by Mark Morris
At that moment the Doctor was several miles away, still unconscious in the back of a UNIT truck. Tegan was crouched beside him, clinging for dear life to truck’s metal framework. She felt not unlike a gazelle being driven through a lion enclosure. At least she had the advantage of being armed, she reminded herself, clutching Mike Yates’s Colt .45
in her free hand - though in truth the gun made her feel more nervous than secure.
The journey had been perilous to say the least, but, as they had travelled north, the amount of death and devastation they had seen around them had steadily decreased. They had been pursued frequently by hybrids, and had even been ambushed at one point, a trio of the creatures dropping down on to the truck from above as they had negotiated one of the narrow residential streets that climbed away from the seafront and out of the town centre. One of them had landed on the roof of the driver’s cab, the legs that had sprouted from its back clacking against the windscreen like long, jointed, sticks; another had hit the side of the truck and bounced off it on to the pavement, where it had lain, mewling, one of its human legs twisted at a grotesque angle; and the third had landed beside Tegan in the back of the truck, stumbling at first because of the truck’s movement, but quickly regaining its balance and springing upright into an attack stance.
It was evident that not so very long ago this particular hybrid had been an attractive young woman with long blonde hair and honey-coloured skin. Now these attributes merely emphasised the extent and hideousness of her transformation. Her arms and long legs, exposed by the sleeveless yellow T-shirt and denim shorts she wore, were as hackled with Xaranti spines as her fine-boned face. Her eyes were black and bulging and her back had split open to produce the usual bristling mass of Xaranti legs. Moreover, she was hunched over as if her spine was arching, and her shoulders were large and knuckly with excess muscle. When she opened her mouth to hiss, Tegan noticed she was still wearing lipstick.
‘Hang on! ‘ Mike Yates yelled and slammed on his brakes.
The hybrid scrambling for purchase on the roof catapulted off, landing on the road in a tangle of human and alien limbs.
The one which was standing above Tegan, swiftly getting its bearings and readying itself to spring, actually fell forwards towards her. Tegan, still crouched beside the oblivious Doctor, still clinging to one of the truck’s metal ribs, screamed and closed her eyes as she twisted her head aside, the gun in her hand forgotten. She sensed the hybrid’s presence above her, smelled its dark, rotten-fish smell, then something banged painfully into her outstretched leg. Next instant she was aware of the wind of something swooping past her, followed almost simultaneously by the thump of a heavy and relatively soft object impacting with a hard surface.
She opened her eyes. Although the rotten-fish smell still lingered, the Xaranti hybrid was gone. Tegan looked over the side of the truck and saw it sprawled in the road, already struggling to stand. Before it could do so, the truck moved forward again, picking up speed as quickly as it was able, and Tegan looked away, concentrating instead on holding on.
Within seconds the hybrids were too far behind them to launch a further assault, leaving Tegan with a lasting impression of the female hybrid’s striking blonde hair streaming behind it, flashing white in the sun, as it climbed to its feet.
The hospital was some five miles away from the concentration of streets which crammed themselves as close as possible to the sea. In these more salubrious surroundings, the presence of Xaranti seemed non-existent.
Nevertheless their influence was clearly felt; it was obvious they had been here and moved on, drawn like lemmings, perhaps, to the sea. Every so often Tegan would see a body sprawled on a road or pavement, or perhaps lying on a neatly-clipped front lawn or gravelled driveway. At one point she saw a man lying on the ground, still gripping the lead of his dead Alsatian; both owner and dog had been eviscerated.
The eerie silence that accompanied these appalling sights seemed more sinister than the presence of the Xaranti themselves. Tegan clutched Mike Yates’s gun nervously, once or twice even found herself using it to scratch absently at the worsening itch across her chest and shoulders.
It had been Mike’s idea to take the Doctor to the hospital where Charlotte and her mother were under observation. He had thought it would be a safe haven for the time being, well away from the point of conflict, but the extent of the hybrids’
sudden and violent emergence had taken them both by surprise. Now they were sticking to their original plan simply for want of a better one. If when they got there the hospital seemed too dangerous, Tegan supposed they would move yet further afield, to a place where the Doctor’s condition could be assessed and perhaps treated, where he might be given time to recover.
As usual, their reliance on the Doctor to sort things out made Tegan nervous. One day - even today, perhaps - he might not be there for them to rely on and then what would they do?
Once again, she found herself scratching the rash that was now inching down her arm. She was all too aware what it signified and its creeping progress both angered and frightened her. More frightening still, was the way the infection was invading her thought-processes. Her mind kept phasing out like an unstable radio signal for a few seconds at a time, and she knew all too well that as the hours wore on, the tighter the Xaranti hold on her would become.
It was after re-emerging from one such period of blankness that Tegan looked wildly around her and realised she recognised the neighbourhood they were travelling through.
Gripped by a sense of urgency, she rapped on the back of the driver’s cab.
Mike leaned his head part-way out of the side window.
‘Hello.’
‘Mike,’ she said, ‘can I ask you a favour?’
‘Ask away,’ he replied magnanimously.
‘I have a friend who lives near here. No more than a couple of streets away. He was taken ill earlier today. Do you think we could check up on him?’
There was a pause, then Mike said doubtfully, ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, Tegan.’
Tegan felt a flash of anger, the result of the Xaranti infection inside her, which she managed to suppress. ‘Please, Mike, I’m really worried about him. He...’ She had been about to say, He means a lot to me, but was afraid that giving voice to such a level of commitment might make her more vulnerable than she wanted to be. ‘He lives on his own,’ she said after a pause. ‘He doesn’t have anyone to look after him.’
She heard Mike sigh, then reluctantly say, ‘All right, we’ll have a quick look. You’d better tell me where to go.’
Soon they were pulling up in front of Andy Weathers’s pleasant suburban house. The leafy street was quiet, the red-brick semis drowsing in the summer sunshine. Mike waited a moment before turning off the engine. Another pause before he got out of the driver’s cab and walked round to lean on the side of the truck.
‘I’ll go in,’ he said. ‘You sit behind the wheel. If you see anything you don’t like the look of, anything at all, drive away, don’t worry about me.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’d better take my gun. What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Andy,’ said Tegan, ‘Andy Weathers. He’s a policeman.’ She gave Mike the gun that she’d been clutching for so long that her hand felt cold and strange without it.
‘OK,’ said Mike, ‘I’ll be three minutes at the most.
Remember, if you see anything at all that makes you suspicious -’
‘I know,’ Tegan tried not to snap, ‘drive away. Don’t wait.’
Mike gave her a brief, reassuring smile, then turned and walked up the short driveway. It wasn’t until he was reaching out for the doorknob that he realised the door was slightly ajar. Caution tightened his grip on his gun and he listened at the door for a moment.
Before he could open it, Mike heard a shrill scream of terror, abruptly cut off. It came from next door, beyond a low wooden fence. Mike glanced up and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Tegan had opened the door of the truck an
d extended one foot to the pavement.
‘Stay with the Doctor!’ he snapped and jumped over the fence.
This front door was closed and locked, but four savage kicks encouraged it to yield with a splintering of wood. The right hand side of the hallway in front of Mike as he entered became a staircase; the left hand wall contained two closed doors. A third door stood open at the end of the corridor to reveal a split level kitchen made ethereal by a white glare of sunlight filling the window above the sink. Levelling his gun at face height, Mike pushed open the first door with his foot and entered swiftly.
There were bookcases full of Reader’s Digest publications, a long dining table stacked with knitting patterns, and a piano.
Mike’s gaze swept the room and he retreated.
He entered the next room just as quickly and found himself in a lounge with a draylon suite and French windows. Just beyond the oblong of light flooding in through the windows was what he was looking for. A Xaranti hybrid, its back bulging and squirming, was pinning a middle-aged woman to the floor by her throat. The hybrid, a man close to his own age, was grinning and drooling, evidently taking great pleasure in choking the life out of its victim. The woman’s tongue and eyes were bulging out of her purpling face and she was scrabbling ineffectually at the hand clamped around her windpipe. Her feet drummed on the carpet as her oxygen-starved limbs spasmed.
Without hesitation, Mike aimed his gun and fired. Just as he squeezed the trigger, the hybrid sprang towards him, swooping low as it did so. The bullet passed over its shoulder and smashed a hole through the French windows. The hybrid collided with Mike’s legs, sending him staggering back against the wall.
Mike knew how important it was to stay on his feet. As he bounced back from the wall, the hybrid was rolling over. It was too close now for him to use his gun, it would spring to its feet and close the distance between them before he could even get the weapon levelled. Deciding, therefore, that discretion was the better part of valour, Mike turned and fled.
The hybrid came after him, which was what Mike had expected and wanted. If it had got back to finish off the woman, he would have felt honour-bound to turn and confront it again. All the same, being pursued by a ravening psychotic predator was not a pleasant experience. Mike ran as he had never run before, expecting to feel the weight of the creature slam into his back with each pounding step.
‘Start the engine!’ he screamed at Tegan, seeing her peering out of the truck at him as soon as he burst out of the house.
He saw her face change from surprise to shock as she recognised the thing chasing him - or at least who it had once been. ‘Do it now!’ he yelled.
She started the engine. ‘Drive!’ Mike shouted. ‘Drive! Drive!’
If she hesitated they would probably all be dead. He was thankful, therefore, to see the truck pull away from the kerb almost immediately. Mike leaped off the kerb and pounded after it. The truck was doing maybe ten miles an hour when he launched himself at the tailgate. He grabbed it with both hands, ignored a splinter that slid into the ball of his thumb, and hauled himself up and over.
He was lying in a sprawl next to the Doctor’s feet, gasping and congratulating himself on his timing, when he heard something thump against the tailgate. Looking up, he saw two hands curled over the top of the wooden flap, a face with tar-black eyes and mouth twisted in a bestial snarl rising between them.
With frightening speed and agility, the hybrid slid its upper body over the tailgate and grabbed Mike’s ankle. Its grip was brutally strong, and instantly Mike read its intentions from the glee of anticipation on its face. It meant to twist his foot and break his ankle, and Mike had no doubt that it could do it too. Imbued with the savage strength of the Xaranti, Tegan’s former friend could snap his bones as easily as he could have snapped the stick of celery pinned to the Doctor’s lapel.
Instinctively Mike whipped up his gun and pulled the trigger. This time the bullet didn’t miss. It struck the top of the hybrid’s head, sheared it off and scattered it across the road in the truck’s wake.
For one terrible moment the hybrid still clung to Mike’s foot. Then the grip slackened and the creature tumbled back into the road, arms spread like a horizontal crucifixion.
Tegan stopped the vehicle in the middle of the road and Mike heard her sobbing bitterly. He jumped down from the back of the truck and opened the driver’s cab door. She was slumped with her face in her hands as if trying to prevent her near-hysteria from seeping out.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mike, ‘I didn’t want to kill him. I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been him or me.’
Tegan didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge him. At least not until he touched her arm, whereupon she wrenched her hands away from her face and snarled, ‘Don’t you dare!’
The sea boiled and churned, waves crashing on to the deserted beach as if heralding a storm. A hundred feet from the shore, a dark patch appeared on the blue skin of the sea, like a shadow beneath the surface. The patch inched closer to the shore, growing larger and darker as it came. When it had halved the distance between the place it had first appeared and the bloodstained sand it broke the surface.
The Morok battle cruiser, its rusty, barnacled hull rearing up from the waves, was an eminently adaptable ship. It was designed to transform itself to suit whatever planetary conditions presented themselves. It was thanks largely to ships like this that the Moroks would eventually extend their seven-hundred year empire across the nine galaxies. This particular vessel, however, would no longer form any part of their battle fleet, its crew having long since transformed to swell the ranks of its Xaranti invaders.
When the battle cruiser had reached shallow enough waters, it retracted its long submarine-like snout, which had streamlined it to allow easier access through the deeps, drew in its powerful propellers, and extended tank-like caterpillar tracks, which gripped the sea bed and hauled it clanking and roaring on to the sand. On dry land it sat for a while, like some vast behemoth acclimatising itself to its new surroundings. Water streamed from its battle-scarred hull; its prow - if such a shapeless, ugly-looking craft as this could be said to have a prow - peeked over the sea-wall at the promenade.
Suddenly there was a tumultuous grating sound, and a number of doors at ground level slid slowly open, extending ramps that clanged down on to the sand. For a moment the openings contained only darkness, and then the black, bristling bodies of fully-grown Xaranti began to emerge into the light, like ants from a nest.
‘It looks deserted,’ Mike said.
It was the first time either of them had spoken since Tegan had spurned his attempts to console her after the death of Andy Weathers. She had moved across to the passenger seat and turned her back on him, using her hand as a cushion between her face and the window. Her shoulders had heaved as she sobbed silently It was clear she was no longer in any fit state to drive. Mike had hesitated over suggesting that she sit in the back with the Doctor again, and in the end had decided that the Doctor would be OK. Around here they’d see trouble coming from far enough away for Mike to provide him with any protection he might need. Besides, Tegan with a gun in her hand while in this state of mind was not a good idea, especially now that he’d noticed she was beginning to scratch her shoulders and arms more and more.
Tegan did not respond to his comment, merely stared dully through the windscreen, her eyes pink as if stained by their red rims. The hospital car park was three-quarters full, but there was no sign of life either out here or at any of the building’s many windows.
Mike stopped outside the open gates and glanced at Tegan.
‘I didn’t want to kill your friend, you know, Tegan,’ he said again, ‘but I had to. If I hadn’t he would have killed me, and then the Doctor, and then probably you too.’
Tegan said in a low, bitter voice, ‘Don’t you think I know that?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’
She swung round suddenly, glaring at him. ‘Of course I do.
I�
��m not stupid!’
‘I never suggested you were,’ he said gently. ‘It’s just that...
well, if we’re going to get through this, we’ve got to work together. We’ve got to know we can rely on one another.’
She gave a snort too mirthless to be termed laughter. ‘You can’t rely on me. I’m changing into one of those things.
Haven’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, I have noticed. But you’re still in the early stages.
You’ll be OK for a while yet, won’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘I think so. I hope so. I keep having these...
these funny thoughts.’
‘Funny thoughts?’ he prompted.
‘Insights, I guess you’d call them. I seem to know things without knowing how I know them. It’s like... like I’m tapping into their minds... into its mind.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s horrible.’
‘What kinds of things?’ Mike asked.
‘Well, for instance... I know that... that multiplying and expanding is all important to them.’
‘You make them sound like fat maths teachers,’ said Mike, then saw her face. ‘Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.’
‘I know that a mature Xaranti would always infect you rather than kill you - unless you were unusable, of course.’
‘Unusable?’
‘Old, crippled, infirm,’ said Tegan, her face deadpan, hand straying to the itch on her shoulder again.
‘A lot of the dead people we’ve seen today weren’t old or crippled or infirm,’ Mike pointed out.
‘They weren’t killed by mature Xaranti.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Inferior races in the mid-stage of transformation can’t cope with all the Xaranti energy rushing through them, so they need an outlet for their aggression.’
