Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [109]
The thing sprang on powerful, muscled legs, leaping through the air as if drawn magnetically towards him. Without thinking, Michael swung the pan, clumsily. It connected with a dull clang, sending the thing spinning across the room. It hit the edge of the bench and dropped to the floor, its limbs all over the place. But within seconds it began to move again, pulling itself back together and raising itself up. It kept itself low to the floor, scuttling sideways like a glossy black crab; and its icy blue eyes glistened as it prepared to spring again.
Chapter Twenty
The creature which had, not a few seconds ago, been a fluffy, black Scottie dog growled and spat like sizzling bacon. Its short, powerful legs tensed as it fixed Michael with its eyes.
But before it could launch itself at him again, Michael leaped forwards and dropped the pan over it, the noise ringing in his ears.Without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped up onto it, feeling it banging against the metal, shifting under his feet. He knew that the moment he stepped down, the creature would be free. But then he noticed that the lowest shelf under the workbenches was almost exactly the same height as the pan.
Putting one foot back on the floor, he slid the pan and its captive under the shelf where it rattled and clattered, trapped and angry. Michael felt a cold sweat break out across his body as he stepped away from it, only then noticing a shadow falling across him from the doorway.
He turned to see another of the knobbly orange creatures, a gun in its slender fingers.
Reflexively he stepped to the side and chopped downwards and away from him, feeling the thin arm crack under the blow.
The creature squealed a high, shrill squeal and the gun dropped to the floor, skittering away across the tiles. For a moment, Michael saw pure, unadulterated outrage in the creature’s much-too-human eyes – before he launched an uppercut that threw the thing into the doorframe.
With nothing more than a thin moan, it slid to the floor and lay still, ungainly limbs splayed out like a broken scarecrow.
‘Ace!’
The voice was low and urgent – and right outside the door.
‘Michael!’ Ace rushed to the door, pushing Sooal out of the way. She slammed her palms against it. ‘Michael, we’re in here!’
Moments later they heard the sound of the old, rusted key turning in the lock and the door opened – Michael was standing there, the Annarene’s gun in his hand. His face was pale, and it took Ace a few moments to realise that he was trying not to look down at the blackened bodies around his feet. Sooal stepped forwards but Michael waved him back with the gun.
‘Come on Ace,’ he said darkly and paused. ‘Where’s the Doctor?’
Ace turned to find the Doctor right behind her, his eyes oddly unfocussed, staring straight past her and Michael. He seemed to be muttering to himself. She followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. Oh no, she thought. He’s having a relapse.
‘The transmat,’ he said distantly. ‘We have to get to it.’
Ace nodded, frowning at Michael, as the Doctor stepped past her and headed into the laboratory.
Cautiously, Michael waved Sooal through: he’d rather have the slimy little creep where he could see him. They followed the Doctor. Through the high windows, Michael could see the cool blue light of dawn.
In the Orkneys, Ace stood on the beach, trying to keep the weight off her damaged knee. She fished in her jacket pocket, pulled out her torch, and squinted out to sea. She wanted some warmth, a cup of tea. But most of all, she