Doctor Who_ The Dying Days - Lance Parkin [9]
'Mind your feet, Bernice,' he warned.
The cabin was lying on its side, almost intact. The helicopter had been black, and was unmarked. Even in its current state, the Doctor could see that it was a military transport, a Puma, or perhaps a 212. That could mean that there were fifteen people in there. He clambered handover-hand past the hot engines to the cockpit, which was towards the top of the wreckage. The door was already open.
Bernice was twenty-five feet below him, examining the contorted remains of the tail. She seemed a little distant.
When his companion had spoken to him, back at the house, she had heightened that accent of hers: the pronunciation was ever so slightly better, she would tilt her head a little as she spoke and draw herself up to her full height. It was the way she spoke to strangers.
'Come up and help me,' the Doctor insisted cheerfully.
'I'm isolating the electrics from the fuel supply,' she said, 'to prevent an explosion. I'll be with you in a moment.'
'Good thinking.' The Doctor pressed himself to the cracked cockpit glass. There was a dead man in the cockpit, his eyes staring ahead, his neck broken. The Doctor tried peering past him down into the cabin. It was dark: the lights weren't working, of course, but neither was the emergency lighting. He suspected that Bernice would find that the electrics were already off. In the murk of the main cabin, the Doctor could discern what looked like someone's leg. It wasn't moving, and there wasn't a sound coming from interior of the helicopter. The Doctor eased himself over the lip of the door, and dropped down into the pilot's seat. The floor beneath him lurched a little under his weight.
Now that he was inside, the Doctor could see the bodies strewn below him, across the cabin. Seven people, most with broken necks. If he had doubted that this was a military 'copter then one look into the cabin would have confirmed it. The decor was gloomy, with equipment hanging from rails or stored in functional metal boxes. Most of the men were still secured in their webbing belts.
The Doctor climbed down into the wreckage, checking the pulses of the men. They wore black uniforms, and looked like military police. The floor was littered with metal and plastic containers, making it difficult to move. He also needed more light. On one of the bulkheads along the starboard side of the aircraft, the side that was pitched over to face the ground, there was a sliding door. The Doctor tried to release the handle, but it was jammed shut -
the fuselage must have twisted in the crash. The sonic screwdriver released the mechanism, and a couple of swift tugs got the door moving.
Bernice was standing underneath the door, and she helped slide the door al the way open.
'Don't come in,' the Doctor advised her, ducking back inside.
'Is anyone alive?' she called up, biting her lip.
'I don't think so. I'm double-checking.' It was certainly too late for the two nearest the door with their heads lol ing over their chests. Another had been impaled by a support strut that had broken loose. A third bore all the signs of a heart attack.
The fourth was alive, barely. The Doctor cradled his head.
'I'm the Doctor,' he said, 'what's your name?'
'C-caldwell,' the man coughed. He was about forty, with a neat moustache. He was in civilian clothes, a smart single-breasted suit, not the military police uniforms of his colleagues. 'Christian,' he continued.
'Caldwel Christian?' the Doctor asked softly, unsure if that was what the man meant.
'Christian escaped. Soil.'
11
'All right. You're going to be al right.' Speaking was clearly too much of an effort, but he was conscious, and breathing. The Doctor tried to make him comfortable. all the time being careful not to disturb his neck or spine.
The mistake people