Doctor Who_ Hope - Mark Clapham [53]
Youll live, said the Doctor, turning to examine the railing. This must be conducting an incredible amount of cold. He suddenly snapped upright, flicking the torch off. Fitz was left alone in the silent darkness.
Theres been a temperature drop in the sea, said the Doctor. Its frozen again.
Fitzs eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Dim light was seeping in, and he could just make out his silvery breath in the air.
This is the place, said the Doctor.
Oh goody, said Fitz, nursing his sore hand.
A scream rang out, and the Doctor was gone, the vapour of his breath hanging in the air behind him. Fitz swore and gave chase, trying not to bump his head, fall to his death or in any other way kill himself in the rush. The Pier was a labyrinth of dark corridors, and Fitz could see shapes moving, disturbed by the screams, preparing themselves for attack.
Ahead, the Doctor slid down a nearby pole like a fireman. Swearing again, Fitz jumped for the pole and clung on, letting himself slide down until his left foot impacted on unstable, shaky hoards. Fitz let go of the pole and reeled backwards on the unstable surface, partially dazed by the twentyfoot vertical slide, and partially distracted by smoke. In Fitzs ear Powlins voice was babbling on, demanding to know what was going on. But Fitz was too tired, too out of breath, to speak coherently.
There was a fire burning, and Fitz had the impression of ragged figures in the firelight, adults and children. Someone was slumped nearby, and Fitz saw splashes of red. He didnt need to look closer. He hadnt time to look closer he had a more pressing concern.
The Doctor was wrestling with a tall, whiteclad figure, one with wide, black eyes. Fitz recognised their target from Powlins description, and from the flash of the man jumping over him on the ice. Theyd found him, and Fitz shouted that this was the case, hoping that the throat mic was still working. He needed to get the signal out just in case, to bring Powlins men to their location as soon as possible.
Fitz ran over to the tarpaulin pulled across the beams of the Pier wall, a makeshift protection from the elements raised by the people there. He scrabbled for a gap and pulled it open, dragging out the flare gun he had been given earlier and jamming it through the gap. His breath ragged, one eye on the fight between the Doctor and the killer, he pulled the trigger.
The last thing he saw was the Doctor falling back, his head lolling dangerously close to the raging fire. The killer was straddled over him, one hand clamped around the Doctors neck, the throat mic torn away and hanging off his collar. The killers knife was raised, firelight casting his shadow on to the ceiling.
Then the flare guns recoil knocked Fitz off his feet and he collapsed to the ground, facing away from the fight. As he scraped his raw fingers on the rough floor, pulling himself to his feet, he heard a sickening crunch of bone and a yelp of anguish. He turned to see the knife skidding across the floor towards him, the ghostlike figure of the murderer backing away from the Doctor. Now it was Fitzs friend who loomed in the firelight, and for one second he didnt know who to be frightened of and frightened for.
Then, in one second of clarity that brought him to a halt, Fitz realised that the killer was wearing some kind of costume. The black eyes were lenses, the muzzle a breath filter: And from within the zip of his white coat, he was producing...
Doctor! Fitz shouted, running forward, trying to get to the Doctor before the man could fire his gun, trying to do anything to distract him.
The distraction tactic worked. The shock of Fitzs cry caused the killers aim to shake, and his shot went wild.
Instead of shooting the Doctor, he shot Fitz.
The Doctor heard Fitz crash to the ground and ran to him, turning his back on his assailant. He dropped to his knees, looking for help. The inhabitants of the Pier had all fled, and Powlins men were doubtless still a few minutes away from finding them. The only person present was the corpse