by Mark Gatiss
Noah shrugged. ‘What’s to work out, Doctor? The Legion people are obviously behind it all.’
‘Yes,’ nodded the Doctor. ‘But why wait this long? Surely they could have taken over the village if they’d wanted to. And what about the Wing Commander?’
The Brigadier frowned. ‘What about him?’
The Doctor gestured towards Noah. ‘Well, he was captured according to our friend here. And then they sent someone to search the house. He seems very important to them.’
‘Because of something he knows?’ queried Noah.
‘Or something he has,’ said the Doctor.
Jo sat up, almost choking on her sandwich. ‘It couldn’t be his Spitfire, could it?’
The Doctor looked suitably astonished. ‘His what?’
Noah smiled. ‘Oh yeah. The old fella’s got a working Spitfire from the war. It’s in the garden. He usually flies it for the fête.’
The Doctor and Brigadier both seemed startled, then the former got to his feet, smoothing down the creases in his narrow black trousers. ‘I’d like to see it.’
The front door opened and Yates came inside. He saluted. ‘Ready when you are, sir.’
‘Really, Doctor,’ muttered the Brigadier, returning Yates’s salute. ‘This is hardly the time for pottering in antiquated aeroplanes. I think a frontal assault on the aerodrome will do us more good.’
‘Yes, well, as usual, you’re opting for the most obvious solution first, Lethbridge-Stewart.’
The Doctor slipped an arm around Jo’s waist. ‘Come on, Jo. Show me this aeroplane.’
The Brigadier sighed in exasperation. ‘Very well, Doctor. While you’re playing toy soldiers, I’ll see about sorting out this situation. Captain Yates…’
‘Sir?’
‘We’ll use this room as our HQ. I want to see Benton right away.’
Yates saluted smartly. ‘Right away, sir.’ He turned smartly on his heel.
Noah was already leading the Doctor towards the French windows at the back of the room. ‘We can go through here,’ he said, unlocking the white-framed door. ‘I used to come here all the time when I was a kid.’
The Doctor gave a rueful smile but restrained himself from commenting that Noah was still little more than that. All three stepped across the threshold on to the lawn. Noah pointed ahead to a cluster of lime trees, adjacent to a barred gate which led directly on to the road.
Beneath the trees, was a bulky mass of canvas, bone-white in the moonlight.
The Doctor strode towards it.
‘It’s the one he flew from the aerodrome, according to Mrs Toovey,’ said Jo.
The Doctor examined the tarpaulin, rapidly unfastened a couple ropes and flung back a corner.
The fuselage of a sleek, dark-coloured plane glittered in the moonlight. The Doctor let out a low whistle then let his hand move gently over its surface, coming to rest on the tinted windows of the cockpit.
‘What a magnificent machine,’ he whispered. He turned to Noah. ‘Do you think you could lay your hands on that torch?’
The boy nodded and dashed back to the house.
‘Give me a hand, would you, Jo?’ asked the Doctor, pulling back more of the canvas.
Jo joined him and soon the entire plane was revealed, the red, white and blue circles on its wings like the markings on a butterfly.
Noah returned with the torch.
‘Thanks,’ the Doctor muttered, taking it, and clambered on to the Spitfire. Within a few moments he had unlatched the bubble-hood of the cockpit and swung it back. He shone the torch inside and illuminated a confused view of the interior; switches, dials, levers, old photographs tucked into the corner plus a pervasive smell of well-worn leather.
‘What are you looking for, Doctor?’ Jo climbed on to the wing next to him.
The Doctor shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It just seemed to me that…’
His voice trailed off as he spotted a small, grey box, jammed under the controls of the Spitfire. Leaning down, he snaked his arm over the seat, tossed aside the heavy old safety belt and plucked the box from its hiding place.
‘What is it?’ asked Jo.
The Doctor shrugged. ‘Looks like a tobacco tin.’ He tapped the heavily dented object. ‘Appears to be made of lead.’
‘Lead?’
‘Yes.’ The Doctor helped Jo back to the ground and then jumped down himself. He handed the torch to Noah who trained the beam on his hands. Carefully, the Doctor lifted the lid of the lead box.
Inside lay a variety of odds and ends. A winged RAF badge, a Swastika pin – no doubt taken from the body of some unlucky German – a dog-eared photograph of a very pretty girl and a small, crystalline object, shaped roughly like a key.
‘Hello.’ The Doctor lifted the object out and held it in the palm of his hand. It seem to glow, a beautiful jade colour.
‘What is it?’ asked Noah. ‘Funny looking thing.’
The Doctor’s eyes were shining. ‘It’s more than “funny looking”, my boy,’ he beamed. ‘It’s a matter transference encoder.’ He waved his free hand theatrically. ‘From another world!’
Private Billy Dodds wiped a drip of moisture from the end of his snub nose and sighed. He glanced quickly from side to side to make sure none of his superiors were watching, then sat down heavily on a low wall and reached into his uniform for a packet of cigarettes.
With practised skill he drew one out, struck a match off the rough old brickwork beneath him and was soon drawing the smoke gratefully into his lungs. After a few contented moments, he gave another sigh. Hardly a man’s life, he thought ruefully.
Dodds was new to this UNIT lark. He’d been in the regulars for over two years, working on radar experiments up north when his CO had put his name forward for a transfer. Dodds had been pleased – as far as he was concerned anywhere was better than the dull confines of Catterick garrison – but this new outfit had been strange from the outset.
His cousin, who was something very minor at the MOD had told him it was all very hush-hush but Dodds hadn’t had time to find out much more before being hauled in for this job. Some kind of security thing to do with an aerodrome. His superiors were called Benton and Yates and they were both said to take orders from a Brigadier, whom Dodds had yet to meet. Some of the more experienced lads also spoke of a scientist called the Doctor who helped out sometimes. When Dodds had asked the men what exactly he helped out with, they had just grinned, winked and told him he’d soon find out. So, none the wiser, Dodds and a couple of dozen others had been bundled into lorries and driven up to East Anglia, secretly excited at all the mystery.
The village was pretty and deathly quiet but then it was the middle of the night. Dodds felt a little foolish, patrolling a quaint English street armed with a rifle as though he were on the streets of Belfast.
He tried humming a pop song but soon gave up. He put out his fag and thought about lighting another, hoping that his relief was on the way.
Footsteps broke the silence.
Dodds peered through the darkness. Someone was coming round the corner, about three hundred yards away.
Dodds straightened up and was about to unshoulder his rifle when he realised the figure was a civilian. A middle-aged man by the look of it and shuffling along in the most extraordinary way, almost like a sleepwalker, hands slightly outstretched. Drunk, more than likely, thought Dodds.
Another man emerged directly behind the first, then two more. Then a woman and a child. They seemed to be grinning. Dodds frowned. What was this? A family outing?
He walked forward a few steps, trying to make out details in the gloom. One of the figures appeared to be wearing a white vicar’s collar but his rumpled linen suit was filthy and stained with water. Also, there was something very wrong with his face…
Dodds swallowed anxiously and raised his rifle. The vicar-figure, shambling forward, water pooling at his feet, seemed to have some kind of creature pressed into the flesh of his face. It had a segmented body like a w
orm and a mass of spindly legs which pierced the man’s skin. It was almost as though the thing were controlling the vicar, squatting in his head like a pilot in a cockpit.
Dodds felt himself go very cold.
‘Sir!’ he croaked.
More figures emerged, swelling the group.
‘Sir!’ shrieked Dodds.
Two soldiers appeared from behind him and stopped in their tracks.
‘What are they?’ hissed Dodds. His comrades shook their heads.
‘Get the Sarge,’ barked one. The other soldier raced off towards Whistler’s cottage.
The strange group of villagers shuffled inexorably forward. Dodds’ hands began to shake uncontrollably. He shot a glance over his shoulder towards the cottage, then back at the vicar or, rather, at the vile, multi-tendrilled thing which was hanging from his mouth.
Then Private Billy Dodds lifted his rifle, took aim at the vicar and opened fire.
The Reverend Darnell fell to his knees and keeled over, blood pouring from his left leg.
The crackle of gunfire brought Benton, Yates and the Brigadier spilling out of Whistler’s cottage and on to the street.
‘What the hell –?’ barked Yates. He took in the situation at a glance and knocked Dodds’ rifle down.
‘Wait, Private, wait!’
The Brigadier peered at the advancing villagers. ‘Doctor!’ he bellowed. ‘Doctor!’
The Doctor came haring from the cottage, tucking the jade key into the pocket of his smoking jacket. Jo and Noah brought up the rear.
All three froze as they took in the sight of the zombie-like inhabitants of Culverton.
Jo suddenly gripped the Doctor’s arm. He and Noah peered ahead. Stumbling behind the Vicar, water sluicing through their sodden clothes, were Ted and Max Bishop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IMPROVISATION
The Master’s hands hovered over the flaring panels that had emerged from Bliss’s desk.
He glanced over at Whistler, who sat facing the computer, then flicked three switches in rapid succession.
Bliss stood immobile in the shadows and, despite himself, the Master found the woman’s stillness slightly unnerving.
‘The computations must be exact,’ said Bliss quietly.
The Master’s face was impassive. ‘Of course.’
He tapped part of the steel console. ‘This is where the signal would come from?’
Bliss detached herself from the darkness, nodding. ‘When the time is right, the embryos will be given the instruction to leave their hosts.’
The Master nodded to himself. ‘Then all I need to do is remodulate the signal to make it more localised.’ He pointed a black-gloved finger at Whistler. ‘So that only the embryo within him is summoned.’
Dexterously, he punched a series of commands into the complex machinery. A soft chiming sound began to emanate from the desk. He adjusted a button and the pitch of the sound dropped. A further, delicate adjustment and the sound became scarcely audible.
The Master’s intense gaze swept over the console screens.
Bliss stared at Whistler’s vacuously grinning face and shook her head.
‘It isn’t working.’
The Master held up his hand. ‘Patience, patience.’
He stabbed at a button and a series of numbers appeared on the glowing panel.
There was a sudden, ugly, burping gulp and something shifted inside Whistler’s face.
‘There!’ hissed the Master. ‘There!’
Spindly legs, like pale, hollow straws, were appearing at the corners of the old man’s grinning mouth as the embryo within him was summoned. The tendrils waved about in agitation, pressing into his cheeks and nose.
Bliss stared anxiously at the thing as it crawled from the Wing Commander’s face. She waited a full minute until the bulk of its slimy body was exposed and then carefully, tenderly, pulled it from his mouth. Its fleshy body flowed over her hands like wet dough. The Master grimaced.
With a wet slap, Bliss placed the thing on the carpet where it writhed in confusion, its legs scrabbling at the air.
The Master tutted. ‘Brave little soldier.’
Bliss glared at him, then touched her forehead and chest three times, finally placing the flat of her palm over her heart. ‘This Gaderene has served us well. He may die with honour.’
The creature on the floor had begun to crawl pathetically back towards Whistler.
Bliss lifted her foot and, with deadly accuracy, brought down her heel on the embryo’s head. Its transparent skin popped and blistered as its life was extinguished.
Bliss let out a low groan, as though appalled at what she’d had to do.
She looked down at the shattered remains of the embryo at her feet and then swung round to point at Whistler. ‘Now,’ she barked. ‘Get the information out of him!’
The Master came round from behind the desk and leant over Whistler, his hands clasping the arms of the chair.
‘Mr Whistler?’
Whistler groaned. Saliva and a small amount of blood tumbled from his lips.
‘Mr Whistler,’ continued the Master. ‘Wing Commander. How’re you feeling?’
Whistler managed to open his bloodshot eyes.
The Master’s expression became stern. ‘You know who I am. I am the Master. Now, tell me. The final part. The ninth key. Where is it? Where is it?’
The Doctor stared at the horrible sight of the infected villagers staggering towards him like gas-blinded soldiers.
‘Great Scott,’ whispered the Brigadier. ‘What do we do, Doctor?’
He raised his revolver. Most of the UNIT troops were now assembled around the cottage, bristling with weapons.
‘You can’t shoot at them!’ cried Noah.
The Doctor shook his head. ‘No. You can’t. They’re merely the vessels for these creatures. Without them, the people of this village might be entirely human again.’
Benton gestured helplessly.
‘But we have to do something, Doctor. They’ll be all over us in a few minutes.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘I wonder… This could be some kind of distraction.’
Noah winced as he saw the vile creature occupying his father suddenly move within his mouth and widen his lips into a taut, manic grin.
The villagers’ pace suddenly increased. They rushed forward en masse, arms outstretched.
The Brigadier turned to Yates. ‘Captain Yates! Fire at their feet. See if they react.’
Yates nodded. ‘Right away, sir.’
He turned to address the line of troops and barked an order. At once, a volley of shots rang out, splintering the road at the villagers’ feet. Chips of tarmac bounced upwards cutting into flesh but the possessed people lumbered on.
The UNIT troops rapidly reloaded.
‘Well, Doctor?’ cried the Brigadier.
The Doctor looked round rapidly, taking in the parked lorries and the garden of Whistler’s cottage.
‘I’ve got an idea. We can’t risk hurting any of those people but I think they’re here to try and prevent you from attacking the aerodrome.’
‘So what can we do?’ asked Jo.
‘Attack the aerodrome!’ said the Doctor. ‘By the time they get there, we could be inside. Leave half your men here, Brigadier. The rest of them go up in force.’
The Brigadier nodded. ‘Divide and conquer, eh Doctor? Splendid.’
He swung round towards Benton. ‘Sergeant, you stay here. Captain Yates and I will lead the assault on the aerodrome.’
Benton saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
The Brigadier cast a worried look at the approaching villagers. ‘I want you to do whatever you can to restrain those… people. Without resort to firearms. Is that understood?’
Benton answered in the affirmative.
The Doctor nodded confidently to himself. ‘Right. That might buy us some time.’
He took Jo by the elbow. ‘Jo, I need your help.’
Jo allowed herself to be
steered back towards the cottage. The Doctor grabbed Noah and forced the boy to look away from the strange and horrible sight of his father and uncle.
‘You too, Noah. I think I may know a way to disable these creatures. At least temporarily.’
Noah looked pleadingly at the Doctor. ‘Will… will they be OK?’
The Doctor looked far from sure but gave him a winning smile. ‘I hope so, Noah. We can only do our best.’
He ushered the boy through into Whistler’s cottage.
‘Just what have you got planned in that devious mind of yours, Doctor?’ asked Jo brightly as they stood on the threshold.
‘Tell me, Jo,’ said the Doctor. ‘Do you have green fingers?’
Jo gave a puzzled frown.
Sergeant Benton approached his troops and gave them the order to shoulder their rifles.
The possessed inhabitants of Culverton were gathering again and stumbling forward.
Benton swallowed nervously and ordered his men to link arms. Above all, they must not let the villagers through.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ATTACK!
Bliss placed the last of eight jade-coloured objects on a small table in front of Whistler. Each was almost identical to the key which the Doctor had found in the Spitfire but with subtle differences in the shaft; tiny microcircuitry made up a complex pattern that sparkled and shimmered as though alive.
Bliss arranged the keys in a rough semicircle.
Whistler tried not to look at them, working his mouth open and closed, feeling the strain of the ejected creature on his old jaw. He felt a violent urge to be sick.
‘Look at them, Whistler,’ urged the Master. ‘Look at these objects. You’ve seen one like them before haven’t you?’
Whistler shook his head and clamped his eyes shut.
‘What’s going on?’ he mumbled, raising a shaking hand to his temple. ‘Who are you people?’
The Master stared at him. ‘That’s not important now. There’s nothing at all that’s important except that you show me where the last of these objects is hidden. The ninth key.’
Whistler steadied his breathing. He was severely disorientated and could remember very little of his recent experiences, but he knew an interrogation when he saw one and he wasn’t about to let these people have what they wanted.