James Herbert - ‘48

‘Hoke. Can you hear me? We are over here.’

It sounded like the German’s voice, but it was muffled, distorted by the gas mask the speaker was wearing. The light, dim and comfortless, was coming from a passage not far away.

‘Are you hit?’

Ignoring him, I picked myself up and, still crouched, peeked over the curved stair rail at the light from the top of the escalators. Bright flashes and ear-deafening explosions sent me scrabbling towards the light, the sounds amplified by the tiled walls. Vague heaps on the floor did their damnedest to trip me as I went and other bundles I knocked into, carcasses locked tight in sitting or kneeling positions, toppled over to lay there in those same attitudes of rapid death. Bullets ricocheted off walls or found softer targets around me and, with only a few feet to go, I took a desperate dive into the passageway where the German and the two girls were hiding. I lay there sprawled and gasping bad air and would have stayed that way a lot longer if Cissie hadn’t knelt beside me and pulled at my shoulder. She said something, but it was difficult to understand because of her mask. She tried again and I shook my head.

‘No, they didn’t hit me,’ I told her. I heaved myself up and the effort seemed to be getting harder each time I made it.

The light, weak though it was, hurt my eyes and I pushed the flashlight away. In its beam I could make out more bodies filling the passageway and I wondered if the girls would have the nerve to journey among them. Even though the stench was nowhere as bad as I thought it would be, I decided not to tell them they didn’t need the masks. Their vision would be restricted through the lenses, especially in this poor light, and the gas masks might even make them feel insulated from what lay around them. I had no idea if my thinking was correct, but what the hell, it didn’t matter.

‘Let’s get away from here, fast as we can,’ I said to Stern, taking the flashlight from him. Like before with the gun, there was some resistance, but it was minimal and quickly over.

‘Are they following us?’ he asked, his mask, with its stubby filter unit and big circular eye-pieces making him resemble a creature from another world.

‘No, they won’t come down here,’ I said, looking at the two girls.

‘How can you be sure?’ His voice was distant behind the mask, but his anxiety was plain enough.

‘Maybe they’re afraid of ghosts,’ I replied. Stupid. The girls clutched each other. ‘Come on,’ I added hastily, ‘let’s get away from the noise.’

In fact, the Blackshirts had already given up shooting, although we could hear their shouts, hollow and mocking, drifting down and finding us where we hid. I moved on, the others in tow, negotiating a passage through the tangled heaps and ignoring the noises from behind us. We soon came to a steep stairway, more bodies strewn over the steps.

‘Where are we going?’

The question might have come from Muriel, but it was difficult to tell with the masks. Besides, I was ahead of them, concentrating on finding space for my feet on the steps. For the moment I didn’t want to answer her.

When I reached the bottom I shone the light back at the trio, keeping it at their feet so they could find a way through. A leathered head, shrunken and brown, seemed to follow their passing with empty eye sockets; an arm, only remnants of dried gristle clinging to its hand and wrist, slithered down a step or two, disturbed by their progress, a single grey finger pointing the way. I tried to keep these sights from them, but they needed the low light so they wouldn’t trip, wouldn’t fall headlong into the human garbage around them.

Cissie was in the lead, sensible flat-heeled, crêpe rubbersoled shoes shifting through the debris, arms raised and fists clenched for balance. For the first time I noticed she was wearing dark slacks – blue, I think – and that while not as slim as the other girl, her figure was trim enough, attractive even. Jesus, I had been too long on my own – this was hardly the moment for that kind of appreciation. I guess I must have lost concentration, because the light wavered and Cissie lost her footing. With a tiny yelp she came toppling towards me.

I caught her easily and held her there in my arms until her panic subsided. She held on to me too and seemed reluctant to let go.

She touched my face. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a mask?’ she asked, voice muffled and eyes vague behind the misted glass of her own mask.

I made a decision. It’d be tougher for them, but we’d all make better headway if they could see more clearly. ‘You can take your gas masks off,’ I said, pulling her aside so that I could direct the beam back onto the stairs. I still held on to her with one arm.

‘What did you say?’ Muriel was frozen there in the light.

‘I said you can take off the masks,’ I repeated more loudly.

‘But the…’ Cissie shook her head.

‘It isn’t so bad. These bodies decomposed a long time ago.’

She pulled off her mask and stiffened when she breathed in the stale, tainted air. The snood at the back of her hair had come loose with the mask and she pulled it away entirely, shaking her head so that her locks swung free around her face. By the time Muriel joined us, Cissie had become more used to the atmosphere; or at least, had become less tense. Fortunately, beyond the circle of light from the flashlight it was too dark for her to take in very much. Muriel tugged off her mask as well and I watched her face wrinkle as she gasped in the air.

‘Some light would be helpful.’ The German, his gas mask already removed and hanging by his side, was watching us from midway down the stairs. He came down swiftly when I swung the beam in his direction.

Close to me, he said: ‘What is your plan? Do we wait here until they are gone?’

His English was almost perfect, but again that v instead of a w, so aggravatingly consistent, had the muscles in my chest tightening, my anger boiling towards eruption. I barely held it in check.

But it wasn’t only hatred for this German, this relic of the Master Race, that kept me silent. I didn’t want to make decisions for these people. I was too used to being on my own, making choices for myself (Cagney was of an independent kind of nature). I didn’t want anyone depending on me.

‘Hoke, come on, tell us what we should do.’ Cissie was tugging at my jacket.

I mentally cursed them for coming into my life, even though they’d saved it. ‘We could wait them out,’ I said finally, ‘or we could go into the tunnels.’

‘No!’ Muriel’s reaction had a lick of hysteria to it. ‘We can’t go any further. I won’t. The platforms…’

We all knew what she meant.

‘I’m with her,’ Cissie agreed. ‘God, this is bad enough, but what else could be in there?’ She indicated the platform entrance.

Only plenty more of the same, I was about to say when something happened that took away any choice. From a distance, up the stairs and back along the passageway, there came the sound of breaking glass instantly followed by a kind of muffled whoomph. Then another: same sound, smashed glass followed by that shushed explosion of air. As soon as a bright orange glow lit up the top of the stairs I knew what those sounds were.

‘They’re using gasoline bombs,’ I said almost to myself.

The Blackshirts had tried to flush me out before with these home-made bombs of bottles filled with fuel, a rag stuck into the neck, then set alight, but I’d always been lucky – and too fast. They’d either made them quickly, scavenging bottles from the street or shops, syphoning off gasoline from fuel tanks of vehicles, or they’d brought the cocktails ready-made with them. I thought I heard their taunts, their voices carrying easily down the funnel of the stairway, but the fire had already taken on its own life, passing from one dried husk-like body to the next, incinerating each one as it went along, its muffled roar coming our way. Popping sounds reached us, sharp, explosive reports, as bones cracked and gases ignited. The fire had an abundance of fuel to feed on, a trail of kindling that led directly to us.