Doctor Who_ Deep Blue - Mark Morris [60]
In an instant the fragile veneer that had shielded June from her emotions shattered. Gut-wrenching terror surged through her like an electric shock. Her legs took up the challenge, doubling their pace, and as she ran she let out a piercing scream that seemed to tear her throat, releasing the taste of blood into her mouth.
Now she didn’t care that the people on the beach were looking at her. Rather, it urged her to cry out for help, her voice raw and ragged. However, no one came to her aid. The people either stood transfixed - some of them with gleaming, hungry eyes - or screamed and turned tail.
Seconds later the stink of dead things overwhelmed her and she fell, struck from behind. It was only when she saw her own blood spilling on to the sand that she realised she’d been sliced open. She tried to roll over, to get back to her feet, but it was no use. She tried to crawl but her limbs wouldn’t let her.
Then it was upon her and there was only the scuttling, stinking blackness of its body. Her last thought was of her children, miles away in Sheffield, excitedly awaiting their parents’ return.
The Brigadier took off his cap and leaned forward in his chair until his forehead was touching the desk. The hard surface was cool, comforting. Not for the first time that day he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift.
It was proving increasingly difficult to hold on to his thoughts. He remembered speaking to Yates on the RT and arranging a UNIT clean-up team to deal with... with some sort of incident at the guesthouse where Yates was staying.
And more recently he had spoken to the Doctor, hadn’t he?
But not his Doctor. The younger chap he’d met earlier, the one in the cream coat. What was it this new Doctor had told him? It was something about the threat that was facing them. He’d said a word - Xaranti - that, even though the Brigadier was sure he’d never heard it before, nevertheless seemed to resound in his head like some newly-roused memory.
He was not too far gone to realise that whatever was wrong with him was something rather more serious than mere stress-fatigue or overwork. Perhaps he ought to relinquish his post, declare himself unfit for duty, hand over the mantle of command to Mike Yates. To do so, to admit to any kind of weakness, was anathema to him, but he was nothing if not a realist. He knew he couldn’t go on like this. For the first time in his military career he simply had no idea what to do next.
And if he couldn’t make proper, informed decisions then he might very well end up endangering the lives of his men - not to mention putting the country, or even the entire planet, at risk.
He raised his head wearily from the desk and was reaching for the RT - first of all pausing to scratch the infernal itching that had started on his shoulder and was now spreading down his arm and across his chest - when the door opened and Benton blundered breathlessly in.
The Brigadier jerked upright as if he had been caught napping and for a moment his mind cleared. ‘Benton,’ he snapped, ‘don’t you know to knock before entering a superior officer’s... er... office?’
If Benton noticed the Brigadier’s moment of confusion he didn’t let on. In fact, he looked a little confused himself.
‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that... well, there’s a monster on the beach, sir.’
‘A monster?’ repeated the Brigadier scathingly. ‘Can’t you be a little more precise, Benton?’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Benton looked as if he was concentrating hard.
‘The local police have just rung in. They say there’s a large, insect-like creature running amok on Tayborough Sands beach. Quite a few fatalities already it seems, sir.’
‘Right, Benton,’ said the Brigadier, not quite with relish, but certainly galvanised - however temporarily - by the prospect of action. ‘Get the men ready to move out in force.
And try to get hold of the Doctor, let him know what’s going