Doctor Who_ Drift Part 19

'Don't get up on my account,' the woman with the crew-cut pointed her gun at Gary. 'You! Get the keys to the pick-up.'

The woman's prisoner - Charlene guessed that was what she was - looked like she might be with the Army or something. But she stood perfectly still, head slightly bowed.

Why didn't she help? Charlene wanted to yell at her.

'I said,' the voice broke in harsher than before, and something solid whacked Charlene across the face, 'get the keys to your truck.'

Charlene was in a spin, her legs folding. She threw out a hand to steady herself and the prisoner woman caught her.

She stared into Charlene's eyes as she helped her up.

She sent a message clear as day: do as she says. do as she says.

Charlene nodded, but she saw a motion past her helper's shoulder.

Gary - in his boxers - flew from the bed, diving for the gun in the other woman's hands. Horrified, Charlene fell back, and the hostage let her go. Gary actually had a hold of the gun, or so it seemed to Charlene - for just a second.

But the next thing she knew, all she could hear were these impossibly loud bangs that wouldn't go away, and there was smoke in the room, and there was Gary dropped at the end of the bed like a broken toy.

'Make yourself useful: find the d.a.m.n keys.' The order sounded m.u.f.fled, but the harshness in the voice was unmistakable. Charlene sat there, sobbing hysterically, her world in pieces she didn't even recognise any more.

Mercifully, someone kicked her in the side of the head.

The upstairs hall was like a tunnel, frosty light gliding in from the window over the stairwell. Amber backed her way along, scared to look around while she could hear the faint scratch of paws ascending the bare pine stairs.

Her heel slid on an old rug. She threw out a hand and caught hold of a doorframe.

The coyote loped into view, s.h.i.+ning its eyes into the tunnel.

Amber gasped, but her voice had deserted her. The coyote pounced onto the landing and flew at her, fangs and eyes aimed up at her face. Amber forced a shrill scream and pushed herself sidelong through the doorway. She fell.

The coyote skidded on the rug.

Amber scrambled frantically to flip onto her back. The coyote faced her through the open doorway, head low and slavering rabidly.

Makenzie leaped the fence and pulled out his revolver. The Doctor and Lieutenant Beard weren't far behind, along with a couple of the White Shadow guys. But Makenzie wasn't concerning himself about backup.

The crowd of coy-dogs, milling and sc.r.a.pping outside the Walsh house, had attracted his attention and he'd come trotting up. Earl's Chevy was parked in the drive and he had to wonder, where the h.e.l.l was Earl? where the h.e.l.l was Earl? All he had for an answer was a memory of Laurie and the empty vehicles on the road. All he had for an answer was a memory of Laurie and the empty vehicles on the road.

Jesus - and then the scream that had to be Amber's.

The soldiers spread wide over the white lawn, fingers on triggers, and started hollering and swearing at the dogs.

Makenzie thought, the h.e.l.l with it, and fired two shots into the air.

The pack scattered, some of them stealing bites out of one another as they fought to get clear. The Doctor, meanwhile, strode right up to the door and grabbed the handle.

Plainly, he wasn't much concerned about backup either.

The hotel looked deserted. Martha had the sense the whole town was out searching for her daughter. Well, h.e.l.l, Martha hadn't asked any of them for their help. Amber was in a bad place right now, she needed to hide. She'd come running back soon enough and Martha would be there for her when she did.

Martha didn't get the special urgency this time out. Maybe Mak felt the need to over-compensate, now the girl's real Daddy was out of the picture.

Real Daddy. Sorry excuse, more like. G.o.dd.a.m.n G.o.dd.a.m.n him. him.

'Help you, miss?'

That soldier with the premature wrinkles, Pydych, regarded her uncertainly from the doorway to the restaurant. He was turning over a piece of the aircraft in his hands.

'Where'd they take the body?' she demanded.

'Of the guy?' Pydych nodded hesitantly. 'Across the hall.

But you really shouldn't be-'

Martha murdered his objections with a glance. He retreated back into his sh.e.l.l, murmuring an apology but appearing to lose his voice. Martha swallowed hard, then moved to the door. Only right and proper that Curt should be laid to rest in a hotel bar.

She let the door swing closed behind her, flinching micro-scopically, as her attention became the exclusive property of the dead ma.s.s on the table before her.

Its condition, exposed and sliced open, didn't even penetrate her. What sickened was how she still saw the living Curt: the self-loathing drunk who'd never known where to turn his hate next. The man who'd made marriage feel like breaking rocks on a chain gang: and the man who, when Martha finally slipped those chains, had hounded her from state to state for eight h.e.l.lish years on the pretext pretext that he loved his baby girl. G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Curt Redeker. Why couldn't he have died in some remote hole, and Martha get a letter some day? Even in death, he had to break back into her life and hang around her neck forever. that he loved his baby girl. G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Curt Redeker. Why couldn't he have died in some remote hole, and Martha get a letter some day? Even in death, he had to break back into her life and hang around her neck forever.

Martha backed up to the door, nauseous. She turned herself around and walked slowly out through the hall like she was running on different time to the rest of the world.

Every step, she had to fight back a fresh tear.

Martha paused out front of the hotel, trying to get a hold on her breathing. The cold air was waking her up, but she felt lost.

Snowflakes snagged at her cheeks like barbed confetti.

'Help, oh please, G.o.d, help! I'm up here! In the bathroom!'

The sound of the shots had been a shock to Amber and the coyote alike. Amber was quicker to recover and she kicked out hard. The bathroom door slammed closed.

Then she was on her feet, pressing herself to the door. She heard the door downstairs smashed open and she fumbled at the lock in a panic.

A heavy weight battered the door from the other side.

The inside of the house was surreal. Like the kid crying out from the bathroom must have been having a nightmare and they'd all stepped into it.

Dermot Beard had spent years schooling himself to think fast and react, and file away complex questions for later. This was one of those situations where he went into automatic pilot and he expected every soldier to react with him. 'Spence, stay put,' he ordered, before rus.h.i.+ng to the foot of the stairs.

Then he motioned his other man. Bertelli, ahead of him.

He showed a palm to the Doctor and the Police Chief. He was figuring on coyotes at worst, but after the house on the mountain there was no point in taking chances.

He expected an argument from the Doctor, but instead the guy relented and started toeing at some of the fish and broken gla.s.s. It looked like somebody's fish tank had exploded down here; no big deal as far as Dermot could tell.

But Dermot was no scientist.

Bertelli rounded the top of the stairs. The young soldier's gun went up immediately.

'Bertelli. what is it?'

There was an agonised howl that didn't sound like any coyote. And a thud-thud-thud like a heavy body was thras.h.i.+ng about on the floorboards up there. Bertelli was static, the barrel of his rifle wavering like he couldn't get a clear aim. The banging stopped.

'Bertelli!' Dermot started up the stairs, getting angry now.

He had Bertelli in his sights, but he still didn't quite see it: something stabbing out, solid and gleaming. Bertelli dropped his gun and clutched his face.

Dermot shrank back into the wall as Bertelli stumbled back over the top stair.

The soldier, Spence, brought his gun to his shoulder, sheltering behind the bulk of the grenade launcher. Makenzie rushed forward. hoping to G.o.d the man wasn't about to use that thing in here. The Doctor came up on Makenzie's left, but even he was stopped dead in his tracks.

The Italian, Bertelli, was being eaten as he fell.

The soldier was caked in frost and underneath it he was rotting away. It was like watching a time-lapsed movie, all super-fast: a joint of frozen meat, thrown through the air and consumed, packaging and all, by a plague of maggots. Except there weren't any maggots and the man was unravelling in a wire-mesh vortex, woven from ice.

All the while, Amber was upstairs, crying her heart out, begging to be rescued.

Charlene hauled herself up, leaving her long hair hanging untidily over her face for a few moments more. A few moments more of not seeing anything.

No, that wasn't true. If she lifted her eyes, she could see Gary vividly enough, even through the cascade of hair. The cruel holes were lost in the blood welling in his folded abdomen.

The carpet was damp under her hands and knees and she knew, while she'd been out of it, he'd been busy bleeding himself empty.

Their affair seemed stupid, childish, pathetic. Everything was pain. And Gary was free.

Then she remembered his irritating obsession with his radio.

Amber slowly uncupped her hands from her ears. The coyote out on the landing had fallen silent. Maybe it was dead.

The cries of the coyote had been so extreme, she'd endured them with her ears covered and her back wedged firmly against the door as though she might actually bar the sound from entering her sanctuary.

Tremulously now, she turned and stared at the door.

'Amber!' The voice was the velvet ba.s.s of the stranger. 'Stay where you are! Lock yourself in if you can!'

Amber wiped a sleeve across her eyes. She grabbed for the bolt and drove it home hard. 'Ow!' She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand back and sucked at where the metal had pinched her skin.

Thinking, glancing about, she went to the wash-basin. The medicine cabinet had one of those mirrored doors and in it she could see how pale and drawn she was from all her crying. Sniffing, she eased her hand from her mouth and looked down to inspect the damage.

The mark was minute, without the redness she'd expect.

But it burned all the same. It burned cold. cold.

Where the unfortunate Bertelli should have landed, there had been nothing left of him to hit the floor. The Doctor wasted no time after that, dancing spryly sideways, and calling to Amber as he launched himself up the stairs three at a time.

Below and behind him, Spence and Makenzie had been manoeuvring clear of the ice storm that had erupted in Bertelli's place.

'What in the name of G.o.d?' G.o.d?' Spence was practically screaming. Spence was practically screaming.

'Take it out!' bellowed Lieutenant Beard, on the edge of panic. 'Take it out!'

The Doctor stole a hurried look along the landing and saw what must have been the last thing Bertelli had seen: the very thing Bertelli had become. For the Doctor, it was like gazing into the microcosm he had studied under the lens.

Before him, and now down in the lounge, it was magnified and translated into a livid ma.s.s of crystalline tendrils, shooting in every direction.

An electrical storm, frozen and re-frozen in a s.h.i.+fting nexus of white fury.

Some of the tendrils dug like spindly claws into the bathroom door.

An automatic rifle cracked fire. The Doctor glanced downstairs.

Spence was firing point blank into the maelstrom. Parts of the chaotic ice sculpture shattered like gla.s.s, but Beard was having to duck out of the way as most of the rounds shot straight through and blew the staircase to splinters. The Doctor threw up a hand to s.h.i.+eld his face.

He caught a motion from along the landing.

The ice elemental fired forks of frozen lightning straight at him.

Chapter Fourteen.

It didn't move move.

It consumed itself. Particles of itself, burned up like white coals feeding a neural furnace, to be ferried along crystal threads and restructured as matter at the opposite end, in whichever direction it wished to travel.

A cycle as fast as thought. Inevitably, in that cycle, some energy was expended.

Energy that had to be replaced.

Even the Doctor's reflexes were pushed to save him, diving aside as the twin forks of iced lightning flashed through the air. Sparks of frost played over the wall behind him.

'Quick, man! A flare!' Huddled close to the banister, he snapped his fingers at Lieutenant Beard. 'Amber!' he shouted up the stairs. 'Do exactly as I say! Turn on the hot water - full!'

There was no answer, but as the Doctor caught the flare that Beard tossed his way, he hoped hoped he heard the rush of water churning into a large bath. Difficult to tell, with the bursts of automatic fire pulverising the manic ice sculpture and the lower stairs alike. he heard the rush of water churning into a large bath. Difficult to tell, with the bursts of automatic fire pulverising the manic ice sculpture and the lower stairs alike.

Above, the icicle sparks were drawing an erratic spider's web through the painted wood, sending out strand after strand from where they had struck the wall, reaching for Beard, who was determinedly breaking open another flare for himself.

'Get everybody out of here!' the Doctor yelled at him, breaking the head off his flare. The two flares erupted like synchronised volcanoes. 'Now!'

Packing the man down the stairs, the Doctor was up and advancing on the micro-blizzard, the flare thrust forward to spout its flame at the heart of the beast. A hundred crystal tines s.n.a.t.c.hed back, like a child's fingers from a roaring hearth.

Each thread tried to feel its way around the heat, desperate to embrace him.