Wetworld

by Mark Michalowski

  Martha pursed her lips.

  ‘OK,’ she said, folding her hands on her stomach. ‘You find him, I’ll stay here.’

  He nodded. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ he said before disappearing.

  Martha gave him five, and then she was out of bed, pulling the IV tube from her hand with a wince and smoothing the surgical tape back over it. Out of bed, and feeling decidedly weak and wobbly, she rooted around in the bedside cabinet for her clothes, but there was nothing. They must have taken them away to clean them. She scanned the ward. She was the only patient, so there were no other clothes she could steal. If she’d been back in the Royal Hope and any of her patients had behaved like this, the staff would have screamed blue murder at them. But she wasn’t, and this was different, she told herself.

  Keeping an ear and an eye out for any other staff, Martha padded to the far end of the ward in her bare feet and found a locker containing a couple of slightly tatty dressing gowns. Slipping one on, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above a hand basin: she looked tired and drawn and there were huge bags under her eyes. She was sure she’d lost some weight – and not in a good way. Her normally perfect hair was lank and flopped down over her forehead. She half-heartedly pushed it back, but it just dropped down again.

  Never mind. She had to find the Doctor. The locker contained some horrid, rough sandal-type slippers. A bit small for her. They’d do.

  Checking again to make sure no one had seen her, Martha tightened the belt on the dressing gown and headed out into the night. The twilight was falling, but the air was pleasantly cool after the afternoon shower, and everything smelled of summer and holidays abroad.

  Martha slipped out of the hospital and found herself in the middle of some sort of town square, paved with huge, flat sheets of what looked like shiny concrete. It was bordered by low, wooden buildings, and she remembered the view she’d had from the hospital earlier in the day. With dim sodium lights flickering on between the buildings, it confirmed her impression of a holiday camp.

  There were few people about, and most of the windows were dark.

  A couple strolled out from between two buildings, arm in arm, whispering into each other’s shoulders, and Martha shrunk back into the shadow of the hospital. She had no idea where to go, where the Doctor was – where anyone was. She should have stayed in bed, let Dr Hashmi find the Doctor and bring him to her. This was just stupid.

  Think it through, she told herself. Where would he be? It would have to be something important to keep him away from her bedside, wouldn’t it?

  Martha let her gaze drift around the square. There was nothing to indicate what the buildings were. For all she knew, they were all offices, empty and deserted at this time of the day.

  Something moved in the darkness at the base of one of the buildings on the other side of the square: small, lithe shapes, slipping through the shadows like fish through water. A chill trickled down her spine as she recognised something familiar in their movements. Otters, she thought.

  As she watched, and her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she could see that there were dozens of them, silently flitting between the buildings. And at least one of those buildings still had lights on. If that was where the Doctor was, she had to warn him.

  Pallister allowed a grin to creep across his face.

  His earlier annoyance that the Doctor, despite his promise, had not been to see him was almost forgotten in his joy at how absurdly easy the Council had been to manipulate. It was as if they’d left all their critical faculties, all their judgement, back on Earth.

  The flood, whilst obviously disastrous for the settlement, hadn’t been without its upside: eight members of the Council had been lost that night, and the replacement members had been, at the very least, reluctant. So reluctant, so scared of exercising any power, that they’d been almost pathetically grateful to Pallister for taking charge.

  Sunday needed firm government, Pallister had reminded himself, every day since the catastrophe. It needed someone capable of making harsh decisions, someone not scared of being unpopular. And if there was one thing that Pallister had never been scared of, it had been that. And, fortunately, he’d had an ally in that, someone who’d seen the strength of leadership he could provide. He wondered, briefly, where Col was and why he hadn’t heard from him about his trip to the ship. It must have gone OK, otherwise Col would have been back to tell him. Never mind – there were more important things to sort out now.

  He’d almost had to laugh at the panic and confusion in their eyes – especially in the eyes of that stupid woman Marj Haddon – when he’d told them that an adjudicator had been sent from Earth.

  ‘Why?’ she’d bleated, going even paler than she normally was. ‘The flood?’

  Pallister just shrugged, trying to give the subtle impression that he knew more than he was letting on.

  ‘But why have they sent an adjudicator?’ This was Dory Chan – one of the few Councillors to have challenged any of Pallister’s recent suggestions. She had a hard face and disturbingly penetrating eyes. ‘And why didn’t he make himself known to us all?’

  ‘He made himself known to me,’ Pallister pointed out gently, omitting the fact that it had been he that had had gone to the Doctor. ‘As for why…’

  He let the silence hang for a while, knowing that almost all the Councillors (except, perhaps, Chan) would be desperately wondering whether they’d done something wrong – some silly little infringement of the Council rules, some stupid mess-up in protocol. And then, when he’d let them panic enough, he said: ‘I’ll handle the Doctor.’

  The sighs of relief were audible.

  But Chan wasn’t quite so ready to hand over responsibility to Pallister. She brushed her black hair back over her ear and coughed pointedly.

  ‘Would it not be a good idea,’ she ventured, an edge to her voice, ‘for the Doctor to meet with us? All of us? And if he knows something about the ship… I take it you’ve sent someone out to investigate? To check that he’s not lying?’

  Pallister spread his hands.

  ‘It’s all in hand, Councillor Chan. And I would agree with you about us all meeting with him, but adjudicators are a law unto themselves, as I’m sure you know. To demand his attendance here might just antagonise him further.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “further”? As far as I can tell, we’ve not antagonised him at all yet—’

  Chan stopped and frowned, glancing around the Council.

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  Pallister listened hard.

  From somewhere, somewhere in the walls of the building, he could hear scratching noises. Tiny, almost inaudible scratching noises.

  Pallister tapped at the intercom in front of him.

  ‘Eton,’ he snapped to his aide, waiting in the outer office. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘Noise, Councillor?’ came back Eton’s tinny voice. ‘I…’

  Eton’s voice suddenly cut off with a sharp thump.

  ‘Eton?’ barked Pallister, stabbing at the button again. ‘Eton!’

  There was no reply. But from the intercom came a chittering and squeaking.

  ‘Eton?’

  Pallister pulled the door to the outer office open sharply, not quite sure what he expected to see. Behind him were the rest of the Councillors, puzzled and confused.

  The office was empty, the chair behind the desk lying on its side.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Marj Haddon, pushing past him. ‘Where’s Eton?’

  The front door was open, and she crossed to it, peering out into the night. The square was silent and deserted.

  ‘Listen!’ hissed Chan, and Marj turned suddenly.

  They could all hear it now: a frantic scrabbling and scratching, an animal noise from behind the walls and under the floors. Nervously, the Councillors began to back into the chamber, muttering amongst themselves.

  ‘Oh God…’

  It was Chan: she was staring into the shadows under the ta
bles and cabinets around the Council chamber. Shadows that were moving; shadows that slid out from under the furniture and into the room, raising themselves up.

  All around them, their eyes glinting as they opened their mouths to show their teeth, were dozens and dozens of otters.

  ‘What… what do they want?’ whispered Chan, drawing back and bumping into the tight little clot of Councillors that had formed in the doorway.

  ‘They don’t “want” anything,’ snapped Pallister, trying hard to stamp down the edge of fear in his own voice. ‘They’re animals.’

  ‘Why are they here?’ someone else asked.

  ‘Didn’t they take the adjudicator’s friend to one of their nests?’ asked another, his voice trembling. ‘Didn’t they?’

  The otters were silent and motionless, up on their back legs, front paws hanging down as they watched the Councillors.

  ‘Food!’ hissed Marj. ‘They want us for food!’

  ‘They’re vegetarians,’ Pallister said.

  ‘So Ty says,’ retorted Chan, clearly unconvinced.

  Pallister tried to ignore their frightened mutterings and calmed himself with steady breathing, despite the hammering of his heart. He couldn’t have gone through the flood, the reconstruction and the struggle to get himself to the top of the food chain around here only for it to end like this. He wouldn’t allow it. He understood that the otters were clever. Not intelligent, but clever. So their behaviour had to have a purpose. And one of them had to be the leader, the head of the pack, the Alpha Male – whatever. He scanned the higgledy-piggledy ranks of animals, looking for a sign, anything that might give him a clue.

  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!’

  TEN

  ‘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 out on the bed like a live lab rat about to be dissected. Why had he done it? What could he possibly hope to gain?

  ‘His body’s fighting it,’ the woman said gently.

  Martha rounded on her, riled by her calm and reasonable tone of voice.

  ‘And what if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Yours did,’ the woman pointed out.

  ‘But he’s not like us. He’s not…’ Martha faltered, suddenly unsure of what the Doctor might have told them about himself. He’s not human. She couldn’t tell them that. Here she was again, thrown into the middle of a situation she knew nothing about.

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’ she asked the woman.

  ‘Ty – Ty Benson. I visited you in the hospital.’ She looked back at the Doctor, as if drawing a comparison. ‘I heard about what happened – about you attacking Sam and Carolina.’

  Martha looked back at the bed. Was the same thing happening to the Doctor? She knew he was strong, knew that he wasn’t human – but what if that made him more susceptible to the slime-thing? Martha had seen him possessed by a living sun – and survive. What did she really know about him, about what he was capable of, about his weaknesses? She reached out a hand to his forehead, but his head snapped up and he tried to bite her, smiling slyly when he failed.

  ‘Martha,’ Ty said in a very serious voice. ‘How much do you know about him – the Doctor?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ She couldn’t take her eyes off the Doctor. He’d relaxed back onto the bed, but his face was still flushed and his chest rose and fell raggedly.

  Ty gestured to a display panel hanging above the Doctor, much like the one that had been over her own bed. It showed the pale blue outline of a body, numerous patches of colour and flashing dots around it and on it. And pulsing on the chest there were two reddish circles, one over each lung. They flashed alternately.

  ‘He has two hearts,’ Ty said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Martha, trying not to look as if she were frantically thinking of what to say. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Two hearts,’ repeated Ty, clearly making some sort of point.

  Suddenly there was a scream from the reception area and a loud, indecipherable shout. The doors slammed open and the red-haired receptionist rushed in, her face pale.

  ‘They’re out there – in reception,’ she stammered. ‘Otters.’

  Martha realised, with a flash of guilt, that seeing the Doctor here h
ad driven all thoughts of the otters from her head.

  ‘Lock the door!’ Martha shouted. ‘Block it with something!’

  Martha rushed to the double doors and grabbed the handles, just as they began to shake and rattle. In her panic, she almost let go. Ty joined her, and whilst they held the doors shut, the doctor in the white coat brought over a drip stand and pushed it through the handles, barring the door.

  ‘Where else could they get in?’ Martha demanded. ‘Quick! C’mon!’

  The doctor glanced through a door at the far side of the Doctor’s bed, and darted over to shut and lock it.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Martha, scanning the room. There were just the two doors – and a window, with heavy wooden shutters already closed.

  Ty nodded and gave a start as the double doors, still barred, began to rattle ominously.

  ‘What do they want?’ she whispered. ‘Why are they acting like this? They’re harmless.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Martha scathingly. ‘Right.’

  ‘No,’ insisted Ty. ‘They are. Normally, anyway.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s those things – those slime-things. They’ve changed them, made them more aggressive.’

  ‘Like they changed me and the Doctor,’ Martha observed. She glanced at him again. He seemed to be sleeping, although his eyes flickered and darted about under his eyelids, and his hands clenched and unclenched.

  ‘What about everyone else?’ the redheaded receptionist said, her voice tiny and scared.

  ‘If they’ve any sense,’ Martha said, ‘they’ll have barricaded themselves in.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Do we have any weapons? Guns, anything like that?’

  ‘We’re in a biology laboratory, honey,’ Ty said pointedly.

  ‘Drugs, then – tranquillisers.’

  ‘There’s tranquillisers back in the zoo lab.’

  ‘We’d need to get past the otters to get to them,’ Martha said, pressing her lips firmly together.

  ‘Wait!’ Ty said suddenly, and rushed over to the side of the Doctor’s bed where his jacket was draped over a chair. She began to root about in his pockets and produced the sonic screwdriver.