Doctor Who_ Prime Time - Mike Tucker [81]
The monoliths stretched away in a long avenue. Headstone for the population of an entire planet. The Doctor stood, silent, staring at the carved stones. The light from the distant nebula lit the landscape with weird dancing colours. He couldn’t condone what the Fleshsmiths had become, but to know that your entire race was doomed. To know that nature was your enemy; what could that do to a people?
The universe had destroyed the people of Scrantek when it created the nebula, and in doing so it had spawned the Fleshsmiths. Now it was his job to finish what the universe had begun.
The Doctor pushed open the huge rotten door to the complex and slipped through the gap. Screams and moans echoed horribly around the dank and dripping walls. The hallway was empty. In the distance, above the pleas and cries, he could hear gunfire and explosions, and horrible triumphant howls. The Zzinbriizi finally had something to hunt, and they were enjoying their work.
The Doctor smiled grimly. Barrock was going to have his hands full dealing with his men’s blood lust. Hopefully that would also keep the Fleshsmiths busy just long enough for him to be able to do what he had to do. He frowned. The Master’s disappearance was a concern. He was devious, ruthless. The Doctor shook his head. He would have to worry about the Master later. First he had to get to the forge, and that meant going through the flesh bank.
He crossed the chamber and pressed his eye to the crack between the double doors to the bank. He could see nothing through the writhing mist, nothing save for the bodies.
The Doctor steeled himself. He had seen many horrors in the universe, been presented with unspeakable cruelty, but he knew that the flesh bank of the Fleshsmiths would continue to haunt him for a long time to come. So many innocents in need of a saviour. So many innocents that he was totally unable to save. The best he could offer them was death, and there were already so many deaths on his conscience.
Steeling himself the Doctor pushed at the huge doors and stepped into the mist.
He crept forward, aware of hundreds of eyes swinging painfully towards him, aware of tortured throats trying to call out to him. In the distance he could see the dark cowled shapes of the Fleshsmiths, little more than shadows in the coiling vapour, shambling to and fro, tending to vital feeds and cables as their colleagues battled the Zzinbriizi far below in the vaults.
The Doctor skirted away from them, pushing deeper and deeper into the grotesque jungle of bodies, wasted limbs hanging like vines around him. The air was foul and cold and he pulled his jacket tighter around him.
A sudden dragging made him duck down, crouching on the wet gravel. Two of the Fleshsmiths slid past holding twisted ugly weapons in their hands. The Doctor could hear their low hissing voices.
An arm slumped down on to the Doctor’s shoulder, a talon-like hand digging into the cloth. He pulled himself free, pushing away across the slick ground. His hearts pounded in his chest. His breath caught in his throat.
The two Fleshsmiths became hazy silhouettes. The Doctor let his breath out in a rush. He looked up. Above him a gaunt twisted figure reached out, its eyes pleading.
The Doctor backed away, shaking his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m truly sorry.’
He turned and hurried off. His mouth was set in a grim line, his steel-grey eyes were blazing with anger. He pressed himself against the wall of the chamber, his eyes never straying from the far door, shutting out the hell around him.
This was going to be finished. Soon. The deceptions had gone on long enough. He had let himself be manipulated, used, but now it was time to finish it.
He reached the far door and stopped, listening. Tentatively he eased it open. Ahead of him was the forge, its giant machines snaking towards the ceiling. It was dark and empty, the background throb of machinery muted and soft. The Doctor slipped through the monumental