Doctor Who_ Deep Blue - Mark Morris [68]
The creature, it seemed, had chosen this hideout with cunning deliberation. Each time a torch-beam struck the luminous paint of a green zombie or a bright yellow ghost, it induced a scuffle of panic, a raising and aiming of rifles.
Beside the Doctor the Brigadier, handgun drawn, was struggling. He was doing his best to hide it from his men, but up close the Doctor could see the strain on his sweating face.
It was deeply worrying. The usually well-drilled UNIT soldiers were falling far short of the kind of discipline needed here. If the Doctor didn’t judge this situation exactly right, then things quickly could turn very nasty indeed.
All at once the Brigadier stumbled, the beam of his torch zigzagging wildly. With lightning reflexes the Doctor turned and caught him before he hit the ground.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ the Brigadier breathed.
The Doctor glanced back to see what effect the Brigadier’s near-fall had had on the men. Each appeared to be fighting his own internal battle. In the reflected torchlight, their eyes looked glassy, their faces shiny with sweat. The Doctor sighed, and turning to his old friend, whispered ‘How are you feeling, Brigadier? Truthfully.’
The Brigadier swallowed. ‘I feel a sort of... tugging in my mind. As if... as if something is calling to me with a powerful voice. I can’t... hear what it’s saying, but... but I feel as though I should... go to it.’ His eyelids fluttered and then his head snapped back and he muttered furiously, ‘No. I am Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. I am a soldier in Her Majesty’s... Her Majesty’s... I will not...’ His face twisted in anguish. ‘There’s something in my head, something... scrabbling in my memories. I can’t stop it...’ All at once his face slackened, his shoulders slumped and he stumbled to a halt.
‘Come on, Brigadier,’ urged the Doctor, glancing again at the men. ‘Best foot forward.’ Ahead of them was another twist in the route, a glowing orange skeleton pointing the way.
He placed a hand in the small of the Brigadier’s back, and eased him forward a little. Suddenly, urgently the Brigadier rasped again, ‘They know you’re here. They know who you are.’
‘Let’s worry about that when we come to it, shall we?’
replied the Doctor, alert for any sound or movement from around the corner ahead. He slowed down, signalling the men to do the same, and reached down to take the Brigadier’s torch from his limp hand.
In an uncharacteristic blurt of emotion, the Brigadier suddenly said, ‘I’m so sorry, Doctor. This is all my fault.
Unforgiveable... Absolutely unforgiveable.’
The Doctor patted the Brigadier’s arm affectionately. ‘There, there, old chap. Don’t concern yourself.’
He edged around the corner, the torch beam dancing ahead. A huge spider in a glowing yellow web sprang out and confronted them. Hastily the Doctor raised his hand and whispered, ‘Nothing to worry about. Come on.’
They moved slowly forward again. All at once the Brigadier’s head slumped forward and he whispered despairingly, ‘I can’t go on, Doctor...’
‘Nine times seven,’ the Doctor responded.
‘What...?’
‘Quickly, Brigadier. Work it out. Nine times seven.’
‘Um... er... sixty-three.’
‘Fourteen times eleven.’
‘Er... er... I can’t...’
‘You can. Fourteen times eleven.’
‘One hundred... one hundred and fifty four.’
‘Three thousand, seven hundred and eight minus one thousand, six hundred and forty.’ Slowly, the Doctor firing maths questions at the Brigadier, they moved on.
Approaching from the other end, Benton too could feel the mental tugging. In his case, it was still feeble, half-hearted, a sensation he was able to shrug off by barking out orders to his men, urging them to concentrate. Some of them were bearing up well, but others seemed less able to cope with the Xaranti infection, pointing their guns at every glowing phantom and cheesily grinning skeleton.
Benton wondered what would happen if and when they did find the Xaranti. Given the state of the men, he doubted that