Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [20]
He passed the mess room, then the infirmary (covering his snout at the stench of formaldehyde and decay) before reaching a small metal door, a spyhole cut crudely into its battered surface. He crouched down and peered inside.
The beast was hideous, to be sure, but Grek found his scientific training overwhelmed his distaste.
It had intrigued him so much that he had prevented his men from doing unspeakable things to it after its capture in the jungle. Quite what he would do with it, Grek didn’t know.
Perhaps if he got home alive, if the damned armistice were ever signed, he might make a name for himself as the creature’s discoverer.
It was small and pale, its horribly smooth flesh peeking out from wherever its white cloth garments didn’t cover it. It had a mound of dark hair on its hideous head and strange, tiny, dark eyes. There wasn’t a crest or scale anywhere on its repulsive body.
Crouching in a wooden cage in the corner, the beast looked, if Grek hadn’t known such feelings were beyond a mere mammal, downright disconsolate.
It peered through the darkness as the bright blue Betrushian eye appeared at the spyhole and sighed.
Like Grek, the Doctor just wanted to go home.
* * *
Maconsa blinked and picked himself up from the ground.
Moments before, the jungle had been heaving as though the ground had turned to water and the acres of jungle were merely storm‐tossed flotsam. He had watched through cupped claws, listening to the deafening, thunderous roar as the tremor took hold.
Now, as the last peal died away, he paused a moment, watching the tops of the trees as they continued to sway in agitation.
He frowned. The eastern jungles were not an earthquake zone. Never had been. There was no tectonic activity this far north at all. Arason had the odd rumble but that was only to be expected as it was so near the great trench of the Isthmus Sea. If they were now faced with earthquakes on top of everything…
Maconsa stiffened suddenly, his claws half‐way into the crescent‐shaped pockets of his greatcoat. There was a distant whispering sound creeping into the very edge of his senses.
He looked about, tiny ears pricked, and felt a cold wave of fear steal over his flesh.
The whispering sound was tantalizingly close, like a snatch of melody just out of earshot.
Maconsa cocked his head, eyes darting about in their deep sockets.
What was that?
The answer came, unexpectedly and terrifyingly, from the sky.
There was a great rending crash and a firework screech as something thudded into the ground at Maconsa’s feet. He cursed and stepped backwards, head jerking heavenward in alarm.
He couldn’t make anything out in the bleary white sky, and was about to stoop and examine the missile when another hit the marshy ground, sending a great plume of mud high into the air.
This time, Maconsa threw himself into a ditch, covering his head as a rain of projectiles screamed down from the cloud‐heavy sky.
His blue eyes widened in shock as the ground was pocked repeatedly. Steam hissed from the saturated ground.
After a few moments, Maconsa eased himself gingerly from the ditch.
The black, puddled soil was studded with small rock chips about the size of his fist.
He edged towards the impact craters and pulled on his gloves. Warily, he bent down and plucked one of the fragments from its muddy grave. It glinted dully in his palm.
He sat on his haunches for some time, remembering the rocks he had taken out of the young soldier’s hide in the infirmary. A large gob of rain splashed onto his claw and he blinked out of his contemplation. This meant more bad news for Grek. And he wouldn’t welcome it.
* * *
The Doctor had come to inside a small wooden cage which was, in turn, inside a dingy cell, its four black stone walls glistening with moisture.
He had looked down miserably at his ruined suit. The jacket was gone, and the waistcoat and trousers were singed and mud‐blackened.
In a pool of filthy water by his side lay his hat, floating like a sad cream jellyfish.
He had fished it out and, tut‐tutting, began to examine