Doctor Who - The 8th Doctor - 18 - The Face Eater by Simon Messingham

Author:Simon Messingham [Messingham, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Science Fiction, Media Tie-In, Space Opera, Doctor Who (Fictitious Character)
ISBN: 9780563555698
Publisher: BBC Worldwide Americas
Published: 1999-01-14T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Dear Heart

Fuller led Sam out of the docks on foot. She stated she was determined to find the Doctor, even if it meant going all the way to the other side of the city.

It wasn't too hard to dodge the vans: there were so many hiding places and he had a good idea of where Percival's spy cameras were. Even so, the security patrols were annoyingly persistent and he reckoned that more than once only their camouflage saved them.

The wind was really blowing now and the daylight dimmed to a muddy blue. Rain kept startling them with savage bursts that reduced visibility to a couple of metres. Once, as they passed through Central, shots from stun guns cracked right in front of them. They barely managed to wedge themselves between a couple of skips before half a dozen club-wielding workers ran out of the gloom pursued by a loudspeaker-droning security van. Armoured marksmen sat on the van roof, firing bright sparking shots after the fleeing gang. As they disappeared again, Fuller found that he was shocked at the extent of the city's breakdown. So quick.

He had grabbed Sam's hand and realised she was wincing through gritted teeth. Her back, still feeling the damage of those burns.

He hadn't insisted she remain in the dock hideaway. He knew her well enough to realise there would be no point. And another reason: he didn't want to admit that emotions were becoming part of the equation with Samantha Jones. There wasn't time. She was just a child. He wouldn't have looked at her twice on Earth. Besides, what did she think of him?

The wrecked remains of a disgraced ex-chief of police. Hardly her 'type'.

Anyway, this wasn't some cocktail party. He wasn't fourteen: he was forty. And they had work to do.

Sam squeezed his hand. 'You can let go now,' she said through a faceful of rainwater.

He rolled his eyes to suggest he had drifted off somewhere and let go.

Slowly, they picked their way out from the skips and started again.

She was getting tired, although she'd never show it. Those days in bed and the severity of the burns had really taken their toll upon her stamina.

The jibes and wisecracks weren't quite so forthcoming now. If it hadn't been for her uncanny devotion to the Doctor, that odd old-fashioned-looking man, he believed she wouldn't have been well enough to travel.

They had some kind of magnetism holding them together. Was he really jealous of that?

Fuller led her slowly through Central, trying to use the empty buildings both for cover and shelter. Even he was amazed as they traipsed through concrete shell after concrete shell, all spilling their innards of plumbing and wires, just how much work the colonists had actually done since they had got here. How hard Percival had been working them all this time. With only a fraction of Earth technology available and the severe limitations on their resources, this city really was a testament to human achievement.

Fuller wondered what would be left of it all in a hundred years, whether all the predictions would come true.

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