S

he felt lonely, but also for the first time since she was a newly wed she felt free.  Mrs Sawkins, known as Suzanne to her very few friends, was beginning to enjoy being a widow.  Now the bruise around her eye had disappeared, her beautiful looks were returning.  It was the first time in her memory that her body was not displaying some form of abuse.  There were no longer marks of any type to remind her of Tom’s displeasure.  True, she would always defend his memory to strangers, but after the visit by that nice lady called Victoria she now looked forward to her new freedom.  She hoped she would meet her again.  Suzanne had so few friends.  It was something that Tom had frowned upon as unnecessary.  She had him, and as far as he was concerned that was enough.  But now he was gone, she was looking forward to her new social circle.  Mind you, she only wanted to befriend women.  Men would act as if they were your friends, but they would always have ulterior motives.  And once they trapped you within wedlock, they were then free to do whatever they pleased.  She probably would never trust a man again.  She had no wish to become a punch bag for any of the violent men waiting in the wings.

 

Now she had regained at least some degree of her long lost confidence, Suzanne’s thoughts turned towards Tom’s dirty old trunk.  Ever since the funeral it had laid untouched in the backroom, hidden under her mother’s old dinning table.  It was a big monstrous thing, locked with a thick chain.  Suzanne had always hated its ugly presence, but never dared to touch it.  The one time she had tried to improve its appearance by a light dusting, she had paid for her interference with two broken fingers.  Tom had told her that she was lucky it hadn’t been her arm.  Most of her late husband’s things that weren’t of sentimental value had been given to the needy, but this final reminder remained.  To be honest, she was scared of it.  Terrified even, but it was a fear that she knew must be vanquished.  If the irrational fear was not destroyed, then the ghost of her dead husband would always be plaguing her life.

 

Scooping the key that she had found in Tom’s old work trousers off the coffee table, Suzanne walked nervously in to the backroom.  Sucking in a sharp intake of breath, she gripped hold of the trunk and pulled.  She didn’t stop pulling until it was fully out in the open, far away from its customary hiding place.  Fumbling with the chain, she located a small but tough looking padlock.  She inserted the key, and the lock clicked.   As she unravelled the heavy iron loops, she realised that she was shaking.  She scolded herself, and gritted her teeth.  Finally the lid was flung opened.  Although Tom was long dead, she tensed herself for a blow.  None came.

 

She peeked through her half shut eyelids, down towards the contents of the trunk.  Inside was as dirty as outside.  Her gaze fell on a mud-encrusted spade, one of the two that Tom had bought the previous year.  He said he was going to grow vegetables, but the necessary work was never done and she had assumed the spade had been lost.  There were also several muddy garments, but they were of little interest.  They must have been dirtied whilst he performed numerous favours for his farmer friends.  He may have been a bad husband, but he was so helpful to his friends.  The thought of his generosity caused loving feelings to wash back.   There had been no need for her partner to hide the messy clothing.  He should have given them to her, and she would have washed them for him. 

 

She was unaware that others would have alleged that these were the tools of his ghastly trade.  For all of his faults, there was never any doubt in her mind that her dearest husband was innocent of the crime of grave robbing.  She had dismissed the whole idea as preposterous.  He may have been no angel, but he was a God-fearing man who would never desecrate peoples’ memories in such a way.  Obviously he had stumbled across the real thief, and had paid for the mistake with his life.  What he was doing in the middle of the night in the graveyard didn’t even cross her mind.

 

The only other item in the trunk was an old sack.  Picking it up, she felt its weight.  It was light, but not empty.  Her slender fingers fished for its contents.  To her utter amazement, out on to her lap tumbled bundles of money.  It must have been hundreds.  Suzanne stared at the notes in disbelief.  It was more than she could ever earn in years of hard slog at the mill. Where had the fortune come from?  It was certainly not from grave robbing.  That was one fact she was sure of, but still the existence of bundles of notes hidden under her mother’s old dinning table baffled her. Again she looked in to the sack, this time looking for a clue to shed light on to the riddle.  Her grip clutched on to something else concealed amongst the folds of the material, and it was swiftly brought out in to the open.  There was a dull glitter in her palm, and she immediately felt sick.  The tooth peaked with a golden crown fell with a tiny clatter to the floor.  There was only one place that Tom could have found a tooth stuffed full of the precious metal.  People were not willing to give them up whilst they were still alive. Shaking, she backed out of the room.  Her fear of the trunk was now absolute.

 

Shock raged throughout her brain, and when there was a loud hammering on the door she answered it purely on autopilot.  Suzanne had already drawn the bolts and tugged on the handle to let in Tom, when she realised that there was no way it could be him.  The shock of finding the teeth had disrupted her carefully constructed reality, and to her shame his death had temporally slipped her mind.  By now it was too late for safety.  The door had already been opened, and the caller entered her house.  It was then that Suzanne knew with conviction that she would never be free.  She would be married forever to Tom, and he would never leave her in peace. 

 

The battered wife didn’t bother backing away from her late husband, as he shuffled towards her for an embrace.  His skin was burnt like a badly roasted chicken, and whole portions of his lower jaw had peeled away entirely from the bone, but Suzanne felt no repulsion or fear. Those feelings were reserved for the trunk.  There was nothing that could be done to her now that could make her life any more miserable.  She would never be free.  Never.

 

* * * *

 

Reverend Cunningham let forth an annoyed grunt.  In his expert opinion, visitors should stick to Sunday services and pre-arranged dinners.  Turning up at all hours of the night wasn’t either polite or wanted.  The vicar’s small piggy eyes glared at the motley crew standing on his doorstep.  He recognised two of the unwanted guests as the couple that had come to his church a few days previously.  From outward appearances they seemed to be upright citizens, but the Devil often hid under the disguise of sugar and honey.  They may not be all they appeared.  If nothing else, from his earlier meeting he knew that they held an unhealthy and morbid fascination with Sawkins (may he burn in hell).  However, it was their companion that concerned him most.  He had the air of good breeding, but the look of a tramp.  The phrase ‘troublemaker’ was written all over him.  If it weren’t for the presence of a member of the aristocracy from the mansion, he would have sent them away with a flea in the ear. Since Wallace held much respect in the village, the Reverend thought it prudent to find out what they sought before dismissing them. 

 

Not wishing the callers to believe they were welcome, he decided against inviting them in. He just scowled, and then left a pause that in the past had served him well in unnerving the unsolicited.  When he finally spoke, they would have no doubt that he was in firm control. The pause went smoothly, but before he had a chance to say a word the tramp slipped past his large belly and in to the warmth.  Reverend Cunningham turned to face the intruder, his face turning red with rage at the man’s arrogance. 

 

‘I say sir!’  blurted the Reverend, ‘How dare you burst in to my home!’ 

 

‘Hmmm, beautifully designed fourteenth century tithed cottage.  Done some changes I see. Don’t like it.’

 

He was aware that the rest of the group had used the distraction to also enter unbidden. Things were rapidly getting out of hand.  Control must be seized, and at once.  He was halfway through informing the trespassers that they would fry in the very bowels of Lucifer’s loins, when the tramp began talking over him.  Not to be outdone, he raised his voice and continued.  Only the words ‘sinners will be cast in to the pit for all eternity’ left his mouth, before he realised that nobody at all was listening.  For the first time since being a novice monk, he found that he was no longer the centre of attention.  His words petered out, and instead he began to listen to the small man whom the others seemed to refer to as the Doctor.  If he couldn’t persuade them to leave by his old and trusted methods, he would have to at least find out what they wanted.

 

‘… I’m afraid that we haven’t got much time.  The entity is controlling the dead, and using their bodies to slaughter the villagers.  Very soon it will lead them here.  We must take refuge in the church while we decide on our course of action.’

 

‘Ah,’ said the Reverend, believing he now knew what was required of him.  In his time as the emissary from God, he had now and again been called to a haunting.  It was always in a creaky old building, full of dry rot and rasping floorboards, and owned by the over impressionable and over imaginative.  All he had done on those occasions was to half-heartedly perform the exorcism ritual.  After each incident, he was rewarded with a huge supper with much wine.  Of course, the so-called ghost had never returned.  More than likely they had never existed.  If he quickly performed an exorcism in the mansion, he could get rid of these people quickly and efficiently.  Then he could claim the usual recompense.  Judging by the presence of Wallace from the mansion, the supper would be good indeed.

 

‘The bell, book and candle is what is required for this predicament,’ he said gravely, ‘I will collect the necessary implements.’

 

‘I’m afraid that will not do any good,’ said the Doctor, ‘As I have told you, we need to take refuge in the church.  Please get the key, and hurry.’

 

‘Nonsense!’ grunted the Reverend, as he collected his bible and a cross from the sideboard.  He knew how to banish ghosts, real or imaginary, and no scruffy doctor was going to tell him what to do.  Now where had he put the spare candles?

 

‘Reverend Cunningham.’ 

 

At the sound of his name, the vicar forgot his search.  It was Wallace that had spoken.  His usually refined tone was shaky and emotional.  The voice was so different from normal that he couldn’t help take note of the aristocrat’s words. 

 

‘You must listen to this man.  It may sound fantastic, but it is true.  The dead are walking.  Please, we must go to the church.’

 

‘Aye, and now!’ added the Scottish lad annoyingly.

 

Seeing the fear in Wallace’s eyes, the vicar decided on a change of tactics.  Motioning the visitors to remain, he walked to the kitchen.  A large iron loop containing the church keys hung from a hook beside the pantry.  Idly, he plucked them from their resting place.  It would do no harm to humour them for a while.  When no ghouls came, he would then be able to diffuse the situation easily.  They would be grateful for the service he had performed, and embarrassed by their earlier panic.  Within the confines of the church they would undoubtedly pray, and listen to his sermons.  He would be in control once more. 

 

When he returned to the living room he beckoned for the visitors to leave, declaring pompously that he would allow them to seek sanctuary in the church.  The young couple went first, and he followed with the Doctor, Wallace and Zara behind him.  At the doorway, Jamie turned the shiny bronze handle.  The door swung inwards, but instead of continuing in to the night air the Reverend was astonished to see the young man freeze.  Peering over the Scott’s shoulder, he saw a figure looming out of the darkness.  He groaned.  Just when he had got the situation under control, another unwanted visitor turns up.  He made a mental note to incorporate this problem in to his next sermon.  It would be unwise to tell the congregation that they would burn in hell if they interrupted him at ungodly hours, but he could make it a message to stand on your own two feet and embrace God’s tests willingly. 

 

Curious to know whom the approaching figure was, the Reverend attempted to push past those in front of him.  Much to his surprise, they didn’t yield.  In fact Jamie and Victoria were trying to retreat back in to the cottage, but his huge bulk was preventing them.  The young girl looked as if she was on the verge of screaming.  The figure was now close enough to be recognised.  It was Gary Ludlow, the local blacksmith.  He didn’t appear well, and moved jerkily, stumbling here and there.  Through his clothes seeped a dark patch that could only be blood.  The compassionate nature, which had been concealed for so many years under rich food and power, burst to the surface.  One of his congregation was in distress and needed his aid. 

 

He tried to lunge forward, to help Gary in his distress, but to his frustration his shoulders were gripped tight from behind and he was prevented from moving.  He felt himself being dragged back in to the cottage.  His view was suddenly cleared, as Jamie rushed forward. Much to his horror, the young man performed a flying kick at the distressed blacksmith.  The blow landed square in the chest of the stumbling man.  He fell to the floor with a sickening snap.  Surely it was the sound of the poor man’s neck breaking on the cold stone of the floor.  The vicar gave up his struggle to break the iron grip on his body, and stared at the unspeakable murder being performed in front of him.  It was a breach of one of the sacred holy commandments, right in front of his church. 

 

‘That was Gary Ludlow,’ he said in a weak voice, as if mentioning the poor man’s name would end the madness.

 

There was no reply to his words.  He was about to repeat them, when to his happiness, the blacksmith rose unsteadily to his feet.  The joy was short lived.  The man’s head was set at an impossible angle, and the blood that seeped from under his clothes began to drip on to the stone pavement.  From his mouth uttered an unearthly moan, and drool soon joined the blood spatters on the floor.  Behind him came other figures, all as stumbling and slow as Gary Ludlow.   They too moaned from out of the gloom, their feet scuffing against the gravestones that made up the path.  Reverend Cunningham was glad when he was wrenched back in to the welcome safety of his cottage, and the door slammed shut.  The bolts were drawn, just as the first figure reached the entrance.  The hammering of fists, and moans from drooling mouths filled the small building.  Screwing his eyes shut tight, the Reverend screamed.

 

The first thing that he thought, when his own scream stopped ringing in his ears, was that judgement day had come.  The second was whether he would be looked upon as a sinner with all the rest.  He well knew the greed that had consumed the fresh, slim alter boy of his youth.  Power and high living had corrupted him.  He knew that the fear of damnation was the only reason people listened to his sermons.  Regret washed over him, and at the same time he knew that this was not the end of the world.  He wasn’t sure how, he just knew and this faith enabled him to come to his senses.  Gradually he opened his eyes, and took in the pandemonium around him.   The banging on the door was intensifying, as more corpses surrounded the cottage.  He watched as Jamie and Wallace manhandled a heavy bookcase towards the front door.  Many books and ornaments fell to the carpet, to be trampled on by busy feet, before the entrance was fully blocked by the large piece of furniture.  The beating on the door lessened, as the zombi moved on to find easier points of access.  The vicar picked up a small bible from the torn pages and smashed knickknacks on the floor.  He turned it in his hands thoughtfully, and then came to a snap decision.  Hurrying to help the others, he began to block all ways in to his cottage.  For now he no longer wanted to be in control.  He just wanted to live.

 

* * * *

 

‘Darn bum swizelling bastard!’ 

 

The profanities tumbled out of Jack’s mouth at a rate of knots.  He swayed in front of his tiny terraced house, ready to crawl in to bed so he would be fresh and awake for the pub’s reopening during late morning.  Except he couldn’t get in.   He hammered on the rickity door with his fist.  The warped wood whimpered in protest, but stubbornly remained closed. It was no good.  He would have to return to The Rose and Crown.  Through his clouded mind, Jack recalled balancing his door key on the top of an upturned empty glass for safekeeping. It must still be there.  He would holler outside the pub’s door until they relented and let him in. If not, he would rather sleep in their doorway than his own.  At least it would save him a walk the next day.  With a snort, Jack ambled back down the darkened street.

 

* * * *

 

Edgar’s feet dragged across a field of barley, crushing the crop beneath his bare soles. Small stones forced their way in to his putrefied flesh, but his advance continued relentlessly.  The remains of his charred death shroud made an eerie flapping sound in the night’s breeze.  Despite being almost naked, Edgar didn’t feel the cold night air.  For that matter, he didn’t feel the scorched burns covering much of his body.  The flames that had enveloped him from the mansion had long since been extinguished, although the smell of barbecued meat still encircled the corpse.  Fresh blood was encrusted around his partly cooked jaw.  Blood from the livestock at the closest farm, that he had killed and consumed moments earlier.  Now he was stumbling towards the church, to join many more undead for the warm feast that awaited them the other side of a few blocks of bricks and mortar. Through the fields around him followed dozens more zombi, piloted by the entity towards its enemies.

 

The Loa was enjoying the use of the many puppets.  At long last its thirst was being quenched.  It now had many arms, legs and teeth to do its bidding.  Many mouths through which to consume.  Almost the entire population of the small village had succumbed to its might.  There were a few stragglers, but they would be mopped up very soon.  Then all animals, birds and insects would be devoured.  Soon its influence would be felt in every corner of the globe.  The craving would trouble it no more.  There would be no more thirst. But before that could happen it needed to deal with the enemies holed up in the vicinity of the church.  They were too much of a threat to its plans.  Above all, the Time Lord must be made to answer for his actions.  If it came to it, the entity would enjoy consuming him.  He would not take away its reward so easily.

 

* * * *

 

Things were looking bad in the cottage.  The hammering and moaning was intensifying, as more and more slaughtered villagers hemmed the living prisoners in.  And still more were turning up.  Victoria was attempting to keep the young slave girl’s mind off the danger by singing ‘Goosy, Goosy Gander’ to her in a soft voice.  It didn’t seem to be helping matters much, and at more than one juncture Wallace had given her a sharp look.  On those occasions, she had continued relentlessly.   If the rhyme was annoying the racist pig, then at least that petty fact made her feel better.  However, Zara hardly seemed interested in the song, and instead looked around at the frantic activity filling the small building. 

 

Most of the heavy furniture had by now been placed in front of the doors and windows.  The beating fists had already smashed the majority of the panes, but at least for the time being the bookcases and tables kept the marauding corpses at bay.  Feeling as if she was wasting valuable time, Victoria gave Zara a reassuring smile, and left the child’s side.

 

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked the Doctor.

 

‘Yes.  There’s a window in the kitchen that hasn’t been blocked yet,’ he answered, ‘Can you help me with this coffee table?’

 

Together they lifted the long pine table, and carried it in to the small kitchen.  Sweeping a few pans aside, it was angled against the glass.  The Doctor had begun to wedge it in place using a broom, when suddenly there was a loud splintering sound.  The time traveller was knocked backwards as the table was thrust against him, leaving Victoria to prop it up alone. Groping arms clawed through the smashed windowpane.  The weight of the corpses nearly made the table slip from her grasp, but by a miracle she held on.  Desperately she tried to keep the zombi at bay.  But they were too strong, and there were too many of them.  Flailing arms snaked their way around the varnished pine.  A set of ice-cold fingers closed around Victoria’s hair and yanked.  Crying out in pain, again the table almost slipped.  Bravely she held on.  With it in the way the entity’s puppets could not enter, but her head was being slowly pulled towards the vicious shards of the broken window.  The glass was already wet with the corpses’ blood, seeping from gashes it had carved in their grasping arms.  The dead hand pulled harder, and her throat swung within inches of the smashed pane.  Still she held on, fighting the urge to panic.  If she did, it would probably be the last emotion she felt. Bit by bit she was dragged closer, and now the largest shard was level with her jugular vain. 

 

Automatically she shut her eyes tight, and waited for the impact.  She felt a tearing pain. Finally she let forth an ear splitting scream.  Then the sting subsided, and she felt the sensation of moving.  Her eyes reopened, and she saw Jamie and Wallace forcing the table hard against the window frame.  One corpse’s hand was temporarily trapped.  In its clenched fist was a clump of light brown hair.  There was a thump, as the hand withdrew and the strands of her hair fluttered to the kitchen floor.  Quickly, the Doctor at last wedged the furniture in place with the broom.  With the others help, the weighty iron stove was then shifted, until the kitchen window was well and truly blocked.  Breathing a sigh of relief, the young woman let herself relax.  All exits were now covered, and for a while they would be safe.  She just hoped that they had not built themselves a prison.  Or for that matter a coffin.

 

Everyone else grabbed the chance to feel at least a tiny bit of normality.  Wallace brought out of his pocket a superbly crafted silver box, with delicate mother-of-pearl entwined along its edges.  Flipping its dainty lid open, he took a pinch of the contents and placed it on the side of his hand.  With one big breath, he snorted it up his right nostril.  A split second later, he gave an almighty sneeze.  A look of pleasure on his face, he offered the box to the Doctor.

 

‘Snuff?’

 

With a smile, the Doctor shook his head.  The snuff was offered in turn to all the males in the room.  Only Reverend Cunningham took the scientist up on the offer.  Victoria hoped she would never again have to see his large belly quiver, when he too sneezed loudly.

 

‘That won’t keep them long, I’m afraid.  It will be a lot safer in the church.’

 

The Doctor’s carefully chosen words wiped the self-satisfied smiles off both Wallace and the Reverend’s faces.

 

‘And just how do you intend to get us there?  Ask God for a miracle?’  snorted the vicar.

 

‘Now you…’ started Jamie, but his outburst was stayed by the Doctor.

 

‘It couldn’t do any harm I suppose.  But I’m sure, given time, I’ll come up with something so we won’t have to interrupt him.’

 

The Reverend brushed off the Doctor’s comments as if they had been spoken by an immature, backward child.  Wandering to a window, hidden from view behind a beautifully carved sideboard, he peered through a crack.  He tutted loudly at the putrid congregation clambering outside his usually tranquil home, as if he was more concerned about the destruction of his flower beds than the fact that the dead were walking.  Victoria guessed it was just a brave face that he was showing, but in reality he was terrified under his brash exterior.  Wallace, however, had now seemed to have taken on the Doctor as his mentor. Looking towards the time traveller with scared eyes, he put forth a quivering question.

 

‘It’s all very well barricading ourselves in to the church, but surely we need to destroy those…those monsters out there?   We can’t hide forever!’

 

‘One step at a time, Wallace,’ soothed the Doctor, ‘One step at a time.’

 

‘He is right though,’ said Victoria in a worried voice, ‘How are we going to destroy them?’ 

 

It was a question that she had been thinking for some time.  She thought back to the tiny fragments of the dream that tumbled about in her memory. The dream she had as the Doctor and Jamie dug up the bodies in the graveyard.  Surely they could not cheat fate forever, and her surrogate family was bound to fall sooner or later.  One day they must meet a foe that was too strong or too clever for them.  The Doctor’s reply didn’t set her mind at rest.

 

‘A good question, Victoria.  I only wish I knew the answer.’

 

‘What about that machine that you used on the mice?’ said Jamie, bringing forth a glimmer of hope.  ‘Wouldn’t that work on those undead things?’ he added.

 

‘Machine?’ asked Wallace, immediately interested and looking suddenly strangely calm and collected.

 

‘Oh, just a little something I threw together earlier,’ mumbled the Doctor modestly, ‘Nothing amazing really.’

 

‘Well it saved our lives!’ retorted Jamie.

 

‘Yes I suppose it did, didn’t it?  But I don’t think it will be of any use to us now,’ said the Doctor.  He went on to explain.  ‘It disrupts the nerves, you see, causing a total shut down between the body and the brain.  It was supposed to stun the living.  But on these poor souls it would simply hamper the control of the entity.  I suppose it was successful on the mice because of their large number, and the fact that the entity was then still fairly weak.  It simply abandoned their bodies, and went for easier prey.  The Loa, as it likes to call itself, is obviously much stronger now.  Soon, it will be able to exert its influence over the entire planet.  No, a stun gun is of no real use.’  He scratched his weathered nose before adding, ‘And anyway, it’s keyed in to rodent brainwaves not humans.’ 

 

‘And it’s in the TARDIS,’ said Jamie gloomily, to put the final nail in the coffin of what looked like a promising idea.

 

‘There mu… must be something we can do,’ said Wallace. 

 

The scientist’s voice quivered, giving the impression that he was on the verge of hysterics. Such was his state, that he didn’t even query the mention of the TARDIS.  Victoria looked at him quizzically.  He had been so calm just moments earlier.  It was as if somebody had flicked a switch inside his head.  She realised with sadness that the scientist’s moods were fluctuating so rapidly, that he was surely on the brink of a nervous breakdown. 

 

‘What about destroying this… this Loa itself, then all these walking corpses would just… just stop wouldn’t they?  I mean they’d all become normal dead bodies.’

 

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ said the Doctor, shaking his head slowly.  If he had noticed the scientist’s instability, he didn’t show it. ‘The Loa exists well beyond our reach.  It’s safely locked away from harm, inside the very fabric of the universe.  Even the TARDIS would have no way of travelling there.’

 

‘What a load of balderdash!  Absolute rubbish!’ laughed Reverend Cunningham shrilly, abandoning his position at the window.  Nevertheless, it was a laugh that nobody believed. By looking at his eyes it was plain that he wasn’t really so positive that the Doctor was making it all up.

 

‘So there’s nothing we can do?’ Victoria asked, with her heart in her mouth.  Both Wallace’s unpredictable temperament, and the unearthly moaning from outside was beginning to get to her.

 

‘Oh I wouldn’t say that,’ reassured the Doctor, ‘Without its medium, it would be catapulted back to its own world.  We must burn down the bridge.’

 

At these words, a strangled cry came from a chair to the side of the group.  Zara had been curled up in a ball, quietly listening to the conversation.  Undoubtedly, thought Victoria, it was second nature to say very little in front of her master.  One wrong word, and she would get a slap for her mistake.  Added to that, she must find the whole situation gruelling to comprehend.  More than likely the Doctor’s explanations went straight over the young child’s head.  But with the mention of the medium, the slave girl had obviously realised something that Victoria hadn’t.

 

The Doctor looked alarmed, and quickly sat on the arm of the chair next to the youngster.  It tilted drastically under his weight, but didn’t fall over.  Reaching across, he held her hand and whispered quietly in her ear, ‘I still hope it will not be necessary to hurt your grandfather. I did make a promise.’

 

‘You’ve got to let me go back,’ said the distressed slave girl.  She looked pleadingly in to the Time Lord’s eyes.  ‘He won’t hurt you.  I know he won’t.  I swear.’ 

 

‘I’m sorry.  I know it’s hard for you but you must stay with us,’ said the Doctor.  He gave her hand a squeeze, and stood up.  Victoria alone noticed the look of distrust on her pretty features.  She gave the girl as encouraging a smile as she could muster. 

 

‘If we remain much longer, we’ll have no chance of making it to the church.  More zombi are arriving all the time, and soon they’ll break in.  We must go.  I have a plan…’