Once the skin was completely emptied, it fell to the floor and then vanished in a flare of reddish vapour.
The husband was now sitting up and sobbing, ‘Take me, then. Take me.’
The youths’ faces flicked their attention to him and they began to close in on him, their arms reaching out.
Mangold was not a brave man – he wasn’t anything like a brave man – but he couldn’t understand why no one in the room was moving, or shouting, or trying to stop this. When he looked at the other guests, their faces were placid, numbed. Only he and the husband seemed to be aware of what was going on, of the dreadful threat which faced them.
In fact, Mangold’s levels of self-obsession, combined with his shockingly low levels of artron energy were partly shielding him from the fairly low-level field of influence the Bah-Sokhar was deploying. It was busy feeding at a number of locations and it couldn’t be bothered targeting him more precisely because it was going to eat him eventually anyway and he was no threat. Sadly, this meant that he would be horribly upset and afraid before his brain melted, along with the rest of his interior.
ZANDOR, OR THE GRAND High Emperor Zandor as he had decided he should be called, was enjoying his reign. Stuff was happening to keep him safe and that was cool. He’d asked the Thing to take care of the local army and police guys because they would be the ones who were a threat at this stage of setting up all the Empire and domination, etc. The Thing had shown him pictures in his head of the secret bunker and the local commando barracks and the cop station house and so those had been dealt with. Everyone with a uniform was standing along the rim of a fairly regular border which ran roughly in a circle with a ten mile diameter, which was OK for now. In the end, it would be the world, but for now ten miles was safe.
Zandor knew to pace himself and not draw attention to himself yet. He had to get more of an idea about how all these crazy new powers he had worked and did – as far as he knew – whatever he asked it to. But you couldn’t rely on Things. In the end, Zandor would take all the power and get rid of it.
He imagined having a footstool and watched as one blossomed upwards out of the church’s stone floor. He propped his sneakers up on it and imagined a hot dog with mustard.
Zandor guessed that he’d have to crank up his wishes a little, because they weren’t that impressive yet, but he was definitely enjoying himself. Maybe in a couple of days he’d be able to reach over and destroy his old school and feed all his teachers to the Thing. And his high school would have to go. And that weird guy who always shouted at him when he pushed ahead in the line at the drugstore, because waiting in line wasn’t a thing he’d ever enjoyed doing, so why should he do it…
The one wish he’d loved so far had involved putting both his parents in quite a small cage that now hung from the ceiling by a chain. They could stay up there for ever, for all he cared – which he didn’t. He’d made something happen that sealed up their mouths, so they couldn’t speak any more. He didn’t much care how that was arranged – he only knew they had no mouths now. It was cool and funny. They wouldn’t be able to eat, either – which he hadn’t meant to happen, but he didn’t much care now that it had. They could starve up there and be out of his hair and think they were lucky. A lot of much worse stuff was happening elsewhere – the Thing let him see bits of it in his head and it was freaky. It was making him laugh. It was like the best TV show ever.
BACK IN THE DINING room, things were grim. The husband had been speeded to his end and the rest of the guests were backed into a huddle next to the chilled breakfast display of cold meats, spreads and cheeses. Mangold couldn’t help thinking this was unpleasantly appropriate as he edged along the far wall. The youths weren’t paying any attention to him and he was glad about that.
He was sad, absolutely, that they were paying a lot of attention to members of the public who had chosen to stay at the Fetch Brothers Golf Spa Hotel and who were therefore technically in his care, but what could he do about that now? They were being devoured by a horde of…things…He couldn’t defeat a horde. He’d never even met a horde – although some coach parties had come close…
It would be best if he saved himself.
And got help.
Naturally.
He really was planning to get help.
Leastways, he had convinced himself this was the case right up until he had eased himself round the doorway – keeping his eyes fixed on the ghastly huddle of feeding bodies and the occasional flashes of fear darting across faces amongst the trapped crowd as they flickered slightly out of the Bah-Sokhar’s full control.
‘And where are you going, Kev?’ He felt a hand laid firmly on his shoulder and twitched round to find Bryony Mailer glowering at him. ‘Running away?’ She was dressed like a children’s entertainer and her hair was frightful, but she had a commanding presence that he couldn’t ignore.
‘Not at all. Not in the least…And I must say that…that…In your absence the hotel has not been—’
A tall and hideously untidy fellow with an even more strange and even more convincing kind of authority – it was that Doctor chappie – strode out from behind an aspidistra wearing a bizarre hat. ‘Well, I’m very glad you’re not running away. Because we need you to tell us what’s going on. You were coming out to tell us, in fact, weren’t you?’
Because they were all, in fact, sharing a high-grade telepathic field, the Doctor, Bryony and – now emerging remarkably from the shadows, still wearing his abused shirt and plus fours – Putta were absolutely sure that Mangold had been aiming to leap in his car and drive to Aberdeen as fast as possible. But they also knew there was no point mentioning that and realised that the Doctor usually decided that giving people the benefit of the doubt often seemed to bounce them into managing more remarkable things than they’d ever imagined they could.
Mangold blushed and shook loose a small blizzard of stressed dandruff. ‘I was…yes. They’re in there. These beastie things are eating, well…sucking the guests down into…It would be better if you saw for yourself.’
The three could see for themselves – in a blurry way – but still they tentatively leaned their heads round the doorframe to watch as the silent feeding frenzy continued its horrible work.
Putta felt the Doctor’s rage and pain race through him and leave behind unshakeable determination.
‘Ah, well, we can’t have that, though, can we. I’m afraid not. Not at all.’ The Doctor said this loudly enough to be audible in the dining room and – as the others stared – he strolled out across the tartan carpet and in between the deserted tables. At the far end of the room, the youths stopped moving.
‘Hello, I’m the Doctor. I would say you’re my old friend the Bah-Sokhar, but that’s not quite right, is it?’ He sounded jovial, even playful, but Putta and Bryony could feel the echo of his two hearts pounding with hidden fear. ‘I think there’s someone else in there too now, isn’t there?’ And his hearts were also racing with excitement – something terrible was happening and he was born to walk up and smile and all the universe’s terrible things. He had to and wanted to and loved to stroll along and talk to them, and tease them and defeat them utterly. One day he might die trying, but it might not be today. ‘Who are you, if you wouldn’t mind my asking?’
The Doctor waited placidly, while the youths stood straight and walked together and formed a double line of identical curiosity and hatred. Behind them, a few of the guests blinked back into horrified sense and looked on, breathless.
‘No really…’ The Doctor grinned. ‘There’s no need to be shy – you’re among friends.’
A few more of the golfers coughed and flinched into full awareness.
At last, the youths spoke together. ‘We are Zandor.’ They tried it again, this time with conviction and a bit more flourish. ‘We are Grand High Emperor Zandor the Mighty. We sit on the Drosten Throne. We are the jewel at the heart of the universe. We are—’
The Doctor nodded sagely while interrupting. ‘Yes, yes,
I supposed it might be something like that. Zandor…You wouldn’t believe the number of Zandors I’ve met…And High and Mightys…well, there are a great number of them around. You fellows intent on ruling over everywhere – I’m assuming that’s what you want – you never have quite enough imagination for the job, do you?’ He offered the insult in a charming and polite tone so that it confused the youths, rather than annoying them. ‘Not enough imagination to think of a good name and a really impressive title. Not enough imagination to make it fun.’
As he had asked them to with his mind, Putta and Bryony had sneaked over to the buffet while the Zandor forms were distracted and begun to lead everyone out through the door that led to the kitchens.
This was going well until Mangold decided to help and – his horror compelling him to keep his gaze fixed on the youths – then clattered blindly into a fully set table, knocking over teapots and rattling cutlery.
The Zandor forms glared round at him and began striding out to make him their next meal. He hadn’t intended to provide a diversion while Bryony and Putta tried to usher the diners safely away, but as it seemed that he was and that he would be dead soon in a repulsive way, he decided to abandon his usual self-interest and do his best. This surprised him because it was hugely out of character and because it meant that for an instant he could clearly hear the Doctor thinking well done at him.
But the youths were swift, adaptable and coordinated. As some lunged for Mangold, others split off and rushed at Putta and Bryony and others turned to menace the guests.
The situation wasn’t hopeful until the Doctor announced, ‘Enough!’ The Zandor forms flinched but didn’t stop. ‘I said enough! I’m not having any more death this morning. I forbid it. You there!’ He yelled at a woman called Mary Fleming who had wanted to spend a long weekend at the hotel to recover from a bout of flu. ‘Yes, you! Do you want to be eaten!?’ The Time Lord’s gaze scouted back and forth across the more and less aware humans. ‘Well, do you? Because either you can stand there and let it all roll over you while we’re consumed along with you, or you can decide to resist.’
The crowd muttered, but was foggy and doubtful
Wake up, thought the Doctor.
And this thought, amplified by the Bah-Sokhar’s indiscriminate telepathic clamp, did finally snap the Fetch’s latest visitors into complete awareness. As that same awareness was then assaulted by identical portions of doom and the sight of a partially emptied skin and its pathetically heaped clothes….Well, a good deal of chaos broke loose.
There was running, there was screaming, there was crying – and above all, there was rage.
The Zandor forms tipped back their heads and seemed to sniff the air before apparently inhaling the strength that rage provided for them.
The youths grew taller, started smiling – a few of them dashed playfully about the room at impossible speeds – mocking their victims and jabbing out with taunting, threatening hands.
Bryony couldn’t think what to do. She felt Putta hold her arm and began to assume that they might at least get eaten together. Survival didn’t seem an option anymore.
Then she felt, along with Putta, the Doctor thinking Nonsense.
And the Time Lord drew himself up to his full height and called out, ‘Enough!’ He pointed at one man who had lifted a heavy coffee pot over his head, ‘Put that down!’ The man looked confused – a Zandor form was patting at him, teasing, its black eyes filled with red glimmers.
‘I said enough! All of you!’ The Doctor span round, his arms spread wide. ‘I know you’re scared. I know you’ve seen terrible things done. I know you want to hurt the creatures that have hurt you and that you hate them. But you can’t!’
‘You didn’t see what they did!’ shouted an older woman.
‘I’ve seen more than that and I know they’ll do more than that. You have to love them.’
The room was filled with scrambling, flailing arms and panic – underlying that was pure hatred, tangible hatred.
Bryony understood this couldn’t go on, that it would kill them all and leave the world undefended. ‘It’s true!’
‘It’s rubbish!’ yelled back a couple who were swiping at a particularly avid Zandor form with a breadboard. ‘Why don’t you help?’
‘We are helping!’ Putta yelped back. ‘Can’t you understand! He’s the Doctor. If you trust him, he’ll get us out of this. If you don’t we’re done for. Come on!’
Fortunately, this attracted the attention of a Zandor form who was dripping with milk from where a jug had been thrown at it and whose eyebrow was slightly cut, but healing visibly. The form rushed towards them and, arm-in-arm, they swung to face it.
‘Now!’ hissed Bryony, and together they did their absolute best to find something, anything wonderful about that blank, mockery of a face, about those hollow eyes, about those clawing hands.
‘It is…it is…’ Putta struggled. ‘It is amazing. The way it does what it does – the way it changes shapes, the way it adapts and survives, the way it was magnificent.’
Bryony nodded. ‘That horse…I loved that horse…It was wonderful…Anything that could be that horse is better than this…It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen…It was an honour…’
The Zandor form slowed, became uncertain.
Putta took up the slack. ‘Yes. The true form of the Bah-Sokhar is awe-inspiring. I will never forget it. I loved it. I love the Bah-Sokhar.’
The Zandor forms all slowed and swayed.
The Doctor laughed. ‘See! See!’ He waved his arms as if conducting a kind of emotional orchestra. ‘That’s it!’
Gradually, the guests also dropped their improvised weapons and began to frown out various expressions of – if not love – then warmth.
I have a grandson your age.
I love living. I love being alive.
I love this day, this moment. I never realised. I love still being able to see that table cloth and to hear this man’s voice and to have the light come through that window the way it is, it is, it is…
One by one, the Zandor forms put their hands to their heads and started to emit a high scream.
‘Keep going!’ The Doctor’s face was a vision of kindliness and beneficence, but his eyes were stern and intent. ‘That’s it!’
And then the Zandor forms fell in a liquid rush and soaked away into the carpet. They were gone.
A residual thrum of fondness swashed about for an instant and then subsided.
‘Oh, well done!’ The Doctor threw back his head and laughed, while clapping. Then the losses already sustained hit him and he grimaced. The struggle was by no means over.
There was absolute silence, beyond the dripping of spilled coffee from a table cloth.
Then a grey-head man asked, ‘Who are you? You’re a doctor, you said?’
Putta answered. ‘He’s the Doctor. He’s…He’s the best—’
Much though the Doctor appreciated praise, he cut this particular attempt short, ‘That’s as maybe. We’ve no time to discuss how wonderful I am at the moment. Arbroath – at the very least Arbroath – is very probably being consumed right now and this Zandor character is who knows where—’
‘He’s at the Drosten Stone.’
‘No, he said throne. Drosten throne.’
A pair of men in plaid trousers grumbled at each other.
‘There isn’t a Drosten throne – it’s a stone. It’s up at St Vigeans.’
‘They said throne. I remembered. I thought it was the last thing I was going to hear.’
The Doctor shook his head at them. ‘It said throne. Now, where’s St Vigeans?’
A number of the guests, recovering their senses slightly, gave directions to St Vigeans.
‘And this stone…?’ The Doctor folded his arm round a young woman who was weeping and shaking. He listened keenly as the legend of the St Vigeans church – built by an underground demon – and the famous carved stones were described. As he did so, he ushered over Putta and Bryony
and murmured to them, ‘We have to get to St Vigeans. If Zandor isn’t there, there maybe traces of him that will lead us to him. I would imagine the stones were at one time some kind of throne for the Conductor of the Bah-Sokhar. And anyone with any sense would break that kind of thing into pieces if they could…If they’d survived an encounter with the awakened creature and a ruler filled with hatred.’
Bryony offered, ‘Perhaps the Bah-Sokhar did that itself. Perhaps it doesn’t want a Conductor.’
‘Perhaps…’
‘Hang on a minute.’ One of the bickering pair, glowered at the Doctor. ‘You’re not going to abandon us? You said you were going to help. What about the Hippocratic Oath?’
‘I helped Hippocrates write it, and a very good oath it is, too. But we have to go to St Vigeans.’ A groan shuddered round the huddle of surviving humans. ‘And you have work to do. You know how to defeat these things. And you like Arbroath…’ The Doctor paused while there was no response. ‘Well, you can’t mind it that much – you came here. And it’s being harmed. People are being harmed. Human beings are being harmed. And you, as human beings, can help them. You have to go into the town and just…be as affectionate as you can…on all sides. Every Zandor form you see…tell it how wonderful it is. Or – as Bryony worked out – it would be even better to tell it how wonderful the Bah-Sokhar is. Bit of an odd name, I’ll admit. It’s from the ancient Egyptian and probably isn’t its original name at all…But it will do. Let’s all say it together, shall we.’
The guests frowned at this, but did half-heartedly agree to recite the name until they got it right.
‘Very important. Tell the forms that the Bah-Sokhar is great. You couldn’t imagine anything more marvellous. You love it. You’re fond of it. The Bah-Sokhar is trapped by the supply of hate its getting – the old Conductor and Demon bond has been activated, but I think we can break it. So…’ He peered round at them like a primary school teacher trying to think well of a lumpy class. ‘Off you go. Those of you who haven’t got cars, the others will give you lifts. He’ll arrange it.’ The Doctor pointed out Mangold, who’d been skulking behind the cereal display table and who now jumped slightly. The Doctor eyed him coolly – ‘I did notice you being brave earlier…so now you’ll just have to keep on, you know. It will get to be a habit – helping others.’
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