Doctor Who_ Wetworld - Mark Michalowski [41]
He coughed and cleared his throat.
‘What do you want?’ he asked loudly.
‘What are you –’
‘We mean you no harm,’ Pallister interrupted Chan, addressing the nearest otter. Its ears twitched, but it showed no sign of understanding his words.
‘Pallister,’ Chan continued. ‘They’re animals – you’ve just said so.’
‘Shut up!’ he barked, turning his head sideways.
It was as though that were a signal. In an instant, the otters dropped to all fours, and began to advance on the Councillors.
Her slippers pinching her feet, Martha ran up the wooden steps and straight through the double doors of the building. Standing in a small reception room, talking to a small, red-haired woman behind a curved desk, was Sam Hashmi.
‘Where is he?’ Martha snapped.
Sam turned, hands raised as if to pacify her.
‘Martha, wait,’ he said.
She ignored him, pushing his hands away and casting round for some clue as to where the Doctor might be. Another set of double doors was straight ahead of her.
‘You can’t go in there,’ Sam called, but Martha ignored him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him coming after her, but raced on through the doors, letting them flap back in his face.
‘Martha!’ he called. ‘You can’t –’
He broke off as Martha reached a door on her left, a circular glass porthole set in it. She almost skidded to a halt and pressed her palms against the door.
‘Oh God!’ she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. ‘No, no. . . ’ Almost in a trance, Martha pushed on the doors and stepped into the room.
Two people were standing by a bed – a bed lit by a single spotlight from above. A bed occupied by a single patient, strapped down at the wrists and ankles. A patient who was thrashing about, growling like an animal and grunting horribly.
Almost magically, the people by the bed moved back as Martha approached.
‘Oh Doctor,’ Martha moaned.
At the sound of her voice, the Doctor threw his head up, his pale, sweaty face shining like a full moon in the light. His teeth were bared and his lips were wet with saliva, dripping down his chin onto his shirt.
His eyes flashed open – they were totally dark. A greeny-black sheen swirled across them like oil, rainbow patterns reflected back from the lamp.
‘You,’ he grunted, more spittle flying from his lips. ‘All of you.
Will. . . be. . . ME!’
‘What have you done?’ cried Martha, raising a hand towards the Doctor as he continued to growl and snarl. The bed rattled as he tugged at the wrist straps. He stared at her with those dead, dark eyes and something pulled his lips into a vicious parody of a smile.
‘Honey, he wanted to do it,’ said a woman – a big black woman with braided hair – who Martha vaguely recognised.
‘Do what?’
‘He said it was the only way.’
The woman reached out to take Martha’s hand but she pushed it away angrily, unable to take her eyes off her friend. He suddenly collapsed back onto the bed, moaning gently as his eyelids closed.
‘The only way to what? He’s let that thing touch him, hasn’t he?’
‘Thing?’
‘In the otters’ nest – he’s gone there and –’
‘No,’ the woman said firmly, causing Martha to look at her properly for the first time. ‘No, he hasn’t. He had us inject him with the same proteins and RNA that the “thing” injected into you.’
‘What? You’re mad,’ Martha spat. ‘All of you – you’re mad! You saw what it did to me and you let him?’ ‘He seems to know what he’s doing,’ a small, pale man in a lab coat said, clearly trying to be reassuring. It didn’t work.
The Doctor growled and hissed again, his eyes flashing darkly as if they had the power to devour them all. Martha’s shoulders sagged and she stared at him, pinned