T

he air was exhaled from Jonathon Seddon’s lungs as a big rasping snore.  A gentle but chilly gust of wind blew through the recently broken windowpane and on to Jonathon’s sleeping form, causing the snore to turn in to a splutter.   Subconsciously he noticed the drop in body temperature, and attempted to compensate.  The sleeping farmer pulled his blanket further around his foetal positioned body.  Snuggling in to the extra covers, the happy rhythmic snore returned with gusto.  The gentle warning of the breeze had been ignored, but there was no surprise in that.  His brother often joked that he wouldn’t wake up if his house was attacked by Napoleon, and bed set on fire by his soldiers.  Jonathon had always been a heavy sleeper, and tonight was no exception. 

 

The previous day was as exhausting as usual.  Perhaps even more so, as he had been missing his cart for much of the morning.  When the stranger calling himself the Doctor had requested the hiring of his horse, Jonathon had laughed in his face.  He needed Missy, as he affectionately called her, to aid with the chores of the farm.  But when he heard that it was for Oscar, the Stedman family’s butler, the simple farmer had been swayed.  He recalled the era of his childhood, when the folk in the mansion were looked upon with awe and respect.  Not that those dwelling there weren’t respected now, but back then it was different.  He could still recollect his excitement as a red faced young boy, delivering supplies from his father’s farm to the mansion.  Marvel filled his immature thoughts when he first set eyes on the stone lions guarding the entrance.  He remembered with absolute clarity the instance he first came face to face with the old Mr Stedman.  The power and presence the man held was truly overwhelming to the young lad.  On that meeting, Jonathon had carried home a gleaming sixpence as a tip, and forever afterwards he held admiration for the man.  Admiration and a little fear.  That was long ago, and both Mr Stedman and Jonathon’s father had passed away, but his respect for the aristocratic family held on.  Today, this faith was again rewarded.  On the return of Missy, came an extra payment of half a crown.  Still, the day had been exhausting, and he had fallen in to a deep sleep the second his head had hit the pillow. 

 

The farmer let out another contented rasping snore, but this time it was interrupted by a splutter that jerked his mind awake.  Somebody was tickling his big toe.  Through hazy eyes, the farmer peered at the bottom of his bed.  There was nothing there, but the sensation persisted.  He was about to pull back the covers when abruptly the tickling stopped. Jonathon huffed to himself.  It was just his imagination.  Then he caught sight of the smashed windowpane.  The breakage hadn’t been there when he had gone to bed.  Perhaps it was the wind blowing through, causing his covers to move against his foot.  It was hardly a major matter.  He’d deal with it in the morning, after he had milked the cows.

 

Cuddling up again under the blanket, he attempted to get back to sleep.  He had almost drifted off when pain struck him.  Something had bit his toe.  This time it couldn’t be explained away so simply.  Infuriated, Jonathon threw back his covers, and shrieked in shocked disbelief.  The whole mattress around him was seething with black shapes. Desperately he kicked at the scuttling intruders, but instead of falling to the floor, the shapes bit in to the heel of his foot.  Splatters of blood wet the starched linen of his sheets.  The drops seemed to set the rest of the shapes in to a frenzy, and as one they clamped on to Jonathon’s right calf.  With his head deafened by his own screams, the farmer lurched upright and swung his feet towards the floor.   The shapes hung on, burrowing through his nightgown and in to his soft tissue. 

 

The process of standing seemed like an eternity, but eventually his left foot reached the carpet.  To his horror, his bare toes crushed something small and soft.  Delicate bones snapped, but whatever it was bit viciously back.  Ignoring this extra attack, Jonathon attempted to flee the room but his right leg would not obey his commands.  The seething mass on his calf had severed his tendons, and the leg now refused to hold the farmers weight.  Heavily he fell to the floor, crushing many of his attackers beneath his body. Mercifully, his head caught the corner of the doorframe and consciousness slipped away from him.  The trapped rodents beneath his wiry body ate their way out and swarmed over his prone form.  Soon they were joined by many more from the mattress above.  Blood flowed freely on to the carpet, as Jonathon Seddon drew his final rasping breaths.  One final splutter, and he entered a sleep that he would never again wake from.

 

* * * *

 

‘What’s this then?  Some sort of weapon?’

 

‘Not quite, Jamie.  I’d prefer to call it a mousetrap.  A very sophisticated mousetrap.’

 

The Doctor paused, to allow his companion to rest.  Gratefully Jamie lowered the machine to the floor.  They had spent a pleasant afternoon sitting on a red and white chequered tablecloth by the river, eating mutton sandwiches.  After he had demolished the picnic, the Doctor had whipped out a screwdriver and started to dismantle a radio, a Geiger counter and a Sontaran force field generator.  Soon, much to Victoria’s amusement, screws, circuit boards and power packs had surrounded him.  Over the course of the next few hours, he had shared his time between snoozing under the beating sun and soldering butchered components together in to a mishmash of wires.  By late afternoon he had declared the machine finished.  It looked like a modern art interpretation of a gun.  There was an obvious barrel and trigger, but no handle to grip or place to hold ammunition.   At the back, sandwiched between two small radio speakers, was a maze of multicoloured cords plugged in to two large bronze headphone jacks.  It gave the impression that one good sneeze it would shake it apart.  On completion, the Doctor had immediately settled down for a final mammoth snooze, and told Jamie that it would be wise if he followed suit.  The pair of them were going mouse hunting during the night.

 

It was now one thirty in the morning, and they were travelling to the field where they had earlier discovered the remains of Jonathon Seddon’s sheep.  Unfortunately for Jamie, the Doctor had entrusted the heavy machine to him, and it was difficult work lugging it all the way from the mansion.  However, the Doctor only gave the Scott a few moments to regain his breath before the journey was resumed.  With nothing to weigh him down, the aged time traveller strolled ahead of his companion.  After such a beautiful day, the weather seemed on the verge of change.  Chilly winds blew clouds across the moon, dampening the only source of illumination, but the Doctor appeared unconcerned about the lack of light. Abruptly he left the path, and they found themselves walking over mud and grass.  Their progress became stealthier.  They were now hunters on the prowl.  Skirting the edge of the field, everything was still and quiet.  Nothing moved or made a sound.  The whole field seemed dead. 

 

‘Do you notice something, Jamie?’ said the Doctor, when they had travelled almost to the far end of the field.

 

‘There’s nay animal life.’

 

‘Yes.  Spooky isn’t it?  I wonder what killed it all?’

 

‘I thought you said field mice?’ said Jamie in a puzzled voice.

 

‘I did didn’t I?  But one person at least was killed by chickens, so there has to be…’

 

Unexpectedly the Doctor stopped dead, causing Jamie to bump in to him.  His face was full of concern.  Worried, Jamie lent forward to see what his friend was so anxious about, holding out the machine as some sort of magical shield.  Fumbling in his pocket, the Doctor located a small penlight.  He flicked it on, and shone the thin beam towards his feet.  Jamie breathed a sigh of relief and laughed.  There was no danger, just a cowpat that the Doctor had inadvertently stood on.  Screwing up his nose in distaste, the Time Lord scraped the foul liquid dung off his foot, and flashed a scowl at Jamie’s gleeful expression.  And then they both heard it.  A noise had cut the night air.  The Doctor spun the penlight in the direction of the sound, but nothing could be seen in the tomb-like blackness.  Flicking off the beam, the Doctor plunged in to the shadows, and Jamie was quick to follow.

 

 * * * *

 

Stedman chose a scalpel and made the first incision.  The blade cut deep in to the body of Edgar Wells.  Life had left this body so long ago that there was no longer blood to seep out of the cut.  The little that remained was congealed and jellified.  The smell of decomposition was horrendous, but by now the scientist was used to it.  Using his hands, he ripped open the corpse’s chest cavity.  The putrefied flesh gave in easily, and the subject’s organs were soon on display.  Now the work could properly begin. 

 

Much to his annoyance, a yawn left his lips.  Stedman ignored this demand for rest, and reached out for a clean beaker.  Wallace had worked all of the previous night, so it was only right that he should make the same sacrifices.  After all the groundbreaking work that his colleague had done, Stedman was determined to discover something by his own merit. Something he could show Wallace and be proud of.  Something he could use to prove to himself that he was not simply the financer of the research, but an integral part of it.  His ambitions lay far beyond going down in history as the inventor of the Stedman Gas Flamer. He wanted to break down scientific barriers, and cure diseases.  It would also be a useful distraction for when he eventually told Wallace that he was setting the slaves free.  After his conversation with the Doctor, he knew it was the right thing to do, but he knew that Wallace would argue the point.  Discovering another breakthrough would quash Wallace’s argumentative nature, albeit for a short while.

 

Again the scalpel descended in to Edgar Wells, this time clearing the way to the stomach. Stedman knew that this was an area that Wallace had neglected.  Maybe there was still something new to learn in this particular sphere of human anatomy.   To his surprise the stomach was bloated.  He had the notion that perhaps it was filled with gas, no doubt a by-product of the decomposition.  The scalpel sliced in.  A hiss of stale air, but no gas.  There was another reason for inflated organ. The belly was full of food, and the food was at a much lower state of decomposition.  Excited that he had discovered something of value, Stedman grabbed a pair of tweezers and filled the beaker with a portion of the stomach contents.

 

The scientist carried the beaker over to the microscope to prepare a slide.  Turning up the oil lantern to give himself more light to work by, he poked about in the beaker.  It was obviously meat, but why wasn’t it partially digested or at least at the same level of decomposition as the rest of the body?  The answer came swiftly and unexpectedly, when he saw something in the beaker that would prove conclusively what the corpse’s last meal had been.  Stedman used the tweezers to pick out the object, and stared at it with astonishment.

 

* * * * 

 

Little could be seen through the thickness of the hedgerow, so the Doctor leaned further in to it.  Twigs snapped beneath his intruding body.  Their slight sound, usually deafening in the silence of the night, were drowned out by the commotion on the other side of the bush. Carefully, the Doctor pushed his way through.   The vegetation gave way, and suddenly there was nothing in front of him except an open field.  Turning his head, he beckoned to Jamie before crawling out of the other side of the hedgerow.  The origin of the frantic cries for assistance was closer now.  Their quarry was almost in sight.  Quickly the Doctor held out his hands, and Jamie passed him the machine.  Without its awkwardness, the young Scott made short work of the journey through the hedge and was soon crouched next to his friend. The Doctor put his finger to his mouth for quietness, and together they crept closer. 

 

They were almost on top of them before they knew it.  In the middle of the field, with the moon obscured by clouds and without the penlight’s beam to aid them, vision was extremely difficult.  However, the darkness aided as well as hindered them.  Hidden in the shadow of the hedgerow, the Doctor and Jamie took in the sight before them.  Less than ten feet away swayed a sheep.  Black dots swarmed over its once white wool, already stained dark with dirt and blood.  As the hunters watched, the animal gave another unheeded cry for help, before crashing heavily to the ground.  The black dots left its body, and regrouped.  The panic stricken animal attempted to rise, but its legs were useless bloody stumps.  Its mouth emitted one final baa, as the rodents descended for the killing blow.

 

The Doctor wrenched his gaze away from the gory picture unfolding in front of him.   If it were a wolf, a lion, or any other Terran carnivore, the sight would have been natural.  A beast escaped from a zoo or circus, killing to eat.  Except the sheep’s attackers were not large Earth creatures, but small and usually defenceless ones.  Forcing himself to look back, the Doctor studied their behaviour.  Could some madman, for purposes unknown, have bred them? 

 

The moon crawled from the mist, showering its feeble illumination on to the field.  For the first time, the time travellers could clearly see their prey.  The moon’s light shone on matted fur, and glinted off sharp teeth and claws.  To the Doctor’s astonishment they were not all field mice.  They varied in size and shape.  One scurried up the dead sheep’s back, and was silhouetted against the sky.  The form was that of a vole, with a short tail and flattened snout.  It was herbivorous, but had an inexplicable and unnatural craving for blood.  Soon another rodent joined it.  This was a large brown rat that dwarfed its comrade.  Together they gnawed in to the carcass, and were soon joined by multitudes of rodents of all shapes and sizes, all eager to fill their bellies with mutton.

 

Jamie tapped on the Doctor’s back.  Silently he nodded his approval.  It was time to complete the hunt.  He swung the machine in front of him, and moved forward inch by inch. So far the mice hadn’t noticed their presence, but they needed to be closer still.  The range of his hotchpotch of electrical devices was short.  Instead of designing a long range but small beam of energy, the Time Lord had opted for a broad spread.  Theoretically it would ensnare the whole bunch, but he had to be practically on their doorstep for it to work.  He edged closer. 

 

He only had another foot to go, when he realised that the rodents had turned towards his approaching figure.  They had spotted him.  Everything seemed to work in slow motion.  For two very long seconds, neither party moved.  Then the pack went for him.  The Doctor raised the machine and aimed.  His finger found the trigger, preparing to squeeze.  Even during this life-threatening situation, the Doctor’s scientific curiosity was working overtime.  The rodents were not moving smoothly.  Many of their heads lolled to the side, and often they would bump in to each other.  It was as if their bodies were not working correctly.  They had covered half the distance, when the Doctor pulled the trigger.  They had covered three quarters, when he realised that his mousetrap hadn’t worked.

 

‘Oh dear!  Um… Jamie,’ he said nervously, ‘I think we’d better run.’

 

Seeing the approaching rodents, the Jacobite swiftly followed his friend’s advice, but found himself overtaken by the Doctor, whose short legs were moving at an incredible rate.  Not to be outdone, Jamie hurtled after him, and had almost reached the gap in the hedge when his foot trod on a cowpat.  His balance lost, the Scott fell heavily on his back.  Regretting his amusement at the Doctor’s earlier misfortune, he desperately attempted to right himself, but it was too late.  Within seconds black shapes engulfed his body.  Hearing his cry the Doctor halted by the gap.  Hesitating momentarily to fiddle with its wiring, the Doctor swung the machine on to his shoulder and aimed it at Jamie’s writhing body.  His finger tightened on the trigger.

 

The twin speakers vibrated with a high-pitched wail that cut through the night’s air.  The impact on the rodents was immediate.  They became disorientated and confused. Eventually their legs gave way beneath them, and they toppled off the Scott’s body.  In triumph, the Doctor turned off the machine.  This time his mousetrap had worked.  Hurrying up to Jamie, he helped him stand.

 

‘Put the input jack in the output jack’s position, I’m afraid,’ apologised the Doctor, ‘Still found out in time.’

    

‘Aye, but only just,’ grumbled Jamie.

 

The Doctor deposited the machine on the grass, and picked up several of the rodents.  He turned them in his palm. 

 

‘Micromys Minutus, and Mus Musculus,’ he said to his companion, ‘To you the harvest mouse and house mouse.  Mainly vegetarian, and certainly never dangerous.  And this here is Arvicola Terrestris, the water vole.  And all of them very, very dead.’

 

‘Of course they are!’ said Jamie impatiently, ‘You’ve just shot the wee beasties!’

 

‘That’s where you’re wrong.  The machine I used was built especially to stun.  It works by disrupting the nerves running throughout the body, but especially on any activity in the brain. Causes a total shut down, and should last three or four hours.  It didn’t affect you, as I keyed it in to rodent brain waves.  We should by all means have hundreds of unconscious mice, but instead we’ve got hundreds of dead ones.’

 

‘Maybe you made a mistake?’

 

Flashing Jamie an indignant look, the Doctor examined the small corpses closer.  ‘I think there’s more to it that that,’ he said eventually, ‘These have been dead for quite some time. This one here is almost fully decomposed.  Some have been dead for weeks, and others only days.  It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?’

 

The Doctor poked through the pile of rodents.  There was one field mouse that was little more than a skeleton.  Just parchment thin skin stretched over tiny bones.  Many had missing limbs, or maggot eaten eyes.  One house mouse had a dent across its back, probably caused by a spring mousetrap.  The impact had almost severed its spine, but only minutes earlier it had been on a ravenous rampage.

 

‘I suppose we ought to burn these bodies.  But if I’m right it would make very little difference.’

 

‘You know what’s going on?’ asked Jamie.

 

‘I think so,’ said the Doctor, ‘we’d better get back to the mansion.  I believe the whole village is in great danger.’

 

* * * *

 

Movement was impaired.  Control was severed with its borrowed legs and teeth.  It felt anger.  Anger and thirst.  It wanted to consume.  It had to consume.  These strangers had stopped it from quenching its thirst.  For that they would die a truly painful death.  It would eat all their soft flesh, leaving the vital organs until last.  They would be consumed alive, writhing in agony.  But that would be for later, when it was all-powerful.  That time was almost upon it, but not yet.  The power connecting it to this pitiful world was growing in intensity.  The bridge had almost been built, and then it would have free reign.  It would no longer sulk in the darkness, but consume every second of everyday until this world was a lifeless rock.  Only one would be left standing.  The one who was the bridge. 

 

It could no longer control the tiny rodent bodies effectively, so it abandoned them.  They were useless for now.  Disembodied, it searched for new legs, and found a vessel that it had previously used.  It was too weak to keep control then, but now it was so much stronger.  The thirst grew.  It must be quenched, and these arms, legs and teeth would be its tool.  

 

 * * * *

 

Slowly Edgar Wells turned his head.  There was a soft yet sickening crack, as decaying muscles kick-started into action.  The lifeless eyes, part eaten by members of the insect world, fixed their stare on the busy back of Stedman.  There were more soft cracks and the corpse rose unsteadily to his feet, the head lolling at a peculiar angle.  His blue bulbous tongue rolled out of his mouth, followed by a drool of sticky liquid, before retreating over sharp teeth.  His liver, cut free by Stedman’s probing, slithered on to the floor to land with a nauseating splat. Paying it no heed, Edgar shuffled forwards.

 

The corpse was within an inch of his back, when Stedman dropped the human finger back in to the beaker and spun around.  He screamed in blind terror.  Mr Edgar Wells, recently deceased, closed his mouth over the scientist’s neck and the canine teeth sank into flesh. Gracious blackness swiftly overcame Stedman, as the wares, bought for seven pounds ten shillings, devoured a further meal of human tissue and organs.  Sadly, the world would never have the chance to hear of the Stedman Gas Flamer.