Doctor Who_ Halflife - Mark Michalowski [98]
‘Fitz!’ said Tain. ‘How nice to see you again – I was becoming worried that you wouldn’t make it.’
The Doctor pulled Fitz to his feet.
‘Doctor. . . ’ said Fitz slowly, looking around. ‘This place. . . ’
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‘I know,’ agreed the Doctor, nodding. ‘Familiar, isn’t it?’
‘It ought to be,’ said Tain.
Fitz turned to the Doctor, his eyes wide, and a huge grin split his face. He grabbed the Doctor by the arms.
‘It’s Tain!’ he shouted gleefully. ‘The voice – it’s Tain! I remember!’
‘I’m a bit ahead of you,’ said the Doctor calmly, patting Fitz’s arm.
‘Ah. . . ’ said Tain thoughtfully. ‘It seems that I was a little bit presumptuous in my estimation of the state of your memories.’
The Doctor waved Tain’s concerns away casually. ‘Think nothing of it, Tain.
Think nothing of it.’ He paused. ‘Although I got the distinct impression from Madame Xing that my memories of our last encounter had been removed, not just suppressed. There are still more than a few gaps that need filling, though.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the small one between landing the TARDIS and getting found by Trix,’ Fitz jumped in, pacing across the small chamber and frowning, clearly trying to fit everything together. He stopped and looked around, obviously wondering where Tain actually was, where he was supposed to address his comments.
‘Touch the wall,’ said Tain simply. Fitz stared at the Doctor who gave a shrug. The Doctor took Fitz’s hand, and together they touched the gnarled, fleshy side of the chamber –
– sharp strobing, scenes, dizzying in the speed of their editing, like static images burned into his eyes. The copse ahead of them, the Doctor strides off with his detector beeping away in his hand. No sounds, no movement. Fitz glances back at the TARDIS, hoping Trix will be –
– something dark and huge, smashing, crashing, bushes pushed aside, their stems snapped by the force. Fitz turns sharply to see –
– a vast hand or arm, just a shadow given form, swats at him, throws him against a tree. Fitz feels his own arm snap dully and flop helplessly. A thick cloud of pain, like maddened bees, swirls around him. He sees the creature holding the Doctor by the neck, examining him curiously with tiny, bright eyes. Then it flings him away. Fitz sees him roll away down the slope, but he’s getting to his feet. The creature advances on Fitz, towers over him, and swipes at his head with a single, clawed finger. Fitz watches the creature peer at its finger, a clump of blood and hair hanging from it like muddy grass, before it flicks it aside. Fitz tries to move, dazed, stars swimming in his field of view, to slip around the side of the tree, but the creature catches him with a backhand gesture, almost casual, and Fitz is sent tumbling over and over into a bush. He feels the sharp stems scratching and stinging and impaling, sliding through soft flesh and muscle, tearing and snagging –
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– the Doctor’s coming up behind the creature, a branch raised in his arms.
Fitz can see a rosy slick of blood on the Doctor’s neck. Fitz’s heart sinks as, behind the Doctor, he sees another of the creatures, this one slightly smaller, slightly lighter in build. It’s pushing its way out of a tree trunk like it’s being born. The trunk seals itself behind it like rubber, a mouth turned on its side, and the creature advances on the Doctor. Fitz wants to call out –
– the branch crashes down uselessly on the creature’s back, bouncing off.
The creature turns slowly and plucks the branch from the hands of the resigned-looking Doctor, before slapping him away again –
– and the two creatures are advancing on each other, the smaller one more mobile, more fluid in its movements. It ducks and weaves as the larger one tries to grab it, tries to catch it. The smaller one ducks under the bigger one’s arms and, as it passes, sinks its no-less impressive claws into the large one’s side. It howls and instinctively