A

nauseating belch filled The Rose and Crown, but for once there was nobody to  condemn Jack for his gross lack of manners.  He followed the almighty belch with a smaller cousin.  Less repellent, but almost as revolting.   With shaky hands, Jack reached again for the whiskey.  The bottle was upturned over the glass for a full twenty seconds, before he realised that it was empty.  Only a drop or two of the precious amber liquid drained in to the waiting vessel.  On any other occasion this would have been a heartbreaking event, but not today.  Today he had a whole pub to himself.  Instead, his eyes darted to the rows of liqueur bottles lined up behind the bar.  He picked one at random, but as he began to open it the bottle slipped out of his fingers to smash by his feet.  A strangled cry of anguish automatically left his lips.  Even though there was plenty more, the loss of alcohol in such a way was a blow.  Sadly, he stooped on one knee, and studied the label. ‘Merry Legs Gin’, it read.  Jack breathed a sigh of relief.  It was only cheap grog. 

 

Returning to the bottles, the drunk chose another, but this time he was more careful. Plucking a strong looking rum, Jack tenderly took it to his favourite table. On route, his feet trod on the stain that he had earlier assumed to be red wine.  A thick crimson liquid bubbled up over his shoe, but the drunk ignored it.  The call of the rum was too great.  Flicking a piece of meat off a chair in irritation, Jack sank in to it.  For a moment he wondered what the remains of somebody’s meal was doing there, but Jack found he could no longer concentrate properly and didn’t really care anyway.  Even by his own standards, he was hammered.  In fact, his head had begun to spin.  No matter, he thought.  The rum would calm his reeling head. 

 

This time Jack dispensed with the glass, and swigged straight from the bottle.  The alcohol burned his throat, but it was a welcome sensation.  Yet the event it caused was not so welcome.  Another belch left his lips, but with it came the contents of his stomach.  The liquid vomit spattered on to his favourite table, and rolled in rivulets on to the floor.  Immediately, Jack wildly looked around for Ruth.  If the landlady saw the mess, then he would be barred for sure.  What if she came back from her trip with the Pied Piper now, this very second? 

 

Jack felt the familiar feeling in his gut, and knew that it was likely that he would be ill again.  If he left quickly, Ruth wouldn’t know it was him that had defiled her pub.  She may blame it on others.  Knowing that he had no time to lose, the drunk staggered to his feet.  He made his way to the door, clutching the rum to his breast as he did so.  He wouldn’t leave that particular prize.  On an impulse, he yanked down a bright red curtain from the window as he left.  It would be a permanent souvenir of the time he had the tavern to himself.  Whenever he gazed upon it in the future, it would surely conjure up the happy memory.  In any case, he needed something to keep warm for the journey.  The Rose and Crown’s best customer didn’t want to get a chill.

 

Hardly believing that he had been forced to leave the pub by the stupidity of his own gut, Jack wrapped the curtain around his frame and swayed up the road.  The cobblestones made his drunken movement more awkward, so he subconsciously sought an easier path. Before long he was striding along at great wobbly paces, with the curtain flapping in the breeze like a cloak.  The clean night air enabled the sickness to be banished, and now he was thinking with a tiny bit more clarity.  Fumbling with the bottle of rum, this clarity was swiftly stamped down, but the nausea didn’t return. 

 

He had been walking for over half an hour, when he realised that the flapping of his makeshift cloak had stopped.  Feeling around his shoulders, he found with annoyance that his trophy was no longer there.  It must have fallen off while he took large swigs of rum... but how long ago?  It was certain that the numbing effects of the booze had prevented him from immediately noticing the loss, but had it fallen off inches or miles away?  Turning around, he retraced his steps.  Suddenly he stopped dead. 

 

‘Whes the bleedin’ hell are I?’ he said loudly.

 

Glancing around in the dark, all that the drunk could make out was a field surrounded by a low hedgerow.  It was obvious that for the first time in many years his autopilot had failed him.  Somehow his inebriated nocturnal wandering had taken him considerably off route, to what he could only assume was one of the surrounding farms.  He wasn’t exactly lost, but he was certainly far from home.  Squinting his eyes, he saw in the middle of the field the shape of a rectangular box with two small windows and a door, topped off with an unlit lamp.  Some sort of storage for hay perhaps, but it didn’t offer any clues to his location.  There was nothing for it.  He would have to return the way he came.  Jack set off, grumbling and knocking back rum as he went.

 

Ten minutes later, he became aware of the bubbling of running water.  It was the river.  If he followed its course, he knew that it would guide him towards the Rose and Crown.  All paths lead to the Promised Land, he sniggered, but should he really go that direction?  What if he bumped in to Ruth?  Then another thought hit him.  His key!   The bloody thing was still in the pub.  Would it be too late to go back?  With his hazy mind grasping that it was either that or sleep in a doorway, Jack decided a return to the messy crime scene was the best course of action.  Even if Ruth was there he could deny all knowledge.  Traipsing across a muddy ditch, he soon found himself by the river’s bank.  It was here that the green eyes returned. 

 

The luminous orbs glowed from the other side of the river.  They could have been from any cat, but Jack knew that it had to be the Devil’s animal he had come in to contact with earlier. The stare that bored in to his skull was too familiar.  They had certainly locked gaze before. Jack looked for its canine companion, but it didn’t appear to be present.  Nevertheless, the sight that the drunk did see caused a sinking feeling to sweep across him.  In the distance, the red glow of fire could be plainly seen.  It could only mean one thing.  The fiery pen had been brought for his signature.  He was a fool to think he could duck the Devil.  For all his earlier bravado, the very idea of losing his soul now caused jabs of terror to invade his inebriated body.  The precious bottle of grog slipped from Jack’s fingers, and fell on to the grass.  The alcohol gurgled out of its uncorked top, to join with the earth.  Jack paid it no regard.  Instead, fumbling in his pocket, he brought out the remainder of the money he had found under the bush.

 

‘Hey yur!  I don’t want it, yur see!’ he cried across the water at the staring eyes. ‘Tell yur master I ain’t signing nothin’!’

 

With all his strength he threw the coins towards the luminous green eyes, to land with a faint plop in to the murky river.  Slowly, the orbs moved closer.  Jack wondered if the Old Nick’s cat could swim, and the thought brought forward further dread.

 

‘It’s not all there, but I’ll get the rest for yur now,’ he garbled, without the faintest idea of where he would indeed find more money.  All he could think of was to run.

 

Turning quickly, the drunk’s already unsteady body stepped unexpectedly on to something round and hard.  With his balance snatched away by the discarded bottle of rum, Jack tumbled sideways.  In desperation, he attempted to use his hands to break his fall, but they made contact only with water.  The liquid slipped through his clutching fingers, offering all-encompassing saturation rather than the requested support.  His clothes became weighted, dragging him down further in to the muddy brown water.  Then, as if waiting for this very moment, the raging currents took full advantage of the man floundering in their midst.  Jack’s body, handicapped by alcohol, was unable to fight against the dragging power of the river. He opened his mouth to scream, but immediately dirty water invaded his lungs and choked the sound.  Precious air bubbled away, starving his body of oxygen. 

 

Before the white light beckoned him to the afterlife, the alcoholic and rebel bizarrely had a happy thought.  At least he gave back the money, and didn’t sign away his soul.  And he had the best night of his life.  All thanks to the Pied Piper.  That man was indeed a proper gent. The final thing Jack Golby thought, as the water completed its incursion on his lungs, was that he didn’t mind drowning.  In many ways it was just like being drunk.  And being drunk had always been his closet friend.

 

* * * *

 

‘That was a very brave thing you did back there,’ said the Doctor in a cheery way that hardly suited the current circumstances. 

 

To the time traveller’s concern, Mortimer didn’t reply.  The mill owner lay static in exactly the same position he had been hastily placed on arrival, sprawled unceremoniously across a church pew.  The loss of blood had taken such a toll, that he lacked the energy to shift to a less degrading posture.  The Doctor supposed that it was a wonder that Jamie and Wallace had been able to pull him alive from the throng of living dead at all.  Fortunately, many of the zombi had followed Victoria as she carried Zara to safety, giving crucial moments for a rescue. Wallace’s knife had done the rest. 

 

The Time Lord looked up briefly, as there was another crash on the thick wooden door. Outside, more hungry corpses clamoured, aching to finish their meal.  Ignoring their moans of complaint, the Doctor bent over Mortimer’s prostrate figure.  After the extreme courage shown, he deserved to be made comfortable.  Other pressing matters could wait.

 

‘Mind if I take a look?’

 

Without waiting for a reply, the Doctor began to unbutton the remains of the mill owner’s burgundy soaked shirt.  The man shifted in pain, but didn’t attempt to push him away.  Once removed, the tattered clothing revealed a mess of tissue.  Much of his upper body was covered in deep bites.  Fat and muscle had been literally scooped out by sharp human teeth, leaving cavities filled with reservoirs of clotting blood.  It reminded the Doctor of a half eaten take away, smothered in tomato sauce.  Pushing this macabre thought away, he began to bandage the wounds as best he could.  Victoria had donated one off her many underskirts for the purpose, causing the Reverend to blush and Wallace to stare as she took it off.  After her escape from near death, modesty was obviously less important to her now. As the Doctor tended to the wounds, she joined his side.

 

‘How is he?’

 

‘Not good,’ replied the Doctor sadly.  Victoria watched him tear another strip of cloth from her donated undergarment, and wrap it over a wound on Mortimer’s shoulder.  ‘At least your petticoat has come in handy,’ he added, ‘Anyway, what happened to you outside?’

 

‘I don’t know.  I must have tripped.’

 

‘Yes… well if you insist on wearing all those layers of skirts, I suppose it’s hardly surprising. If it weren’t for this brave fellow, you’d have been a goner.’ 

 

Pulling the rough bandage taught, he motioned for Victoria to help move Mortimer to a better position.  Soon the injured man was lying on the pew, as comfortable as the hard wood allowed.

 

‘I’ve done the best I can,’ said the Doctor, watching Mortimer drift off in to an uneasy sleep. ‘But really he needs proper medical attention.’

 

‘I thought you were a doctor?’

 

The Time Lord turned, to find Reverend Cunningham lounging on a pew behind them.  He was watching with his piggy eyes, looking decidedly uneasy.  For once his question wasn’t influenced by the search for control, but out of concern.

 

‘Oh, I’m afraid the title is purely honorary,’ apologised the Doctor, flashing a smile meant to disarm any lurking hostile thoughts.  The vicar was probably still sore about the forced eviction from his cottage.  Reverend Cunningham was about to reply, when Wallace’s voice cut in.

 

‘There won’t be any practitioners for a good many miles.  I’m sorry to say that our only local doctor was out there with the rest of those creatures.  He tried to take a bite out of my leg, but I got away just in time.  We’ll just have to hope Mr Russell pulls through by himself.’

 

‘How about you then Wallace?’ chipped in Jamie, ‘You ken all about the human body, don’t you?’

 

‘Certainly I know how it works,’ stumbled the scientist, ‘But healing it.  That’s altogether different.  I suppose I could take a gander though.’

 

Whilst the others continued chatting on how best to care for the unfortunate mill owner, the Doctor turned his back on the group and surveyed the church for the first time.  Immediately he could see why Jamie had suggested it as a shelter.  The building was strong and defensible.  The impressive stained glass windows were high up, out of reach of even the most imposing corpses.  The Loa would have a difficult time breaching this particular place of worship.  Nevertheless, it was clear that they couldn’t hole up here forever.  The unearthly groans of the living dead were a constant reminder of the gathering forces outside.  The church was a stopgap, no more.  A place to think. 

 

As always in these situations, the Doctor took out his recorder.  Sinking to the floor to sit cross-legged, he blew a few notes and was soon lost in reflection.  He didn’t know how long he sat there playing, but during a rendition of ‘Anarchy in the UK’ by the Sex Pistols, he realised that he was being addressed.  Removing the instrument from his lips, he looked up at Wallace.  Reverend Cunningham, Jamie and Victoria quickly joined the scientist.  Within seconds the small time traveller was encircled, as if he was about to tell a story to a group of incredibly tall children.  

 

‘There’s one thing I don’t fully understand’ said Wallace, repeating his question, ‘This Loa, or whatever it was called, you say it exists outside the universe.’

 

‘Yes, in a manner of speaking,’ said the Doctor carefully, looking up at the expectant humans surrounding him.  ‘It comes from its very framework.  From a place that is both everywhere and nowhere, with all time and no time running simultaneously.  It’s a bit of a paradox really.’

 

‘Wouldn’t it be able to see everything then?’ asked the Reverend bluntly, ‘Know what’s going on everywhere, like the Almighty?’

 

The Doctor shook his head and replied, ‘You wouldn’t know what is going on beyond the thickest wall with no windows to look out of, would you?’

 

‘If it exists on the other side of a metaphorical wall, how do you know about it?  And what is it exactly?’ pressed Wallace.  He was obviously unhappy with the explanation he had just been given.

 

‘Ah, good question.  How I know is a bit of a sore subject.   I’d… well… rather not talk about it, I’m sure you understand,’ said the Doctor, looking a little flustered.  ‘As for what it is, all I can tell you is the Loa is really a being known as a Dimensional Entity.  Inside the fabric of the universe it’s harmless.  Just a formless ball of primeval instinct.  They have no brains, hence nothing to store a memory in.  All its knowledge of the world is found in the brain of the poor soul that becomes its medium, but it is cunning and quick to adapt.  It tends to hide in the shadows until it has mastered the use of its victim.  If the bridge to the medium can be broken, it is banished back to its rightful place.  All it has learnt is lost to it.  It becomes harmless once more.’

 

‘Huh!  “All I can tell you” indeed!’ snorted the vicar, earning himself a sharp glance from Jamie.

 

‘You told us earlier that there’s nothing we can do,’ said Victoria fearfully, ‘There is no way of stopping the Loa, and we’re trapped here with all those things outside.’

 

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ said the Doctor cheerfully, bounding to his feet.  ‘There’s always something we can do.  While there’s life, you know.  I’ve got a plan, but I need to return to the TARDIS.  And I need to go alone.’

 

‘Oy, hang on…’ began Jamie.

 

‘No arguments,’ commanded the Doctor firmly, ignoring his companion’s protests.  ‘I could do with you and Victoria keeping an eye on things here.  Reverend, is there another way out of this building?  A side door that the public wouldn’t know about?’

 

* * * *

 

Five minutes later, the Doctor poked his head out of a small exit at the far end of the building.  The doorway was partially obscured by a shrub, and wandering ivy added its discrete camouflage to the almost forgotten access point.  All was still.  Slowly he opened the door wider.  The time traveller winced when the little used hinges squeaked in protest. Quickly he looked for signs of movement beyond the shrub, but it appeared that the noise had attracted no unwanted attention.  So far it looked as if the corpses hadn’t made their way to this part of the church, and were concentrating all their efforts on the main entrance.  If Toussaint had no knowledge of this particular escape route, then neither would the Loa, and so it was unlikely to be watched. 

 

Slipping through the gap, the door clunked closed behind him.  Pausing momentarily to ensure that the Reverend had drawn the heavy bolts, the Doctor crept silently away from the church.  Taking care to avoid the path, he headed for the one place he was sure that there would be none of the living dead – the graveyard.  He knew that bar the odd robber, superstitious humans would avoid nocturnal excursions to the cemetery at all costs. Logically, therefore, it would be of little value for the Loa to patrol it.  It should be safe until the entity decided to destroy all the tiny insects, birds and mammals that had made their homes amongst the husks of the dead.  That time would come soon, but not yet.  Even so, it was best to be wary.

 

Inscriptions to the valiant now read by few were passed by as he picked his way through the mass of haphazard headstones.  Occasionally he crushed underfoot a flower left for the dear departed, the petals sticking to the mud on the underside of his boots.  Small pangs of regret at the destruction of the symbols of the deceased swept over him, but he didn’t dwell on them.  Haste was more important.  Little by little the Doctor moved stealthily past the greying stone monuments, until the sighing of the Loa’s minions disappeared in to the distance.  And with their departure came the end of the cemetery.  Aside from the occasional owl, no ears or eyes had picked up the traveller’s tiptoeing form.  The gamble had paid off.   

 

Clambering over a stout wall, the Doctor found himself in an open field full of wheat.  Peering up at the stars that poked through the cloud cover, he swiftly found his bearings.  Ensuring that he was heading in the right direction, he wasted no time in striding across the crop.  The TARDIS was a number of miles west of his current position, and it was essential that he reached it as soon as possible.    What needed to be done, had to be done.  He just hoped that it was not too late.

 

 * * * *

 

The noise was becoming unbearable.  The cavernous church caused the howls of the besieging corpses to echo and reverberate, intensifying Wallace’s uneasiness.  The scientist sat alone on a pew, his hands over his ears to block out the sound.  He wanted to scream for quietness.  At times he even thought it would be worth dying, just to have the blessed relief of silence.  But it was just a passing fancy.  Suicide was not an option, but without the Doctor’s knowledgeable presence, he was unsure how long the creatures could be held at bay.  Now the little scruffy man had gone, the nervousness and paralysing fear had begun to creep up on him again.  The strange odd calm, that had accompanied him since he had sought the sanctuary of the church, had unfortunately melted away.  To his mind, the corpses’ calls appeared to be building in strength.  Soon they must surely burst through the door.  From the sound there must be hundreds out there.  Thousands even.  At this thought, his scientific mind reasserted itself.  There was no way there could be that many.  There weren’t that many people in the village.

 

Removing his hands from his ears, Wallace fumbled in his waistcoat and pulled out his silver pocket watch for the umpteenth time.  Flicking open the polished cover, he checked the dials.  Only a few minutes had passed since he had last looked.  The Doctor had been gone for only half an hour, but it seemed much longer.  Earlier, Wallace had tried to keep active to take his mind of his predicament.  He had busied himself with Mortimer’s wounds, but had been able to offer only limited help.  The Doctor had patched the mill owner up well.  All Wallace could do was wet a handkerchief in the font and cool the wounded man’s brow. The mill owner was running a high fever, and was literally burning up.  He doubted very much that Mortimer would last much longer, and had soon lost heart in his task.  He had allowed Victoria to take over the duty, leaving him without anything to do.  There wasn’t even a window low enough for him to spy on the corpses outside.  Instead, he had taken his leave from the group and withdrawn in to himself, letting his mind wander and sanity fray.  How he longed for a brandy.

 

Both Victoria and Jamie were giving him a wide berth.  It was hardly fair.  He had helped the Scott rescue Mortimer from the walking dead.  He didn’t have to, but he had.  Regrettably, it didn’t seem to have altered their opinion of him.  If he thought about it, he supposed they could hardly be blamed.  He wasn’t pleasant when they were his houseguests.  On the other hand, he supposed their attitude was more likely due to his treatment of the slave girl.  He knew to his shame that the Doctor disliked him for that very reason.  As the moans continued to echo around his sitting form, Wallace found himself wondering if he was right about the black race after all.  He had never before questioned the fact that Zara was of inferior stock to himself, but maybe as a scientist he should have done.  After all, the monsters outside looked like him.  They were white and clothed in the western manner, but he obviously had far more in common with the Negroes of Africa than the walking, killing corpses. 

 

The seed of doubt was planted and began to grow, entwining itself around his troubled mind.  With surprise, he realised that when Victoria lay unconscious outside the church, his heart had gone out to the frightened Zara frozen by her side.  During that vital moment, it hadn’t crossed his mind that she was just a slave.  His only thought had been that she was a human child, out of reach of help and about to die.  Perhaps it was this thought that had brought an upsurge of uncharacteristic bravery, spurring him in to rescuing the mill owner.  It was not as if he had known the man well.  Their paths had crossed during the Sunday morning services of course, but that was about all.  If he was honest with himself, Wallace was as surprised as anyone about his courageous action.  If he could have risked his life for such a reason, then maybe deep down he knew that they were all kindred under the skin. As events had proved, he was wrong about the existence of zombi.  Was he wrong about slavery too?

 

Pulling himself to his feet, he looked at the rest of the group.  Victoria was still mopping the brow of the wounded Mortimer.  Jamie paced by her side, probably frustrated at being holed up in the church.  He was certainly an outdoors man, that one.  To one side, Reverend Cunningham sat silently in a pew, looking forlorn.  Wallace had never seen the man so quiet.  Gone were the words of fire and damnation.  Those words were now obsolete.  To all intents and purposes, hell was directly outside his place of work and clamouring to break in. 

 

Wallace furrowed his brow.  Where was Zara?  Quickly he scanned the room again.  The little black girl was nowhere to be seen.  Astonished at his own concern, the scientist cast his mind back to when he had last seen her.  It was when Victoria had carried her to the church, before Mortimer had been rescued.  But he couldn’t recall ever seeing Zara inside the building.  She could easily have slipped away prior to the door being locked.  She was always a quiet girl, and with the treating of the mill owner’s wounds nobody would have noticed she was missing.  But where had she gone, and why?  Surely she couldn’t have been stupid enough to go back to find her grandfather?  The Doctor had told her that the Loa was controlling him.  But of course, she was just a child and Toussaint was her only family.  If Wallace was in that situation in his childhood, he didn’t know what he would have done.

 

He was about to alert the others to the problem, when a cry of warning diverted his attention.   At first he didn’t see what the Scott was pointing at.  Then he saw the tiny black shadows squeezing under the solid door.  By their manner of movement, he conceded that they were certainly not ordinary church mice.  Reaching to the pew for his kitchen knife, the scientist got ready to defend himself.  The building’s defences had been breached.