“So much for the portable Flesh generator...” he murmurs, coughing again as he looks around some more.
His shaky eyes spy a column or two, leaning on some other column’s remains, some ten footsteps away from where he lies among the ruins of the descending passage.
“KENNY!” he calls as loudly as he can while he struggles back up onto his front to knees and feet, swaying away from a badly cracked column perched precariously near his face.
The old dock is still with us, at least... he thinks to himself, lowering his bottom lip so he can mouth breathe despite his digging fingers in the dust.
Pausing only once to rub at the sharp pain in his back, he applies his fingers to the dust again, sniffling and begging the dirt to offer up another pair of hot-blooded fingers.
“Please, oh please please please! Kenny, if you’re dead down there I’m going to kill yo...”
The Doctor shuts his mouth.
His silt prying hands have found...
Soft, five-fingered gold.
He wraps his hand around the man’s dust-coated wrist and pulls.
A singularity of pain mines his innards like a spade through old roots, carving his senses into jumbled little pieces.
But he pulls.
And he heaves.
Straining, he manages to haul Kenny out from the chunks of rubble, thrusting the man beyond himself and into the main dock room, away from the stairs.