James Herbert - ‘48

I watched her profile. I guess I expected tears, but none appeared.

‘Most ABnegs took off,’ she went on, ‘when what was left of the medical staff started dying.’ For a few moments she concentrated on squeezing through the middle of two tramcars stopped adjacent to each other on the broad street, then she said, ‘Hey, what’s your name? As we seem to be saving your life it’s only right we be introduced.’

‘Hoke,’ I told her.

‘Hi, Hoke. Anything to go with that?’

‘Eugene Nathaniel.’

‘Christ, you Yanks. Okay, I’m Cissie and the beauty sitting beside you is Muriel. Muriel Drake.’

Despite her anxiety, Muriel managed another smile.

‘And the chap in front of you is Willy,’ she said. ‘We picked him up when we found him hiking along a lane after we left the sanatorium. Only it’s not really Willy, is it, Willy?’

He, too, managed a smile, but it was stiff, no warmth to it. He had a strong face, a prominent nose that I think must’ve been broken at some time, and eyes that looked beyond your own, eyes that kind of rummaged around inside a person’s head, maybe seeking out their own information.

‘No,’ he said. ‘My name is Wilhelm Stern.’

The w sounded like a v and there was almost an h between the s and the t.

‘German?’ My voice was soft.

He nodded, and now his scrutiny of me had retreated, had drawn back swiftly, a flicker of alarm in his eyes.

I lunged forward, grabbing his neck with both hands, thumbs digging in, trying to join with the fingertips on the other side. He pulled away and I went with him, leaning over the back of his seat, jamming his head against the dashboard. His own hands tried to grab my wrists, but the angle was awkward, and I felt the girl called Muriel tugging at my shoulders, trying to haul me off him.

The driver, Cissie, struck out at me, battering my head with her fist ‘Leave him be, you bloody fool! It’s all over now, there’s no point!’ she yelled.

It was no use though – in my hatred I was oblivious to either blows or entreaties.

Stern fought back, but I had the advantage. He pushed at me, but could get no leverage, while Cissie continued to beat my head and arms, now with the heel of her fist.

In her rage Cissie was paying more attention to me than the road ahead and the Ford hit something, something solid and immovable – maybe another tram – and we were spinning round, screeching a dry skid, engine whining while the tyres burned off rubber. Then we struck something else and the girls screamed and I shot forward, losing my grip on the German, hurtling through the broken windshield, taking whatever glass was left with me. I sprawled on my back on the Ford’s long, triangular hood, the rest of the world spinning round me, too soon to know if I was hurt and too dazed to care. Then I slithered off the hood and down the white-painted fender, a slow-motion drift that ended on the road’s hard surface. I was vaguely aware of doors opening and legs gathering around me. One of them kicked me, but it wasn’t vicious enough to do any damage; more likely it was meant to rouse me. I blinked, more than once, and saw Cissie glaring down at me.

‘You stupid bastard,’ she said, more in pity now than rage. ‘I told you, the war’s over. We can’t go on killing each other any more.’ Her eyes were softened by the beginning of tears.

The other girl, Muriel, knelt close to me. ‘Are you all right?’ She touched a hand to my shoulder.

Stern, the goddamn Kraut, was pointing my own gun at me.

I struggled to get up, anger beginning to replace dizziness. I feebly attempted to reach for him, but Muriel shoved me back down against the crashed car. Her voice was quiet though.

‘It isn’t worth it, don’t you see? Your kind of hatred brought us to this.’

My hand was shaking as I stabbed a finger towards the German. ‘No, it was his kind of madness.’ My words seemed to be squeezed from my chest.

‘My friend, if we do not get away from here right now, it will be their kind of madness that will kill us all.’ Stern waved the gun in the air, indicating the general area behind us.

‘Oh my God, they’re almost here.’ Cissie bent down and started pulling at my arm. ‘We ought to leave you here, you big dope.’

Muriel tugged at the other arm and I was up, looking over their shoulders at the advancing vehicles. The Humber was having difficulty squeezing through the gap left between the two trams further down the road, while the Bedford truck was closer, but having problems with a lamppost on the kerb it had just mounted. The truck scraped by though, and began to gather speed again, the gunmen leaning on the cab roof pointing excitedly when they saw we were easy prey.

Parts of me were beginning to hurt like hell, my body by now having accumulated a fair share of cuts, bruises and plain hard knocks; no bones broken though, nothing seriously torn – even where the bullet had ripped the shoulder of my leather jacket there was only grazed skin – so I knew I could function okay. I was still a little dazed, a bit numbed, but it wasn’t a problem. I quickly scanned the immediate area, searching for another vehicle to get us away from there, and all I saw was a jumble of snarled wreckage. There’d been a mighty accident here at some time, no doubt caused by panic when the population of London had tried to flee the Blood Death. We might have made our way through, found a car on the other side, hopefully with the key still in the ignition, but the Bedford was almost on us, its occupants whooping with glee. We were shit out of luck.

And then I knew what we had to do. And I felt the blood drain from my face. And my hand was shaking a whole heap more than before when I raised my arm and pointed.

MURIEL WAS WATCHING ME as the others turned in the direction I was pointing. Our eyes locked and a faint line appeared in her otherwise smooth brow. There was a question in her gaze.

It was Cissie who put the question though. ‘The Underground? You want us to go down there?’

Stern was looking puzzled too.

‘They’ll never follow us,’ I said, already moving towards the entrance.

‘Of course they will,’ Cissie snapped back. ‘And then we’ll be trapped.’

I paused, taking in all three of them. ‘Believe me, they won’t come after us.’

A crash of metal against metal as the Bedford barged past a black Austin, tearing off the little car’s white-painted fender in the process.

‘If you want to stay alive, get moving!’ I yelled, and I guess the urgency – and the fear – in my voice convinced them. A single gunshot from the approaching truck was the only other encouragement they needed. They ran, following me.

Although limping slightly, I was in no serious pain, and was soon inside the cool, twilight ticket hall of Holborn Underground Station. I let the others pass me and took a peek out into the street. The army truck was only twenty yards or so away, now pulling to a screeching halt.

I ducked back into the shadows and made my way towards the ticket office, stepping over dark shapes lying there in the half-light, ignoring them and hoping my new acquaintances were doing the same. The ticket office was a solitary booth erected in front of the opening to the escalators and as I reached for the door I called out: ‘Grab a mask each. You’re gonna need ‘em.’

The two girls just gawked at me as I yanked open the door, but Stern had caught on; he’d already picked up a small cardboard box from the floor and was busy opening it. He pulled out a gas mask and handed it to Muriel. As I went into the booth he was looking around for more.