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 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 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-protection of his own mind: he’d always had that ability (or perhaps misfortune) to allow its 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 pyjamas and night-clothes, 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 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 any more, 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 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 towards 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 arms 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 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 grey-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 towards 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 towards 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 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 towards 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 dryly.
‘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 centre, 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 which 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.’
‘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 a knock-out 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. Provided we have a serum and provided 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 entrance 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 towards 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!’
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 towards 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 there’s a torch.’
Holman thanked him and put his arm through the strap of the tank, sliding it on to 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 towards the first curve and Ryker stiffened as for the first time he became aware of the light shining from ahead.
‘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 on to 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, Professor 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 of the light bouncing off its particles that 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 further up the tunnel. Either it was just the confined space creating an illusion or the nucleus 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 to release grips that would hold it securely; the sooner he had completed this task and could get away, the better he would like it. Before he began to push the tubing towards 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 centre 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 an 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.