Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [1]
Neerid scrambled across the pasture, her long arms scuffing at the earth as she struggled to maintain her pace. One glance over her shoulder at the sickly, liverish sky confirmed her worst fears.
She choked back a tide of overwhelming panic. Blood roared in her ears.
She didn’t want to die. Above all things. But Feeson said it was inevitable. And Feeson was never wrong.
The small man flapped his hands in agitation and grabbed Neerid by the scruff of the neck. She stumbled over the threshold into the polygon and fell back against the padded walls. Feeson took the spool from her hand and rammed it into the black console by his feet.
‘I’d all but given up,’ he said, his voice little more than a tiny, tight whisper.
Neerid nodded wearily, her head dragging itself down onto her shuddering chest. She held out her hand and watched it tremble. There were tiny half‐moons of blood on her palms where her nails had dug in. It would all have been for nothing if she’d dropped the spool.
Three low chimes sounded from the black console and Feeson nodded slowly.
‘It’s done,’ he said simply, holding out a hand for Neerid.
She looked up at him and saw tears brimming in his sun‐yellow eyes. The feel of his rough hand in hers was almost unbearably reassuring.
Feeson pulled Neerid to her feet and wrapped his long, thin arms around her. The room began to shake violently.
‘Well?’ said Neerid.
Feeson smiled a small sad smile and together they stepped out of the polygon.
When they were dead, when the last of Neerid and Feeson’s glutinous blood had disappeared into the inconceivable darkness, the polygon slid silently below the ground, gently excavating a pit for itself and its secrets.
* * *
1
Planet of Death
Not for the first time, Grek thought it a very bad place to have a war.
The north‐eastern jungles of Betrushia extended endlessly in a curious splayed pattern; isthmuses of dense vegetation broken by swollen rivers, like the imprint of monstrous hands on the planet’s surface. There were crescent‐shaped encampments by the dozen on each finger of land, hollowed from the mud and reinforced with wood and steel.
Every few days a squadron of Grek’s men would make a futile attempt to cut back the encroaching jungle in order to limit its inexorable advance. But the mass of deep, dark, leathery foliage spread like bacteria over the straight lines of civilization, sticky seed pods and mosses choking every effort at clearance.
Worst of all, though, in Grek’s considered and very weary opinion, the jungles were wet. Relentlessly, unmercifully, unbearably wet.
Rain seeped into the wide, thick fronds of vegetation which littered the ground; permeating the drenched jungle, causing clouds of steam to drift in ghostly displays from the tree‐tops to a floor deep in rain‐pocked shadow.
Few breezes stirred the landscape, but an occasional garish flying mammal would squawk into the dank green gloom, its cries merging with the constant background ticking of beetles.
Grek looked around, narrowing his eyes in an effort to focus on the rain‐blurred landscape. He turned, rubbed his snout and suddenly realized he was lost.
Pulling at the ragged hem of his uniform, Grek sighed heavily. Beneath the fabric his scales itched and little rivulets of moisture were insinuating themselves into the bony grooves which ran parallel to his spine. Cold rain splashed off his head, dripping from the impressive crest which rose in a wide line from his nostrils to his bulbous temples. Grek sank beneath a tree and let his eyes lose focus. His black tunic rumpled as he pulled his booted legs under his chin.
Distantly, the constant crackling of gunfire formed a strange backbeat, as though life had been set to particularly discordant music.
There was a splash right by him and Grek was immediately alert, springing to his feet and ripping his well‐oiled gun from a shoulder‐holster. He tensed then, seeing who it was, relaxed.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Sir!’ The younger soldier clicked his heels but the soft, wet jungle floor rendered the sound