Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (17 page)

'We'll leave behind a handful of troops,' said Shuskin. 'It would be stupid if we got back here safely, and there was no means of escape open to us.' She turned and bellowed orders to the men.

The Doctor turned to Liz, whispering urgently. 'You don't have to come, Liz, you do know that?'

Liz smiled, although she didn't feel particularly brave all of a sudden. Two heads are better than one, remember?

Besides, I'm not sure I'd be any safer here with the chopper than out in the forest with you and Shuskin.'

Two minutes later, the group began pushing their way through the dense forest towards the alien stronghold.

They found the remains of the Soviet armoured column soon enough. The Doctor had warned against following the alien

'roads' towards the mining complex, but Shuskin had insisted.

It was imperative for her that they discover what happened to the regiment.

The first vehicle had loomed suddenly out of the darkness. It was a T-55 battle tank, almost embedded in the undergrowth, as if it had turned away from the track in desperation. It was entirely burnt out. One of the access hatches in the turret had been pushed open, but only a blackened arm protruded, fingers locked in position like a claw.

Shuskin turned away. She didn't need to see anything else. Just beyond the T-55 was the road, and scattered the length of that were burnt or overturned vehicles.' tanks, APCs, assault guns. A smattering of self-propelled anti-aircraft guns and even some field howitzers showed that the organisers had tried to cater for every eventuality with a piece of hardware. But they could never have envisaged the true nature of the aggressor.

Shuskin walked slowly across the road, glancing at the corpses that seemed to reach out towards her, imploring her to do something. She felt impotent in the face of such destruction.

The Soviet captain turned to her soldiers. They were worried, and looked to her for guidance. 'Spread out and check the surrounding area for survivors,' she ordered, trying her best to imply that even this great tragedy was part of the plan. 'We do not want to stay on this road for any longer than absolutely necessary.'

The Doctor, towards the edge of the group, glanced up from a map and nodded.

'Five minutes, and we return to the forest,' ordered Shuskin. 'Go!'

Shuskin watched as the men spread out, poking corpses with bayonets and attempting to pull open welded-shut hatches. Individual beams of torch light were lost in the darkness. She thought about crossing to the Doctor and Liz, but they seemed more concerned by the unusual substance that formed the alien road. And, anyway, just at that moment Shuskin didn't feel like sharing the grief of a Soviet soldier with Westerners.

A scream snapped Shuskin out of her reverie.

Somewhere, a torch beam was flailing into the sky. She could hear brutal chuckling. There was something deadly, still, in the shadows.

There was a second scream, and then silence.

THIRD INTERLUDE:

BLACK ANGEL'S DEATH SONG

'Good day at work, darling?'

A cliché, no matter how well meant, is still a cliché.

'It was all right.' Sergeant Robert Franklin opened the door of the Triumph Stag, patting it proudly. 'Picked up the car... As you can see A smile played over his lips.

'Thank the Lord for that.' said Julia. 'I hate having to get the bus. It's so... common.' She giggled brightly and kissed her husband on the cheek. 'What shift are you on tomorrow?'

'I'm not,' he replied. 'Finished for the week.'

'Great,' she said. 'I don't go in till two.'

Franklin, smiling at the thought of a rare lie-in, keyed the ignition and eased the car through the huge wrought-iron gates of Redborough General. A career policeman, he had met his wife when she first joined the hospital as a junior pathologist. It was middle-income lust at first sight.

'Anything unusual going on, Bob?' Julia asked as the car sped off down Longman's Hill Road and towards the outlying villages. She clamped a hand to her head to prevent the dernier beret from flying off into old farmer Hislop's top meadow.

'How do you mean?'

'You remember that boy you were talking about last night?'

Franklin adjusted his sunglasses in the rear-view mirror, and changed gear for the climb up the hill. 'Which boy was that?'

'You know, said Julia, angry at her husband's playful teasing. 'The one you said was "as high as a ruddy balloon".

The one who murdered the boy and girl over Westbury way.'

'Oh, that boy, said Franklin sarcastically. 'William Dyson.

South London lowlife with a list of previous as long as the garden path.'

'What, violent behaviour, that sort of thing?' asked Julia, surprised. 'No, drugs mainly. Why do you ask?' The car reached the top of the hill now, levelling out next to the long barrow

'I did the autopsy on the two victims this afternoon. Very nasty indeed.'

'Do you mind?' said Franklin tartly 'I'm about to have my tea. I don't want the gory details of your butchery!'

'Very funny.' said Julia, changing the subject. 'What's on TV tonight?'

Franklin slowed the car on the far side of the hill as they approached their cliff-top cottage overlooking the Channel.

'Kenny Elliott was saying there's a documentary on Man Alive about the space mission to Neptune.'

'And it's Thirty Minute Theatre tonight, isn't it?'

Franklin nodded as the car slowed on the gravel driveway.

'I'll get the casserole on, darling,' Julia said, slipping out of the car.

By the time that Franklin had put the Stag in the garage, and then changed into a pure-wool polo-neck sweater and casual slacks, his wife had poured him a large glass of brandy, and left it on the dining-room table. He swallowed the smooth Napoleon in one gulp, then sank into the deeply cushioned swivel armchair.

'How's it going, love?' he called into the kitchen, and was answered with a noncommittal laugh.

'Ten minutes.'

'Make it eight.'

'Will you beat me black and blue with your truncheon if it's thirty seconds over?'

Franklin closed his eyes and smiled. 'Probably'

For a few moments he let his thoughts drift.' to the game of cricket he was due to play for the county constabulary on Sunday next; to Mrs Clark and Mrs Watson who had come into the station all of a fluster to ask if there was a killer on the loose after the 'horror' over at Westbury... Franklin's eyes snapped open.

'Julia!' he shouted, as he stood. 'The autopsy...'

Autopsies, she corrected. 'And I thought you didn't want to talk about "work".'

'I've changed my mind. What did you find?' He moved into the kitchen and found his wife putting down her glass of wine, about to take the beef carbonade from the oven.

'Another minute, she said, smiling.

'Whatever. The autopsy?'

'What do you want to know?'

Franklin wasn't sure. 'I suppose I want to know if that boy Dyson did it.'

'Probably not, said Julia, sipping her wine. 'Both of the victims had massive internal haemorrhaging, seemingly caused by extreme heat.'

'That doesn't make sense, said Franklin. 'They'd been ripped to shreds. The girl was virtually gutted.'

'Now who's putting whom off their dinner?'

They ate in virtual silence, the sun sinking towards the horizon as they looked out from the panoramic picture window of the dining room, over the gently rolling green of their garden and the shimmering blue-grey sea.

When either of them spoke it was in short, precise bursts to which the other answered, almost telepathically. They had been married for eight years and it showed.

'I was talking to Albert Peacock about the begonias...'

'Really? Need thinning?'

'Apparently.'

Then the conversation returned to the death of the young people.

'The boy was crazed when we found him,' said Franklin.

'Absolutely out of his tree. Kept rambling on about devils and goblins.'

'Was he badly injured?'

'Lots of cuts and bruises. Best we could figure, he'd attacked the other two.'

'What with?' asked Julia suddenly.

'Sorry?'

'What weapon did he use?'

Franklin looked a little embarrassed. 'Well, we haven't found that yet, have we? Some kind of knife, I suppose.'

'No knife could have made those marks on the girl's body. They were claw marks or I'm a monkey's auntie.'

Her husband shook his head. 'Are you saying an animal did this?'

Julia shrugged. 'I'm saying a knife didn't do it.' She stopped. The setting sun cast dark and ominous shadows across the surface of the water. 'What was that?'

'I didn't hear anything.'

'Then shut up, she said sharply, and moved to the window. The sky was like a Turner painting, enormous splashes of crimson and burnt orange reaching across the striated clouds.

Franklin joined her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. 'Beautiful night,' he said.

'Is it?' Somewhere in the distance she could just make out a black mass emerging from the embers of the dying sun.

She shivered. 'What's wrong, love?'

'Birds flying at night,' she said. Now Franklin understood.'

Julia was a West Country girl, and in those parts the old superstitions still carried some weight.

'It doesn't mean anything, he said softly 'Birds must fly at night all the time.'

'Not in a group like that. It's bad luck.' She stared closer.

'They look like ravens, she said in a low voice.

Franklin laughed, but his mirth was hollow. He pulled his arms tighter around his wife and they huddled together, watching as the twilight was engulfed by the black cloud.

WAY OUT

Shuskin ran forward, torch light glinting off her pistol in the darkness. She quickly found the soldier, face down in the cold soil. She flipped the body over with her boot, continually glancing back to the trees and burnt-out vehicles around her.

His pale throat had been cut in a ragged arc. Splashes of blood, ink-black in the moonlight, covered the man's uniform.

His eyes were staring. He hadn't even fired a shot.

Shuskin picked up the fallen machine gun, her eyes fixed on the dark undergrowth. She could hear the other soldiers, blundering in her direction, blotting out any sounds made by the killer.

'Quiet!' she snapped. 'This thing is still close by!'

She turned away from the dead soldier, flicking the safety catch off the Kalashnikov as she scanned her surroundings again. Trees and stunted bushes grumbled in the arctic wind, the barren darkness revealing deeper shadows.

There was a sudden sound of movement to her left. She swung round, saw only the Doctor, his hands instinctively rising above his head. 'Let me have a look at the poor fellow,'

he said.

Shuskin nodded, and was about to turn away when she saw something. She squeezed the trigger, letting off twenty rounds. There was a shocked look on the Doctor's face as the bullets flew around him.

Shuskin ran past the Doctor. Slumped against a fallen tree trunk lay a creature, almost ripped in two by the machine-gun fire. It was a goblin, a kobold, a legend given form in the modern world. Artificial wings, seemingly made of steel and plastic, lay under its body in tatters. Shuskin remembered tales from childhood, and how every scratch against the window pane at night could have been a creature such as this. It was sneering even now, as if it knew what she was thinking - parental threats, beasts under the bed. The mouth below the hooked nose opened, and Shuskin heard high-pitched laughter.

She smashed the butt of the gun into the creature's face, breaking teeth and bone in the process. It stared back at her through shuttered eyes, spitting out blood. And began laughing again.

Bruce stood over the Xerox 914 copier, flashes of light illuminating his face. It was like taking candy from a baby. He had been challenged only once, and the dumb grunt who'd come into the office had only wanted to check that everything was working.

Anything else I can do for you?' the soldier had asked.

Not unless you could persuade Corporal Bell to sit on this machine with her pants around her ankles. 'No, no,'

replied Bruce. 'I'11 be finished here soon.'

Bruce placed the Photostats in a large envelope, returned the originals to a manila folder, and set off for the Brigadier's office. Much of the information he wanted had been kept there, stuck in a pair of filing cabinets, locked up with a key so tiny it resembled something from a Christmas cracker. Bruce had seen tighter security at a kindergarten.

Time to go. You could only put so many lies in place, and eventually somebody would find out that in reality Bruce was about as committed to UNIT as Martin Luther King had been to the Ku Klux Klan.

He closed the door on the Brigadier's office, and strolled towards the science wing. One corridor - leading to the Doctor's laboratory - was still partly cordoned off with yellow tape. The computer room that adjoined the Doctor's workshop had been slightly damaged, and much of the equipment had been moved. Bruce turned the corner, and saw a light on. Damn. He hadn't expected company.

He strolled in, smiling casually at the technician who was busy working at one of the terminals. 'Hi, I'm Davis, from the States.'

'Hello.' said the man, his eyes buried somewhere behind the thickest glasses Bruce had ever seen. 'I'm Billy Donald.

I'd heard you'd joined us.'

'Yeah.' Bruce looked absently around the room, scratching his

chin. 'Do you think you could give me a hand with something?' 'I'm sure I could. I'm only here to do a system backup' Bruce's face fell. 'So I won't be able to use the computers?' 'Luckily I've not started yet. What do you want to do?' 'Establish a link with the UNIT building in New York?'

'No problem,' said the man, swivelling his chair towards the terminal in front of him. His fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard.