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 accidently kicked into the chest of one of the female members, sending her backwards 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 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 a 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 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 kerb and into the road, hoping his judgement 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, behind the circles, the shadowy shape of an odd-looking machine. He heard the roar of its engine and suddenly it was coming towards 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 ploughed 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 towards Holman. It didn’t have the appearance of having speed, but the tyres 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 centre 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 dryly, 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 travelling 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 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 a mass 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 into what appeared to be an underground car park belonging to one of the large government office buildings. It was in darkness, but Holman had seen many cars crammed together in the glare of the vehicle’s headlights. 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 towards 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 which had just opened was in fact made of grey metal and was at least eighteen inches thick.
The corridor sloped downwards and they passed through two more doors before they entered a large, open area. Holman estimated they had travelled at least a quarter of a mile to reach this point. He noticed another vehicle looking identical to the one he had been travelling in parked in a far corner. A group of grey-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 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?’
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 there 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 favours for government officials, their price a ticket for survival on the Doomsday?
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 standing 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 grey blankness, an occasional shadowy figure appearing 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 aeroplane crash; but how could minds possibly accept the fact of one of the world’s largest cities gone mad? Only he could realize its full horror because he had seen it at first-hand, 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 who 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 towards 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 fog-bound street, Holman kept a wary eye out for groups of people. These would be the most dangerous; the ones that travelled in packs, like wolves searching for lone and defenceless 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 conversati
on 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, 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.