by Mark Morris
She turned her head and blinked in his direction. Back-lit by pulsing green light, the walls writhing around her, she looked endearingly out of place. She dithered a moment, glanced at the Hervoken again. The Doctor flicked his head in a ‘c’mere’ gesture, and received another painful zap for his troubles.
Her eyes and mouth wide in terrified awe, moving almost as if she was shell-shocked, Etta plodded across to him. The Hervoken paid her no attention whatsoever. The Doctor almost laughed out loud.
‘As you can see, I got a bit tied up,’ he whispered.
Etta stared at him. ‘Are those things really aliens? I feel as if I’m dreaming.’
‘Yep, they’re aliens,’ said the Doctor casually. ‘And so am I. And so are you, come to that. We’re all aliens together.’
‘Why are they ignoring me?’ she asked.
The Doctor grinned. ‘They don’t see you as human,’ he said. ‘You and your ancestors have absorbed so much Hervoken energy over the past couple of hundred years that they see you as part of themselves, part of their ship. I reckon when they turned the cats on us yesterday, you could have just stood there and they’d have run straight past you.’
‘Now he tells me,’ said Etta drily, making the Doctor grin again. ‘So what do I do to get you out of here?’
‘Well, if I’m right,’ said the Doctor, ‘you should be able to make these things release me just by thinking about it. Put your hands on the vines, close your eyes and command them to let go with your mind. Believe you can do it. Think like a Hervoken.’
‘All right, I’ll give it a try,’ said Etta dubiously. After a moment’s hesitation she placed her hands on a couple of the vines entwined around the Doctor and squeezed her eyes closed. For a minute or more she stood motionless, holding her breath, and then she blurted, ‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘Try harder,’ urged the Doctor. ‘Imagine the vines loosening, going limp and floppy. You’re the boss, Etta, not them. You’re the one in control. Just be your natural stroppy self and you’ll be laughing.’
‘Hmph,’ she said, but she squeezed her eyes closed again and scrunched up her face, redoubling her efforts. The Doctor cheered her on silently, and after a few seconds he felt the vines beginning to loosen. He pulled one arm free, then the other. Seconds later the vines simply sagged from him, slumping to the floor and crawling sluggishly back to the wall, like injured snakes.
‘Oh, top job, Mrs Helligan,’ he whispered. ‘Now let’s scarper before they notice.’
They began to hurry across the central chamber towards the door. They were halfway across when they heard what in Hervoken-speak amounted to cries of alarm – a mass of agitated, sibilant whispers.
‘Keep going,’ the Doctor muttered to Etta, and turned round. The Hervoken were flowing towards him, taloned hands outstretched. More vines were detaching themselves from the walls, snaking in his direction.
The Doctor whipped his sonic from his pocket, turned it on and held the business end to his wrist.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, and amazingly everything did. The Hervoken hovered in the air, facing him; the vines twitched and curled, but stayed where they were.
‘Either let me go or I’ll open this vein here and now,’ he said. ‘You might have worked out how to cope with a few drops of the hard stuff, but a whole armful of top-grade diesel in a lead-free engine? Very nasty. And don’t think for a second that I won’t sacrifice myself to cripple this ship and save the people up there. Because I’ve already got far too many deaths on my conscience and I’ll do whatever it takes not to get any more.’
He glared at the Hervoken, relaying through his thought waves and his body language that he meant every word. From the corner of his eye, he saw Etta hurrying away. The Hervoken regarded him for several long seconds, drifting in the dank subterranean air, like flotsam on the tide. Then their leader made a dismissive gesture: Go.
The Doctor nodded slowly and backed away, sonic still pressed to his wrist.
‘Wise decision,’ he said.
MARTHA HESITATED, THEN tapped on the door. ‘Doctor?’
There was no answer, so she tried again, and this time was rewarded with a distracted, ‘Hmm?’
‘Can I come in?’ she asked.
‘Mm,’ he said.
She took that as a yes, so she opened the door.
The Doctor was sitting cross-legged on Chris’s bed, staring broodily down at the Necris. He had arrived at the Pirellis’ an hour before, having made an educated guess that Martha would be there after trying the hotel first. He had listened to Martha’s account of the various attempts the Hervoken had made to get their property back, and had made the requisite sounds of distress and sympathy when Amanda Pirelli had gone on about the damage done to her house. But Martha had sensed he was distracted, and as soon as he could he had shut himself away with the Necris, saying that he needed some time to study it, to discover some chink in the Hervoken’s armour.
‘It’s starting to get dark,’ she said now.
‘Is it?’ He swung his head up as though roused from a trance, and peered at the deepening mist outside the window. ‘Oh yeah…’
‘How you getting on?’ she asked, perching on the edge of the bed.
He shrugged and grunted. He was evidently not in a communicative mood.
Martha tapped the iron band encircling the Necris. ‘It’s been quiet for a while now. No more attacks. Maybe the Hervoken have decided we’re too much of a match for them.’
‘Doubt it,’ murmured the Doctor. ‘They’re more likely conserving their energy for the big showdown.’
‘Is that what you’re doing?’ asked Martha, and was rewarded with the hint of a smile.
Instead of answering, however, the Doctor asked, ‘What time is it?’
‘I thought you were supposed to be the expert,’ she teased, then said, ‘About five.’
‘Couple of hours to the Carnival,’ he said.
‘Isn’t there any way we can stop it? Warn the townspeople? Call a meeting?’
‘They’ll all be too busy apple-bobbing and stuffing themselves full of pumpkin pie by now,’ he said. ‘Besides, do you honestly think they’d believe us? They’d run us out of town.’
Martha sighed. ‘Haven’t you got any sort of plan?’
‘Oh, I’ll just do what I always do,’ said the Doctor.
‘Which is?’
He raised his hands like a boxer, feinted to the left. Suddenly she sensed the energy flowing back into him.
‘Roll with the punches,’ he said.
Rick unhooked his werewolf costume from the back of his door and held it up. He looked at it for a long time, then sighed. He remembered how excited he’d been when he’d collected it from Tozier’s yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.
He couldn’t believe how his entire perception of life had changed in the past twenty-four hours. After school yesterday he’d been looking forward to nothing more than trick-or-treating, going to the Carnival, and watching a bunch of horror movies with his friends. Now all of that seemed like kids’ stuff, trivial and pointless. He threw the costume onto the bed. He wouldn’t be wearing it this year. He’d always thought monsters were cool, but not any more.
Where would he be this time tomorrow, he wondered. Would he still be alive? Would Blackwood Falls still be standing? He looked out of his window. The green mist was the colour of sludge now, slowly deepening to black. Rick stared at it, and wondered whether he’d ever see daylight again.
The lights from the Carnival showground shone faintly through the thick green mist. The pop music blaring from the loud speakers sounded tinny and distorted. On another day the smell of hot dogs, burgers and candyfloss (or cotton candy, as they called it here) would have set Martha’s stomach rumbling, but tonight she was too nervous to be hungry, too wired to focus on anything but the potential showdown ahead.
She glanced at the Doctor. Her tension made the picture on the rucksack he was wearing seem funnier than it actually
was. She giggled at the image of Jar Jar Binks grinning inanely back at her.
‘You look such an idiot wearing that,’ she said.
He ran his hands over the front of his suit as though smoothing out the creases, an indignant look on his face. Then he realised what she was actually referring to.
‘Oh, this,’ he said, and jiggled his shoulders so that the rucksack – and the picture of Jar Jar – bobbed up and down. ‘Hey, don’t knock the Binks clan. They’re good people. Very hospitable.’
‘Yeah, right,’ she laughed.
‘No, I’m serious. Old George thought Jar Jar was a figment of his imagination, but people often mistake telepathic messages for their own ideas.’
Now Martha looked uncertain – and a little horrified. ‘You are joking, right?’
The Doctor raised his eyebrows and waggled them mischievously. ‘Mind you, he was way off the mark with all that stuff in Episode 9.’
Martha turned at the sound of running footsteps. Was this it, she wondered, the first attack?
Two figures appeared out of the mist. The Doctor stepped towards them angrily.
‘I thought I told you to stay at home.’
Chris bridled. ‘You’re not my dad.’
‘This is going to be dangerous,’ Martha said reasonably.
‘We know. But we can’t just sit at home doing nothing,’ said Chris. ‘This is our town, not yours.’
‘It’s not even your planet,’ Rick pointed out, trying not to quail as the Doctor glared at him.
There was silence for perhaps five seconds, then the Doctor gave an exasperated sigh and spun on his heel. ‘Humans,’ he muttered. ‘It’s your funeral, I suppose.’ He stalked away.
‘Stick close to us and don’t do anything stupid,’ said Martha.
‘Whatever,’ muttered Chris.
They passed through the entrance arch and into the showground, paying their entry fee as they went. To Martha the brash cheerfulness of the overhead music seemed enforced, masking an underlying tension. Maybe it was her imagination, but many of the townsfolk seemed wary, apprehensive. The adults especially – murmuring to friends and neighbours in low voices, drifting aimlessly from stall to stall – looked as if they were only going through the motions of enjoying themselves. She wondered whether they had some premonitory sense of what to expect, having lived unwittingly on top of the Hervoken ship for so many years. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was merely the effect of the green mist, working on the fear centres of their brains.
The kids, at least, seemed relatively unaffected by the tension evident in their elders. Children from three upwards were running around, shrieking and laughing, dragging their parents from pillar to post, resplendent in their many and varied Halloween costumes. Wherever Martha looked, she saw miniature witches and demons, zombies and vampires, skeletons and ghosts.
She, the Doctor and the boys strode through the crowds of excited children and subdued adults, suspicious and alert. The Doctor sniffed the air at regular intervals.
‘So far so good?’ said Martha.
‘Hm,’ he said noncommittally.
They wandered over to a stall where the object was to throw darts into playing cards stuck to a board. ACES WIN PRIZES! announced the sign overhead.
‘Try your luck, buddy?’ said a portly man in a chequered coat and bow tie.
Distractedly the Doctor picked up a dart and threw it without really looking. It flew straight as an arrow and hit the Ace of Spades dead centre.
‘Whoa,’ exclaimed Rick and Chris in unison.
‘Well, I’ll be…’ said the portly man.
‘Show-off,’ murmured Martha, trying not to look impressed.
‘You won the top prize, buddy. Take your pick,’ said the man.
The Doctor was still peering around the showground. ‘You choose, Martha,’ he said vaguely.
Martha pointed. ‘I’ll have the cuddly orang-utan, thanks.’
It was almost life-size, with long arms and hands fastened together with Velcro. The stall owner looped it around Martha’s neck.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ she asked as they walked away.
‘Do you want a serious answer to that question?’ replied the Doctor.
Martha offered it to the boys. Chris gave her a withering look and shook his head. Rick looked momentarily tempted, then shook his head too.
They did another circuit of the showground. Martha gave the orang-utan to a little girl dressed as a spider, who was getting off the carousel. The girl’s mother looked suspicious until Martha said, ‘I’m going back to England soon and can’t fit it in my luggage.’
As they passed the hot dog stand for the second time, Martha’s stomach turning over at the smell of frying onions, a sheepish voice from behind them said, ‘Hi.’
Turning, they saw Thad in his mummy/ghoul costume, his body wrapped in bandages, his face deathly white aside from his lips and the hollows around his eyes, which were black. He was wearing the expression of a disobedient dog expecting a kick from its owner.
‘You got away then?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ Rick said heavily, ‘no thanks to you.’
Thad squirmed. ‘I’m really sorry, Rick. I panicked. I was gonna call you, but I was scared in case…’ he tailed off.
Rick said nothing, simply stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled.
‘It’s all right, Thad,’ Martha said. ‘It was a natural reaction under the circumstances. I mean, we all ran – didn’t we, Rick?’ She looked at him pointedly.
Rick shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘So we’re OK then?’ said Thad.
Rick looked at him a moment longer, then the scowl left his face, the tautness went out of his body.
‘Yeah, sure, man.’
They shook hands.
All at once the Doctor stiffened, drawing himself to his full height. Although Martha had been expecting trouble, she still shuddered at the grim intensity of his expression.
‘Something wicked…?’ she asked.
‘…this way comes,’ he confirmed in a murmur. He bared his teeth at her like an ape.
‘Itching again?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said.
The eerie chanting of the Hervoken rose to a crescendo. Their fingers twitched and flickered as they scratched fiery green sigils in the air. The black vines thrashed like trees in a frenzied storm, rippling with thick, soupy clots of glaucous light.
The aliens were gathered in a circle, at the centre of which a crackling vortex was beginning to form. The vortex resembled a spinning tunnel composed of green smoke, a vaporous whirlpool lying on its side, which stretched ten, twelve metres into the air. As though obeying a silent command, one of the Hervoken drifted forward, clothes flapping in black tatters around it, and entered the vortex. The instant it had disappeared, a second Hervoken moved forward, and then a third.
Oddly, however, even though the number of aliens left in the chamber was dwindling, their chanting was not. It echoed around the chamber as though the very walls were imbued with it, as though their incantation, ancient and powerful and deadly, had taken on a terrible life of its own…
A wind sprang up around the showground, making the plastic awnings of the various stalls flap and billow, the loops of coloured lights rattle like bones.
The Doctor, teeth clenched, hair blowing, ranged from side to side, peering up into the misty sky.
Suddenly he pointed. ‘Here it comes!’ he yelled.
Martha followed the direction of his finger. Something was happening to the mist. Slowly it was beginning to spin, like water running down a plughole. The eye of the vortex was maybe thirty metres above them, but at its centre, instead of darkness, she could see a pulsing, rhythmic glow. It was faint at first, but as she watched it grew steadily brighter and began to expand outwards. It was as though something was coming, some celestial visitation, approaching through a tunnel of light.
Everyone had seen it now. Everyone had stopped
what they were doing to stare up, awestruck and fearful. The only movement came from the fairground rides on the far side of the field. The only sound was the music still blasting from the loudspeakers, an inane accompaniment to a spectacle as breathtaking as it was ominous.
The glow increased until it was a ball of blazing light, a miniature sun, which illuminated the night sky and cast a sickly pallor across the proceedings below. The townsfolk began to murmur in fear, to gather their children close.
All at once, multiple tendrils of green light erupted from the centre of the vortex like an exploding firework. Each of the tendrils sought out a different child, encircling their victims in crackling loops of luminescence.
As the green fire skittered up and down their bodies, the children stood rigid, their faces (those that weren’t concealed behind masks) expressionless, their eyes staring ahead. Some parents screamed or began to cry. Martha heard a mother shouting ‘Jeb!’ over and over again. She heard another woman screech, ‘No! Leave my girl alone!’ She even heard one father say angrily, ‘Come on, Jason, quit fooling around,’ as if this was some mass practical joke concocted by the children themselves.
The kids, however, seemed oblivious to the anguish of their parents. Martha looked around, helpless and horrified, wishing there was something she could do. She half-turned to speak to the Doctor, but then felt a hand tugging at the sleeve of her leather jacket, an anxious voice calling her name. Turning in the opposite direction, she looked into Rick’s wide-eyed face.
‘Look at Thad,’ he said.
Like most of the other kids, Thad was encased in a funnel of shimmering light. Also like the others, he was standing immobile, his expression slack, mouth hanging open. But as Martha looked at him, she realised something else was happening too. Slowly, subtly, Thad was beginning to change. His face was becoming wizened, his skin turning to parchment. The bandages around him were tightening, ageing, acquiring a patina of mould and dust. The very shape of his body was altering – his bones elongating, his hands twisting into claws. His skull was stretching, his brow getting heavier. He was starting to hunch forward like an ape.
‘Doc—’ Martha began. And then she realised a similar transformation was overcoming all the other children. Kids dressed as werewolves were growing taller, more bestial, their fingers lengthening into talons, real fur springing up on their bodies; those dressed as witches were turning into withered crones, their hideous, bent-nosed faces developing warts and boils; those who had come as vampires were becoming sallow, their incisors lengthening to sharp points.
