Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [90]
I do not know if those still locked in their rooms were engulfed by flame or, more likely, were lost to an atmosphere of smoke that made breathing impossible. Neither demise is pleasant; I hope they found their rightful places in heavenly paradise soon after.
In any event, the air was choking and vile. Joseph Sands released those patients that he could and then made his way to the chapel. I do not know what drew him downwards, but I am grateful that he followed his instincts and sought us out.
Not that we knew of his imminent arrival, of course. Our concerns were –
pitiful humans that we are! – simply to stay alive for as long as possible. Self-preservation, as Mr Darwin’s defenders have stated, can become, in such a situation, more vital than any loftier thought.
Dr Christie had, I am afraid to report, slumped to the floor, his brilliant mind now clouded – irreparably, I feared – by all that he had seen. Mr Craig, too, seemed bowed, resigned almost to the flames that licked and burned and grew stronger in every corner of the room.
Only Mr Torby and I observed Fern and the dog, who in turn watched us. As the flames burned away yet more of the fabric of the chapel – as they reached 165
yet higher into the building over our heads – we both knew that, at some moment, we would simply have to rush at Fern and the hound. Though we shared not a word I could see grim determination in Torby’s square face; we would face our deaths active and strong.
Behind Fern and the creature, the bodies were now burning brightly (the stench was appalling and I shall not record its nature here). Indeed, given the things that I have seen this day, I do not think it fanciful to state that this was not a normal burning that had engulfed the bodies. This natural fire was the start of the process, of course, but now some other factors seemed to be coming into play. The flesh on the bodies, as Hamlet had desired, was beginning to melt like dew. Behind the corpses I saw, as faint as gossamer, movement, something like a tunnel, creatures within it. Whether these things that I saw were angels or demons, or phantasms of my own disturbed mind, I cannot be sure.
Charles and I exchanged a glance. Whatever we were about to attempt, we could not leave it much later.
It was at about that moment that Mr Sands made his most unexpected intervention. We all turned at the noise of an axe being brought to bear on the great door that kept us prisoners within the flame-filled room.
At once the diseased hound bounded across the room, snarling furiously.
James and I knew that this was our moment; we ran towards Fern, who was distracted, and bowled him towards the flames and the trolleys at his back. He staggered, and seemed about to fall. Then the possessive and terrible power gripped him once more, as a child grips a doll, and he began to fight back, legs planted strongly against the floor now, arms whirling and flailing like an industrial engine.
I sustained a blow to the head that knocked me the ground; Torby dodged like a boxer, then kneed his assailant with great force. Let us say that this was in the area of the lower stomach.
I risked a glance over at the door. The wood had now split asunder and the brave Mr Sands was pulling himself through. The dog immediately jumped up at the man’s throat.
Sands swung with the axe – more in instinct than in premeditated attack –
and the great blade lost itself deep in the head of the creature.
There was but a yelp from the beast. Still it pushed its jaws forward, teeth snapping against air but getting ever closer to Mr Sands, who was now using the embedded axe to keep the creature away from him.
At last Mr Craig seemed roused into action. Shivering, sobbing, he picked himself up from the floor, then lunged at the back of the dog, as if to wrestle it to the ground.
The animal turned at this new threat, its teeth closing on Craig’s shoulder.
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It was interruption enough to allow Sands into the room. He reached around to grip the axe handle, hefted the entire creature