Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [30]
He stumbled forward through the thick undergrowth, claws scrabbling at the mass of unyielding grass and impacted turf.
Then he stopped abruptly. There was someone close by. He couldn’t see who it was. Not properly. But they were coming out of the jungle. And coming fast. But not a person. Not a Cutch, nor an Ismetch. Not even one of the talking mammals…
Utreh held up his arms in a pathetic effort at protection as it screamed out of the trees and enveloped him.
* * *
6
Church Triumphant
The Doctor had succeeded in opening the conference room door. The earthquake seeming to have somewhat challenged the integrity of the locking system, he had made short work of pulling it apart.
Bernice peered into the darkened corridor and was about to step out when the Doctor pulled her back.
‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘You stay here.’
Bernice frowned. ‘Erm, this isn’t a child you’re talking to here, Doctor.’
‘Yes, yes,’ muttered the Doctor testily. ‘I know that. It’s just a question of bearings. There’s a maze of corridors out there and until we know how to get out, there’s little point in us both getting lost. I’ll have a quick recce and be back in five minutes.’
Bernice looked at her watch. ‘Five minutes? And then what do I do? Go off without you?’
The Doctor grinned. ‘You could give me another five.’
‘It’s a deal. Don’t be long.’ She pushed him out into the corridor.
He crept through the gas‐lit passageways, looking about furtively and carefully stepping over the piles of debris left by the earthquake.
He recognized the site of his cell and what was, judging by the smell, either the infirmary or the morgue. Taking a right‐hand turn down another wooden‐propped tunnel, the Doctor became conscious of another odour in the dank air. Raising his eyebrows in surprise, he smiled. ‘Flowers?’
He walked slowly down the tunnel and then stopped sharply at a large metal door.
It was clear that this area was much older than the rest of the dug‐out. In fact, the blend of wood and stonework seemed to indicate that the Ismetch base had been built around it. The metal door was framed by a crumbling stone arch and had a huge brass ring set into it.
The Doctor pressed his ear to the door and then, acting on impulse, threw it open.
A set of winding stone steps led down into dank gloom, a few blossoms of yellow candle‐light the only islands of brightness. The Doctor walked slowly down the steps, his shoes clattering in the icy hush. The walls, made up of massive stone blocks, were coated in slimy moss, moisture running in rivulets down the dressed faces.
The Doctor reached the bottom of the steps and looked around.
It was a fairly large chamber with a flat ceiling, its corners blurred into pitch darkness. And the atmosphere was unmistakable. As familiar here as in any Gallifreyan hall, English college or Balanystran learning block. A place of worship and neglect. An admixture of forgotten books, unaired clothes, damp dormitories. Church. Or whatever the Betrushians liked to call it.
In one corner, the Doctor spotted a hideous gargoyle, its face seeming to move in the flickering of the tall, spindly candles. He jumped. The face was moving.
It belonged to one of the reptiles. He stepped out from the shadows, holding his candle aloft in one gnarled claw. ‘Oh,’ he wheezed, rheumy eyes taking in the Doctor’s small frame with some distaste. ‘You’ve come at last.’
The Doctor was, to say the least, somewhat taken aback.
* * *
Ran gazed at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him he could see the scant comforts of his room; the draped partition which separated his bed‐space from the cooking area. The twin standards of his old legion and the battered copper case in which he kept his medal from Dalurida Bridge.
But none of these caught his attention now. His eyes stared back at him and they were weary eyes, the scales below them hanging in unhealthy bags, the warty flesh of his face beginning a tendency towards jowls. And then there were the tics.
He remembered the day they had started.