James Herbert: ‘48

I pushed myself away from her then, and with an almost contemptuous side-swipe of my arm sent her reeling towards the other end of the short tunnel. As the Blackshirts spilled down the steps I went back to the entrance, showing myself to them. They hesitated yet again, some cowering on the steps, others trying to run back up them, as I raised the submachine gun. I took careful aim and pretended to squeeze the trigger.

When nothing happened they raised their heads or stopped where they were and looked at me. Surprise turned to glee as I tossed the weapon away and disappeared back into the shadows. One of ‘em even laughed aloud, thinking the Sten had jammed.

They came after us then like hounds after a wounded fox, baying for our blood – yeah, literally.

Out in the open on the other side of the archway, the sun stinging my eyes for a moment, I held Muriel by the wrist again and we fled, sweet Jesus, how we fled, the uneven roadway doing its best to trip us, the howling mob behind us giving us all the encouragement we needed. The bridge over the dry moat wasn’t far, but my chest was beginning to burn and my breath was scorching my throat As wild gunshots whined through the air I could feel Muriel starting to slow down, dragging on me, her pace becoming awkward.

‘You gotta keep going!’ I yelled at her.

‘We can’t make it!’ she croaked back.

‘We can. They’re slow, don’t you see? We just gotta keep ahead of ‘em!’

We reached the archway exit and pounded across the wooden bridge, and now that we were outside the old fortress, Muriel’s energy seemed renewed: she picked up speed and her movement became more controlled. Before us was the River Thames, ancient cannon set in a row all along its edge, pointing south across the water as if fearing an invasion from London’s other half. A wartime concrete pillbox stood among them, solidly square but useless against the enemy’s last invisible weapon. To our left, Tower Bridge rose high and proud, its bascules frozen open for all time, the river beneath flowing clear and pure in the sunlight

Me in the lead, we headed towards it.

SHE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND when I pulled her round to the stairway.

‘The docks,’ she gasped as she tried to break away. She drew in quick, sharp breaths. ‘We can lose them easily in the docks.’

She had a point. The road under the northern span of the bridge led straight into dockland – or what was left of it after the fire-bombs had done their worst – where there were plenty of side streets, alleyways and ruined buildings to get lost in. Sure, it would’ve been easy to shake off the Blackshirts in that labyrinth, ‘cept that wasn’t any part of my plan.

‘We’re going onto the bridge,’ I told her, trying to catch my own breath. Sweat trickled down my back and my throat felt burned dry.

‘You’re insane. The bridge is raised – we can’t get across!’

‘We can use one of the walkways at the top.’

She looked at me as if I really was crazy, but there was no time for argument, so without another word I pushed her into the covered stairway. The lead Blackshirts were about forty yards away, and for now they’d given up shooting, no doubt confident they’d soon catch us. Coming up the rear was Hubble, pushed by McGruder in that ridiculous perambulator, waving his arms and bitching orders as he bumped over the cobblestones. With one last look, Muriel scuttled up the steps.

At the top of them, a short tunnel led back under the bridge’s roadway, and another flight of stairs went up to the bridge approach itself. Our footsteps echoed around the damp walls together with the sound of our own laboured breathing and even before we’d reached the second flight of stairs I heard pounding feet and shouts coming after us. By now we were running on adrenaline – my old ally – and I could only pray it’d sustain us for a little while longer.

Up the stairs we scrambled, both of us using the iron rail set in the brick wall to pull ourselves forward, my other arm clamping the canvas bag against my side to stop it bouncing around. We burst into bright sunlight again and the bridge’s north tower loomed over us, battleship-grey suspension girder-chains on either side of the roadway rising away from us in great, swooping slopes towards the upper reaches. With its stone cladding, arched windows, mouldings and niches, turrets at each corner, the tower resembled some sinister Gothic castle straight from a creepy Grimm’s fairy tale. Fairy tale? Hell, with its shallow balcony near the top and spires and finials around the roof, it felt as if we were making straight for Bela Lugosi’s town house. Bloodsuckers on our tails, a virtual mountain to climb ahead of us, I closed my mind and kept going.

Through the great archway at the base of the tower where traffic once flowed onto the bridge itself we could see a huge concrete wall plugging the gap. Rusted buses, trucks, and automobiles still queued before it as though waiting for the bascule (that concrete wall was the raised bridge section itself) to lower so they could continue their journey into the city’s southern sprawl. On the other side of the bascule was a sheer drop to the river below and directly opposite was the underside of its sister bascule, this one also raised and standing erect against the south tower.

Beside the archway was a narrow flight of stone steps leading up to an inset doorway, and this was the entrance into the tower, which I wanted to be inside before the mob got too close. Once there, it meant a long haul to the fourth level where the high walkway that spanned the river, joining both towers, would take us across. Although it would be a tough climb for us, I knew it would be even tougher for those unhealthy freaks on our tails.

Along the approach we raced, traffic that would never move again on our left, a thick, ornamental iron rail to our right, howling Blackshirts hard on our heels, and blue skies and dead city all around. Somehow it felt as though I were taking it all in for the last time: the battered, broken rooftops across the city, those wrinkled balloons sagging in the sky, buildings that used to be thriving warehouses now empty shells along the river’s edge, bent and crumpled cranes, boats and barges still moored to quaysides, stirring in the drift. Three years I’d remained in this open mausoleum when survivors with more sense had fled, three years of tidying the streets and getting nowhere. D’you still remember the point of it all? the familiar sneaky little voice inside my head jeered. And if you did, was it still worth the effort? Forever hunted by sick people turned to vampirism, hiding away like an animal, killing just to stay alive, always vigilant, always afraid, carrying on the war when it should have finished with the Blood Death genocide. Did it make any sense at all? No, ‘course it didn’t, none whatsoever. Sally was gone, she knew nothing of this even though your obsession was because of her. Her and…well, you know. You’re crazy, Hoke, crazy like the human leeches chasing you now. Have been since you lost the world. And you know it. But at least it’s coming to an end, this madness. Yeah, another end, and this time you’ll probably be included. You should’ve listened to Cissie, Hoke. She told you you were crazy too…

Bullets whistled over our heads again, interrupting that sly, taunting voice inside my head, a voice that was my own good sense, snapping me back to the here and now. Fact was, I had no choice anyways: my idea had progressed too far to call it off. Those Blackshirts were still trying to frighten us into stopping, but their shots only encouraged us to make a final spurt onto the pier that ran around the base of the tower. The bridge’s control cabin, protected by sheaths of steel plating and sandbags, nestled beneath the tower itself, and I noticed its green signal was still raised to allow non-existent ships through. Out of sight underneath the pier were the cogwheels and accumulator tanks that helped operate the bascule on this side of the river.