T

he journey across the countryside was nearing its end.  The Doctor rounded the edge of a field of rye, and stepped gratefully on to a rough stone and dirt path.  Apart from his own travelling form, nothing else moved.  There was no sign of the nocturnal life that usually flourished in such places.  The Loa had plainly killed or driven to the ground the multitude of animal life.  The Doctor’s soft footsteps crunched on the new surface, as he travelled with haste down the lane.  It couldn’t be much further.  He was sure that the field of rye was close to the landing point, and the river he had passed moments earlier looked very familiar indeed.  The trouble was, everything always looked different at night, so he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.  Even so, his Time Lord sense of direction was rarely wrong. All being well, the TARDIS would be in sight very soon.  Down the lane he strode, looking towards the hedgerows for the correct field as he did so.

 

A few minutes later, the Doctor’s legs were almost taken from under him.  Across his course lay a swathe of slippery material, hidden amongst the dust and grit.  Stooping over, the time traveller picked up the offending article, and turned it around in his weathered hands.  It was a red curtain, wet with the night’s moisture.  The Doctor wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma of booze and tobacco that wafted from the curious find.  It was a strange thing to unearth along a farmer’s track, but certainly not dangerous.  Absentmindedly tossing it on to his shoulder, the Doctor continued his trek.  He would study it later, to solve the mystery of its presence in such a bizarre location.  First he must reach his destination in one piece. 

 

It wasn’t long before he spotted the field that was firmly etched in to his memory.  Swapping the dirt and stone for mud and grass, the Doctor hiked across the pasture.  Through the darkness, the familiar shape of the TARDIS emerged.  First it was little more than a pale outline, obscured by the shadows of hedgerows.  Then the detail of its unlit lamp and the panelled door, inset with criss-crossed windows, sprung in to view.   The Doctor trudged closer, until he felt he could almost read the well-known words ‘Police Box’ splashed across its crown.  He sighed heavily with relief.  He had nearly reached the safety of the only place he could ever truly call home. 

 

Only fifteen or so feet remained, when suddenly he stopped.  A small but noticeable sound had reached his ears.  Vegetation had been crushed underfoot by a great weight somewhere nearby.  Squinting his eyes, the Time Lord scoured the field.  In the gloom of night, little could be seen.  Just various shades of black and grey shadows.   He was about to continue, when to his right several of these shadows lumbered forwards.  They were great humps.  Too big to be human, but there was so little light that it was impossible to tell what the stalking silhouettes actually were.  His natural inquisitiveness ached to go closer.  An unsolved mystery always gnawed away at him.  It was almost like a wondrous drug, but for once the Doctor decided that it would be unwise to pander to it.  The present circumstances dictated that it would be rash to remain in the open.  Whatever the shadows represented were a fair way off, but were aiming straight for him and it was unlikely that they would be cuddly.  He could see what they were at his own leisure using the TARDIS viewer. 

 

Breaking in to a run, he dashed for the safety of the time machine.  But it was too late.  With only a few feet to go, the view of the blue panelled doors was abruptly blocked.  From behind the police box lurched a black and white monstrosity, splattered with crimson.  Ribs, scoured with tooth marks and liberated of flesh, protruded cruelly from the massive leathery belly.  Blood flowed freely down the thick hide, to intermingle with leaking white milk from a torn udder.  One lifeless eye swivelled towards the Time Lord, and for a moment their gazes met.  A strangled forlorn moo was let forth, and was instantly replicated by the approaching silhouettes.  With a sputter of fresh blood, the corpse of the cow charged towards the Doctor. 

 

Although slower and jerkier than the living animal, the Loa obviously found the dead cow easier to control than the human body.  The startled time traveller only had a split second to react.  Flinging himself to the floor, the blooded bulk crashed past him.   A swift roll ensured that the hooves missed his head.  But it was by a narrow margin, and immediately the cow turned to charge again.  The Doctor once more rolled sideways, but this time he was not fast enough.  A hoof caught his arm, and pain seared through the time traveller’s body.  Turning a blind eye to the wound, he clambered to his feet and looked widely about.  The undead beast was having some difficulty turning its bulk around, but soon the other two cows would be upon him, and there was no way he could survive an onslaught of three of the undead beasts.  The TARDIS stood tauntingly close, yet with the charging cow in between, its shelter was denied. 

 

Then an idea formulated in his mind.  The red curtain that fortune had delivered was all he needed to reach the sanctuary of the TARDIS.  The red curtain coupled with some skill. Casting his memory back to his fleeting visit to the hay-day of the Spanish Matadors, he recalled the thin willowy man that had delighted the crowds.  Although unwilling to listen to the Doctor’s views on animal welfare, he had passed on a trick or two to his four hundred year old student.  At last it was time for the lessons to be put in to practice. 

 

The cow charged for the fourth time, but on this occasion the Doctor didn’t fling himself to the earth.  Instead, he swept the curtain off his shoulder and brandished it before him.  The beast stampeded at the offered target, but at the last possible second the Time Lord sidestepped neatly away from the red material.  The undead creature smacked in to the curtain, missing its intended target by a good eight inches.  With a flourish, the Doctor deposited the material over the cow’s half eaten head.  Blind and disorientated, the corpse hurtled in the wrong direction.  Taking full advantage, the Doctor bolted for the TARDIS. Aware that the other two cows were only yards behind, he flung himself in to the brightly lit control room and hammered down on the shutting mechanism.  With a hum of power, the doors swung closed.  It was just in time.  There was a multitude of crashes, as the time machine was hit again and again by stampeding hooves.  The interior rocked with the impacts, but there was no way the Loa controlled cows’ flesh and blood could penetrate the highly advanced defences.  Smiling grimly, the Doctor left the control room and disappeared in to the depths of the TARDIS.  There was still much to be done.     

 

* * * *

 

Jamie struck down heavily with his heel, flattening the skull of the nearest rodent.  Grinding the fragile bones underfoot for a few moments, the Highlander raised his leg to survey his work.  He half expected the unnatural creature to scurry unharmed from beneath his shoe. Instead it lay, twitching and pulsating on the floor.  Still full of undead life, but now no longer able to function in the same deadly manner.  Gradually it became motionless, as the Loa abandoned the useless carcass.  To make sense of the sight, Jamie cast his mind back to the Doctor’s earlier words.  He had said that the Loa needed to use the nervous system of the animals it possessed.  Obviously, going by what Jamie had seen in the past few days, a damaged system would do.  He had seen the corpses of people with broken necks and backs walking as if the injury was nothing more than a minor complaint.   But with its head missing, the vole appeared as harmless as it was in life, before it had fallen prey to the Loa. He recalled the Doctor telling him that the brain was one piece of the nervous system that the entity could not do without.  Devoid of that organ, the killers became sickening, harmless lumps of flesh – like Wallace’s pulsating steak dinner.  Yet many more rodents squeezed under the oak door to replace the decapitated vole.  Perhaps too many to be held at bay for long, but the Doctor had left him in charge and there was no way that the young Jacobite would want to disappoint his friend.

 

‘Destroy the beasties’ brains,’ he yelled out to the others, ‘The Loa cannie use them if you do.’

 

Nobody replied, but he knew that they had all heard his words.  Everybody was too busy holding back the wave of mice to respond.  Fortunately the rodent corpses could only dribble under the door in to the church, which gave the group time to destroy as many as possible before being totally swamped.  Glancing over at Wallace, Jamie realised that he needed a weapon.  The scientist was slashing at the rodents with the kitchen knife, almost as if he was acting the part of the woman from ‘Three Blind Mice’ fable.  The stern look of concentration on Wallace’s face was somehow unsettling.  Earlier he appeared on the verge of cracking up, but now Jamie thought he looked as if he was working on automatic.  Still, he had the right idea and was inflicting a great deal of damage to the attacking zombi mice. 

 

Taking the scientist’s example, Jamie drew his dirk from its hiding place in his sock.  The silver blade glistened, as he swooped it down at another of the Loa’s puppets.  Although not the perfect tool for the task, one more of the rodents ceased to be a problem.  Before he could strike again, two of the creatures launched themselves at his wrist.  The Scott twisted, catching a glancing blow to the first, and one rank harvest mouse fell to the boards. However, its comrade’s razor teeth bit in deep and hard, missing the life-giving stream of arterial blood by millimetres.  Crying out in pain, Jamie grasped its body and ripped it off, bringing a small chuck out of his arm in the process.  The dirk flashed, decapitating the monstrosity. 

 

Letting the lifeless body drop, Jamie dejectedly looked towards the door.  A hundred of the creatures must have already passed in to the building.  It was anyone’s guess how many more waited their turn.  He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it.  There had to be a way of stopping their entrance in to the church.  In a flash of inspiration, the Scott flung off his jacket and bolted to the door.  Urgently, he began to cram the cloth in to the gap underneath.  The rodents trying to get in nipped at his fingers, but he ignored the pain.  It was nothing in comparison to what would happen if the hole remained open.  Soon the garment completely blocked the gap, and the dribble of entering rodents dried up.  But a simple piece of cloth wouldn’t be able to hold back the tide for long.  Jamie could hear the chomping of many mouths, as the jacket began to be devoured.  Seizing the Reverend’s wooden stool, Jamie swung heavily against the wall.  It splintered in to pieces, and the rough barricade was swiftly reinforced with wood.  The Scott knew that they would soon chew through this extra barrier, but at least it would slow the onslaught down.

 

It was only then that he realised that Victoria was screaming.  She could have been screaming for ages, but with his preoccupied thoughts he wouldn’t have noticed.  Feeling guilty that he had failed to protect her, he sprung to his feet and scoured the church for the Victorian Miss.  The others were in plain sight.  Reverend Cunningham was on tiptoe, perched on top of a pew as far away from the marauding rodents as possible.  By contrast, Wallace was still systematically attacking the undead creatures, but it took a few moments to locate Victoria.  At last he saw his friend, almost out of sight kneeling by the mill owner. For some reason Victoria was fumbling at Mortimer’s mouth, sobbing hysterically.  First of all, Jamie couldn’t see why she was so distressed.  She had witnessed far worse in her travels than the undead mice.  Then he saw two water voles scurry up the unconscious man’s leg, and he understood. 

 

The girl grabbed one vole in her slender fingers, but the other slipped past and in to Mortimer’s open mouth.  Immediately Jamie rushed to help, but before he reached the mill owner, further of the unwanted creatures had entered his windpipe.  Mortimer choked, gasping for air but receiving only blooded dirty fur and claws.  As the time travellers watched on helplessly in horror, the last vestiges of life ebbed away from Mortimer’s brave body. Victoria looked at Jamie with tears in her eyes, but they both knew that they couldn’t let the poor man rest in peace.  Now he was simply another empty vessel waiting for the Loa.

 

‘Quick!  Find something to bind his arms and legs with!’ said Jamie urgently, spurring Victoria in to action.

 

The pair of them rushed to a tapestry hanging from a nearby wall.  It was dark green, with woven cords tipped with delicate tassels encircling it.  Embroidered in muted orange were Latin phrases.  In less pressing circumstances, Jamie would only have been able to guess their meanings, but may have inquired what they stood for.  In the current predicament, the Highlander didn’t even give the work of art a second glance.  With Victoria’s aid, he tore it down and ripped off the woven cord.  Hanging on to the rope, Jamie rushed back to Mortimer’s corpse.  Already he could see the dead man’s hand flex, the entity’s power funnelling in to the lifeless body.  He knew that it must be tied down, before the Loa took full control. 

 

He skidded to a halt by Mortimer’s side, with the cord raised ready, when suddenly there was a colossal shattering sound.  The largest stained-glass window had exploded inwards. The saint that it had proudly portrayed was now little more than a shower of multicoloured glass, raining down on to the besieged humans.  Amongst the particles of blue, red and green tumbled a flurry of wings.  The remnants of an owl and several pigeons half glided and half fell towards the surprised group.  The Loa was no better at making its puppets fly than run.  Their bodies were ravaged and torn, with huge patches of missing feathers, but their claws and beaks were ready to cause damage and pain. 

 

The undead birds crashed down on to Jamie and Victoria, forcing them to forget their crucial mission.  Blood trickled from the Scott’s forehead, as the owl sank its curved beak in to his scalp.  It was joined by a pigeon, which aimed its scaly claws at his eyes.  Gritting his teeth from the pain, and throwing one arm in front of his face to protect the vulnerable area, Jamie wrenched the birds from his body.  Then the dirk found target after target.  It slashed at the attacking enemies, severing wings and heads, until there was nothing left for the entity to control.  Quickly he turned to help Victoria, but found that Wallace had already come to her aid.  The other pigeon had been yanked off the back of the girl’s head.  Its body lay crushed on the floor, with scattered feathers fluttering next to the tasselled cord from the tapestry.  At the sight, Jamie remembered Mortimer’s body and the essential task that had to be performed.  He turned to the pew, where the mill owner had passed away not long earlier.  His heart sunk.  Mortimer was gone.  Too late he realised they had been fooled. The birds were simply a distraction. 

 

There was a creak and the oak church door swung open, letting in the cool night air.  The Loa’s new puppet withdrew his hands from the door handle, and slowly Mortimer turned towards the humans.  His head lolled to one side, and a bulbous tongue slipped out of his gaping mouth.  Behind him, the living dead that had been clamouring outside for a fresh feast gathered.  A moan of triumph echoed around the church, intermingling with both Victoria and the Reverend’s screams.  After hours of waiting, at last the army of the dead advanced in to the church.

 

* * * *

 

A small screw fell from the Doctor’s fingers and ricocheted off the laboratory table with a feeble ping, spinning on to the floor.  Grunting with mild annoyance, the Time Lord scooped in to an upturned tobacco tin to select a replacement.  In front of him, the machine that had been so successful in freezing the mice in their tracks was spread in several pieces over the table.  Carefully, the screw was used to secure a radio speaker to the barrel shape of the ‘gun’.  Little by little the machine was reformed.  Smaller and lighter than its earlier incarnation, but still a mish-mash of wires and circuit boards. 

 

Looking with pride at his handiwork, the Doctor bent forward to flip a tiny switch set under the barrel.  Immediately, the speakers began to vibrate at an amazing speed.  An unanticipated high-pitched whine of protest filled the room, building higher and higher at a frequency that would have made most mortal’s ears bleed.  With the sudden outburst of power, the wires turned red hot, pouring smoke and noxious fumes everywhere.  And then the machine began to shake itself apart.  Darting forward, the Doctor yanked out the nearest connection.  Gradually the din and vibration halted.  Only after the fumes had been swept away by the might of the TARDIS air conditioning, could the Doctor survey the damage. Sucking his singed fingers, the time traveller at once started the repairs.  He was pretty certain he knew where he had gone wrong.

 

Forcing a melted screw out of a piece of hardware stolen from a Sontatan force field generator, the Doctor wrenched the offending article free.  Adjusting a small dial down from the maximum setting, he then reattached the circuitry.  This time, when the switch was flicked, there were no ear-piercing screams of electronic sound, streams of heat or choking clouds of fumes.  Phase one was now complete.

 

Slinging the machine over his shoulder, the little crumpled man made his way back through the maze of corridors to the TARDIS control room.  When he entered the brightly lit hub of the craft, he cuffed the switch for the scanner.  There was a brief hum of power, as the picture was transferred on to the screen.  Much as expected, it portrayed a herd of dead cows surrounding the time machine.  The chances of making his way through the zombi animals were negligible.  There were far more of the creatures than before, and even if by some miracle he made it past their ranks, there would still be miles of countryside to travel through.  Who knows what dangers lay in those dark fields?  There was only one thing for it. He would have to pilot the craft directly to the destination. 

 

As a general rule, the Doctor tried not to request these short jumps from the TARDIS.  The old girl was getting on a bit, and found them difficult to accomplish.  He was just as likely to end up in the wastelands of Skaro, or a few thousand years in the past at the fall of the Roman Empire.  Still, it didn’t look as if he had a great deal of choice.  Patting the many-sided consol reassuringly, the Doctor set the coordinates.  Machinery sprang to life.  The central column rose and fell, wheezing with the effort and filling the room with the sound of dematerialisation.

 

‘Come on old girl.  I know you can do it,’ encouraged the Doctor enthusiastically. 

 

They had been in flight for less than thirty seconds, when the gentle thump of a landing reverberated in the control room.  The time rotor ground to a halt, confirming that the journey was indeed over.  The image the scanner portrayed was no longer a field filled with possessed bovine, but the interior of a building.  The TARDIS had performed well.  From the layout it was unmistakably the mansion – the last known location of Toussaint.  Unfortunately it was still on fire.  Flames licked the decor of the room, devouring priceless furniture and artwork.  To the right there was a window, its glass melted and fused in the extreme heat. However, now most of the readily available fuel had been devoured, the fire appeared to be subsiding.

 

‘Good try, just a pity you weren’t a few hundred yards to the right,’ said the Doctor to the consol, patting it as if it was a dog.

 

Reaching underneath a control panel, he picked up a small blue canister and, after checking that the ‘gun’ was still safely on his shoulder, pressed the opening mechanism.  The brilliant white doors swung inwards, with a whir of hidden machinery.  Instantly a ripple of heat washed in to the time capsule, causing droplets of sweat to form on the Time Lord’s brow. Holding the canister in front of him like a shield, the Doctor left the sanctuary of the TARDIS. He pressed the nozzle on the canister, causing a stream of fine mist to eject in to the air. Everywhere it landed, the flames were at once snuffed out.  Free from the onslaught of the blaze, the Doctor trod carefully towards the window.  Floorboards declared their rebellion in hideous creaks.  It was like a minefield composed of once strong wood, now turned to charcoal.  One false move, and the Doctor would find himself plummeting through the floor and in to the cellar.  Eventually, the window was reached and he clambered out on to the firm ground beyond.  Phase two was now over.  The moment he had been dreading was now upon him.