired 
questions rapidly at him and he did his weary best to answer
272 them all. Finally, they had congratulated him, praised him, but he had told 
them it was Professor Ryker and Captain Peters who deserved the thanks; it had 
been their combined efforts that had finally destroyed the disease.
Janet Halstead had examined him quickly, but not before she had smothered his 
grimy face with kisses of relief. She had found nothing seriously wrong, 
although many of his cuts and the burns on his hands would need special 
attention, and the enormous bruise on the side of his face, caused when he had 
been thrown from the overturned vehicle, would give him a lot of pain in the 
days to follow. She had urged him to rest, insisting he was in a state of near 
collapse, but he had refused, telling her there was one more thing he had to do 
before they began spraying the town with sleeping gas: he had to reach Casey.
He had begged her for a shot of something that would keep his fatigued body 
going, and seeing that he was determined to leave anyway, she agreed, warning 
him she did not know how long the effects of the drug would last in his 
exhausted condition. He had assured her they would last long enough for him to 
get to Casey and that he would then gladly lie down and sleep while the city was 
sprayed with gas. His resolve had been strengthened and his anxiety aroused when 
they had tried to reach his flat on their internal switchboard, but power 
throughout London had finally gone dead and their only communication with the 
waiting outside world was through their transmitters. They had promised him the 
spraying operation would begin in the southwest and northeast areas, the 
aircraft working their way in sections across London, leaving the area in which 
he lived till last. To help him, they had given him the use of a military 
vehicle, a stocky, solid army scout car, but obviously, and to their regret, 
they could not risk sending anybody with him; the fog might still contain enough 
of the disease to penetrate the protective suits. As it was, they would need 
volunteers to collect the container, but that was a justifiable risk.
Finally, after Janet Halstead had quickly cleaned his face and hands up and he 
had borrowed a leather jacket from someone to cover the gun and shoulder holster 
he still wore, he had driven from the underground shelter, feeling the drug 
already beginning to revitalize his exhausted system.
273 He climbed the stairs and by the fourth flight, he could feel the weariness 
creeping back through his limbs; the drug was wearing off already. It must have 
been the drive back that had begun to drain him again, for the horror was still 
going on. Somehow he had half expected it to be all over with the destruction of 
the nucleus, but he soon realized the trail of misery it had left in its wake. 
There were still many of the individually gruesome and macabre incidents, but 
now the majority of the people had formed themselves into large marching crowds. 
Marching toward the river! It seemed that there would be a recurrence of the 
Bournemouth tragedy unless the gas reached them first. He had used the car's 
transmitter to inform the base of what was happening and they reported back they 
would now concentrate the dropping of the gas along the river's edge, on both 
sides, before dealing with the rest of London. Where he could, he had skirted 
the main groups of people, but several times he had had to drive carefully 
through them. Fortunately they ignored him, their minds filled now with only one 
thought: self-destruction.
Even as he climbed the stairs, he could hear the low- flying aircraft in the 
distance, swooping down, spewing out their life-saving and, hopefully for many, 
mind-saving gas. In other parts of the town, where the fog seemed fairly low, 
helicopters were being used, their pilots breathing through oxygen tanks in case 
gas from the airplanes drifted their way.
When he reached his floor, he breathed a sigh of relief to see the door to his 
flat was still firmly closed. As he pounded on it with his fist, calling out 
Casey's name, he failed to see the shadowy figure sitting on the stairs leading 
to the roof where it had been patiently waiting for most of the day.
Holman heard her muffled voice from behind the door. "John, is that you?"
"Yes, darling," he shouted back, managing to coax his aching face into a wide 
grin, "it's me. Everything's going to be okay. Open up."
He heard the scraping of furniture, the heavy bolt being shot back, the latch 
clicking, then her face appeared in the small gap governed by the safety chain, 
stained with dried-up tears, fresh ones about to flow.
"Oh, John," she cried, "I didn't know what had happened
274 to you. I've been so worr " her words were cut off as
she fumbled with the safety chain. "Somebody's been trying to get in all " but 
again her words were cut off as he
pushed the door wide and pulled her toward him, enveloping her with his arms, 
relaxing his grip slightly only to kiss her face.
She was crying with relief and happiness as he pushed her back into the hall and 
kicked the door with the heel of his foot.
She broke away to look into his face and her eyes instantly clouded with 
anxiety. "John, what's happened to you? What have they done to you?" she asked.
He smiled wearily. "It's a long story," he said, "First, you and I are going to 
have a stiff drink. Then we're going to bed and I'll tell you all about it. And 
then, we're going to sleep. We're going to go into a long and glorious sleep."
She smiled back at him, her expression curious but full of happiness. And then 
it froze into rigid lines of fear as she saw something over his shoulder, 
something that had prevented the door from closing fully. Puzzled by her 
frightened look, Holman turned to see what had caused it. He caught his breath.
Barrow was standing in the doorway, a strange grin on his face.
Holman turned his body so that he was facing the detective and Casey was behind 
him.
"Hello, Barrow," he said warily.
There was no reply, no movement.
Casey touched his shoulder and said in an urgent, hushed voice, "John, it must 
have been him. Somebody's been trying to get in all day. Banging on the door, 
trying to force it. When I called out, there was never any answer, but the 
pounding would stop then start again an hour or so later. He must have been out 
there all this time."
Holman tried to get an answer from him again. "What do you want, Barrow?" he 
said.
Again, there was no reply, just the odd, disturbing grin. Strangely, Holman 
noticed, he was immaculately dressed: dark-brown three-piece suit, white 
stiff-collared shirt, deep- green tie. It was only his distant eyes and the 
humorless smile that gave any signs of his demented state. Holman tensed as 
Barrow suddenly put his hand into the right-hand
275 
pocket of his jacket and drew something out. He couldn't make out what it was at 
first, but as Barrow began to unwind it, he saw it was a length of thin wire, 
two small wooden handles attached to each end.
"Get into the bedroom, Casey, and lock the door," he said quietly, keeping his 
eyes on the figure in front of him.
"No, John, I'm not leaving you," she said.
"Do as you're bloody told," he said evenly through clenched teeth. He sensed her 
move away from him and heard the click as the bedroom door closed.
"What.do you want, Barrow?" he said again, not expecting a reply but this time 
receiving one.
"You," Barrow said. "You, you bastard."
He had the handles of the wire in either hand now, holding it up at chest level, 
drawing it out so that the wire was taut. Holman knew how the macabre weapon was 
meant to be used: as a garrotte. Twisted around the victim's neck, it would cut 
into the windpipe and jugular vein, killing within seconds.
Barrow took a step toward him.
Holman had been through too much that day to waste time trying to appease him 
and Barrow was already too near for him to risk reaching for the gun--so he 
attacked first
He flew at the detective, charging low, ducking under the threatening wire, and 
both men went crashing back through the open doorway, falling in a struggling 
heap in the hall outside. Holman had landed on top but found himself being 
lifted completely off his opponent and then thrown to one side. The policeman's 
strength was incredible and as he rolled over in an effort to get to one knee, 
Holman knew he would not stand much chance against him, especially in his own 
weakened condition. He saw Casey suddenly appear in the doorway, a hand to her 
open mouth as she saw the weapon Barrow held. The policeman was on his feet, 
moving in for the kill, a dry chuckling noise coming from his throat, but he 
turned his head when Casey screamed.
It gave Holman the fraction of time he needed to get to one knee and launch 
himself forward again from that position. His head struck Barrow in the midriff, 
knocking the wind from him, sending him reeling back along the hall. Holman 
found himself lying on Barrow's legs and he 
276 received a vicious kick under his chin from the detective's knee. He fell 
back against the wall, his senses spinning for precious moments. He tried to 
push himself up by using the wall for support, but he was too late. He felt the 
icy sharp wire go around his neck and just managed to get an arm up to prevent 
it closing completely. Barrow had crossed the two handles and was kneeling in 
front of Holman pulling them in opposite directions with all his strength.
Holman could feel the wire cutting into the back of his neck and into his arm, 
fortunately protected by the borrowed leather jacket, which was preventing him 
from being choked, although he was near to it. His hand was pressed up against 
the side of his face, held there by the wire at his wrist, and he tried to push 
it away, resisting the tremendous pressure Barrow was exerting, but it was no 
use; he could feel his strength deserting him. His vision seemed to be dimming, 
the excruciating pain was sending waves of white heat through his head. He began 
to lose consciousness.
Then, by some miracle, the pressure was released slightly. His eyes began to 
clear as he fought his way up from the deep well of unconsciousness, but it 
seemed an age before he could focus them, and when he could, he saw that Casey 
had Barrow by his hair and was pulling his head back, tears streaming down her 
face, her body trembling with the effort. Barrow was forced to let go of one of 
the handles to use a hand to free himself. He reached up and grabbed one of her 
wrists, trying to break her grip, but she hung on grimly, pulling him backward, 
forcing him to lose his balance.
He came up again with an enraged roar, turning on her, forgetting Holman for the 
moment. He lashed out at her viciously with the back of his hand, sending her 
flying back against the opposite wall, bringing blood to her lips. She stood 
there sobbing, a hand to her face where he had hit her, and he stepped toward 
her and slapped her again, knocking her body upright, her eyes blazing into his. 
He looked down at her, breathing heavily, his gaze completely blank for a few 
seconds. Then he began to grin again. He reached out and gripped the top of her 
flimsy blouse, then pulled down with one swift motion, ripping it open, the 
sight of her small, exposed breasts causing him to pause, his smile becoming 
wider, his eyes more cruel.
277 He stared at Holman almost uncomprehendingly when he was roughly swung 
around by his shoulder, his expression barely having time to change into one of 
fury before the fist smashed into his face. He went crashing back against the 
girl, but retaliated instantly, using his feet as he had been taught to--as 
weapons--catching Holman a painful blow on his thigh. He lashed out with his 
fist, catching Holman only a glancing blow on the forehead, but enough to send 
him spinning across the hallway. He made as if to follow, but Casey courageously 
hooked an arm around his neck and tried to pull him back. He whirled around in 
her grip and pushed her back against the wall, his body tight against hers, 
pressing into her. One hand reached up for her shoulder, ripping the blouse from 
it, then groping toward her breasts, his other hand sliding down toward her 
thighs. His head was close against hers, and she could feel the wetness of his 
lips on her cheek. She tried to cry out but found she couldn't, her terror 
paralyzing her vocal chords.
Holman staggered toward him again, knowing he had to finish it soon or Barrow 
would kill them both. His anger when he saw the detective's intention gave him 
just the added strength he needed to launch another attack. His fingers 
encircled Barrow's head and found his eyes. He dug his fingers in and pulled 
back with all his might.
Barrow screamed and came away from the girl, his hands flying to his face, 
trying to break Holman's merciless grip. He pushed himself back, crushing Holman 
against the opposite wall, but even though the grip was released, he found he 
couldn't see through his bruised eyeballs. He struck out blindly but Holman 
easily dodged the blow, using the opportunity himself to send a vicious hook 
into Barrow's stomach, doubling him up. He kicked him in the face, the back of 
Barrow's hands taking the worst of the blow, but nevertheless, the force of it 
sending him staggering back down the corridor.
Even as Holman went after him, the detective was straightening his body, shaking 
his head, his sight returning. A smile was just beginning to spread across his 
face again when Holman charged into him, using his shoulder in an attempt to 
knock him flat. Barrow almost avoided the attack by twisting his body, but 
Holman just caught him, spinning him around, both of them falling to the floor
278 again. Both men raised themselves to their knees at the same time and faced 
one another, but it was Barrow who reacted first. He used the hardened edge of 
his hand on the side of Holman's neck, bringing it down in a short, sharp 
chopping motion. Again if it hadn't been for the collar of the leather jacket, 
Holman would have been seriously injured; as it was he fell forward onto his 
face, the whole of his left shoulder and the top of his arm completely numbed 
with pain.
He lay there gasping, his body heaving with the exertion, and he heard the dry, 
insane chuckle of Barrow as he got to his feet
The Detective Inspector looked down at his weakened opponent, his face a mask of 
sadistic pleasure. Casey was farther back down the hall, collapsed on her knees, 
leaning against the wall, her blouse hanging in tatters around her. She wept for 
Holman, but knew she could do no more to help him, the madman was too strong. 
Barrow raised a foot to bring it crushingly down on the back of Holman's head.
As he did, Holman looked up and their eyes met: gloating victory showed through 
Barrow's crazed glare; defeat showed in Holman's. But the detective hesitated a 
moment too long in relishing his triumph and the defeat in Holman's eyes was 
replaced by a look of hope.
They had moved so far down the hall that Barrow now stood with his back to the 
stairs. Holman's right hand snaked out and grabbed for Barrow's foot, the one 
that supported his weight. He gripped the ankle and yanked it forward, using the 
last of his remaining strength to do so. The detective fell back and crashed 
down the stone stairs, over and over until he reached the bottom and bounced off 
the facing wall.
Holman's head sank to the floor and he lay there, his body heaving, too 
exhausted to move. He could hear Casey sobbing farther down the hall, but could 
not summon the strength to go to her just yet. She called his name and slowly 
began to crawl toward him.
He lay there, his mind buzzing with thoughts as it does when too tired to 
concentrate on anything specific. He had been through so much in the last few 
days: his mind had had to adapt to so many strange factors; he'd had to 
279 accept death, not just individual but multiple death; he'd had to accept 
killing.
He heard a scraping noise coming from the stairs; a slithering, dragging noise. 
He looked up and saw that Casey had heard it too; she had frozen against the 
wall, her eyes looking at him in terror. He turned his head toward the stairs. 
The slithering noise continued, growing louder, now coupled with the sound of 
breathing. Holman stared at the empty space at the top of the stairs, unable to 
move, transfixed by the sounds, dreading what he would see. A hand appeared on 
the top stair, the fingers whitening as they pressed against the floor to grip 
and pull. Holman looked at them in disbelief, his head only two feet away from 
them. And then, suddenly, he was staring into the evil, grinning face of Barrow! 
Blood was flowing from his nose and he had a deep cut above his eyebrow, giving 
his face an even more frightening aspect, but he grinned at Holman, his broken 
body shaking with exertion. He began to chuckle, his mouth opening in a wide 
grimace, the sound rasping from the back of his throat. He began to pull himself 
forward, over the top step. He wanted to reach Holman.
Holman slowly lifted his body, reached for the gun in his shoulder holster, and 
clicked off the safety catch with his thumb. Then he put the barrel inside 
Barrow's grinning mouth and pulled the trigger.
He knelt beside Casey, pulling her away from the wall and cradling her in his 
arms. Overhead, he could hear the hum of the low-flying aircraft and he knew 
they had reached his sector.
"The worst is over for us now, darling," he told her, holding her close, rocking 
her gently back and forth. "We'll never be the same, too much has happened to 
both of us, but we can help each other. I love you so much, Casey."
He pulled her to her feet, and she wept against him.
"When this is finally finished, when they've done all they can for those who've 
been harmed, the people are going to find out exactly how it happened. I'm going 
to make sure of it and, I think, there are others who will, too. But now, Casey, 
we're going to sleep. We're going to lie down together, and drift into a long, 
long sleep."
280 She managed to smile up at him and they walked toward his flat, his tired 
and aching body leaning on hers for support.
He closed the door behind them.
281 
282 About the Author
James Herbert was born in London's East End on April 8, 1943, the son of 
Petticoat Lane street traders. A former art director of a leading London 
advertising agency, Herbert is now a full-time writer. He is the author of Lair, 
The Rats, The Survivor, and Fluke, all available in Signet editions.
Mr. Herbert now lives in Sussex with his wife and two young daughters.