Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [79]
Miller was about to order his men back to the ship when a torrent of mud burst from the ground, spitting steam into the atmosphere. Great clods of earth tore through the jungle canopy.
Something was wrong with this place. Clearly. Miller had known it all along.
He began to hobble backwards over the shifting ground, stumbling over thick tree roots and vines, but his attention was soon caught by something else making its way out of the new crater.
It was thick and glutinous, like a river of vomit, pulsing out of the ground and then partially solidifying like pillow lava. In an instant it liquefied again and rolled over the freshly burnt foliage towards them.
Miller felt cold sweat break out under his purple robes and a horrible looseness around his sphincters.
‘Get out! Run! Run!’ he bellowed hoarsely.
His men needed no encouragement as the tide of yellow paste slurped across the soil.
Miller pointed his flame‐jet at the thing and pressed down hard on the nozzle buttons. Fire blasted out of the device and roared into the oncoming substance. It was immediately absorbed, as though swallowed, and the yellow tide powered remorselessly on. Glittering mucus shone over its surface.
Miller turned on his heel and ran.
Almost at once, the ground shook even more violently and he was thrown headlong into the jungle, landing at the base of a huge tree and cracking his head off the bole. He sat up, retching, and held his temples as the world spun sickeningly around him. His vision cleared slightly. Trees. Green. Ferns. Wet. Mud.
And all at once it was on him, slavering over his undefended flesh, burning through each layer of tissue, twisting, sucking, insinuating itself into Miller’s body.
He tried to scream but the glutinous mass was already half‐way down his throat. His eyes bulged, expanded, popped but then he felt no more as the yellow paste swallowed him completely.
It seemed to pause for a moment, its slippery surface writhing around as though contemplating its next move. In the darkening sky, the rings of Betrushia were beginning one of their final displays.
Beneath them, bowling over the horizon like a hurricane, the yellow thread continued to grow.
In an instant, the slobbering mass containing the remains of Chapterman Miller had vanished.
* * *
Ran’s claw curled around the trunk of the tree as he gazed at the sight before him. The two great black ships took up the entire battlefield and much of the jungle perimeter.
He glanced across at the familiar dug‐out and then back to the ships. If the Doctor was dead then the only chance of getting his precious cargo to safety was in the mysterious alien vessels.
He looked at them gingerly, a slight twitch agitating his eyes. The ships were massive and ugly, steam pouring off their bristly black hulls. Several of the alien mammals in purple were milling about before them, fiddling with some kind of apparatus on their backs.
Ran stepped back involuntarily as flame shot out of one of the machines and incinerated a clump of trees.
Imperceptibly at first, the ground began to shudder once more and lightning seared the rapidly darkening sky. A creeping yellow haze, like an infection, was bleeding through the clouds. By now, Ran had decided this was something to do with Betrushia’s terminal decline.
He looked down towards the ships, lit up by the fire in the jungle. There had to be a way of getting inside.
He frowned. Something strange was going on just in front of the ships’ ramps.
* * *
Bernice felt very foolish as she walked across the mud towards the alien ships, head bowed and arms spread wide.
With her were Grek, Liso and Imalgahite, all with similarly obsequious expressions as though overpowered with guilt. When they were close enough to be noticed but, they hoped, too far away to be incinerated they threw themselves down in the mud and began to moan.
‘Keth! Keth!’ cried Grek. ‘They have come at last.’
‘The Masters! We obey you, masters!’ joined in Liso with gusto.
Bernice winked at him and