The Undertakers Gift

by Trevor Baxendale

  The pallbearers.

  In the fitful light of Gwen’s torch, their eyes glittered between the tiny slits in the bindings.

  ‘Go!’ Gwen shouted, jerking her head back along the corridor. ‘Run!’

  Ray felt her hand grabbed by Wynnie, and together they began to stumble backwards, nothing in their minds now except a blind desire to put as much distance as possible between themselves and this awful, underground world.

  But Wynnie ground to a halt before they had even begun to run.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said in a fearful whisper. ‘We’re trapped.’

  There were more pallbearers standing in the passageway behind them. Slowly they began to walk forward, gloved hands outstretched.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Keep back!’ Gwen yelled, levelling the Glock. If she squeezed the trigger now, it would send a tungsten-cored 9mm parabellum bullet straight through the centre of the nearest pallbearer’s bandaged forehead.

  Gwen never opened fire unless it was absolutely necessary – but she had to establish some kind of control of the situation here, and urgently.

  ‘Hold it right there,’ she ordered. She summoned every ounce of conviction she could muster, trying to sound confident and assertive. She made sure that the barrel of her gun did not waver at all. She held it up at eye level and gazed unblinkingly along the sight, lining up the luminous foresight with the V notch at the rear of the pistol.

  ‘One more step,’ she said forcefully, ‘and I’ll put a bullet in you. That’s a promise.’

  She gripped the automatic tightly, trying to ignore the fact that her hands were sweating.

  The pallbearer took absolutely no notice. It moved forward, stepping over Gillian’s body, continuing in its unhurried path towards Gwen.

  She squeezed the trigger and watched as a third eye opened up in the pallbearer’s forehead. The sound of the shot – a deep, shattering boom that reverberated deafeningly in the confines of the tunnel – seemed to follow a half-second later, preceding the dark stain which spread through the surrounding bandages.

  But the pallbearer continued to walk towards her, hands outstretched.

  Gwen’s lips tightened and, aware of the desperate wail of Ray behind her, she fired again. And again. Shot after shot struck the figure in the head, neck and chest as she tried to smash every vital organ she could find. Blackness oozed from the ragged, smoking holes and, gradually, the pallbearer seemed to falter. Gwen stood her ground, made sure her aim stayed true, and put another bullet right in the centre of the bandaged face. Suddenly the creature’s whole head seemed to cave in, the filthy wrappings sagging as the figure pitched forwards, finally collapsing in an inert heap.

  But there were others behind it, and Gwen’s pistol was more than half empty. She finished off the mag with no attempt to take careful aim and then turned, grabbing Ray with one hand to propel her forwards.

  ‘There’s more of them behind us!’ moaned Wynnie as the dark shapes filled the passageway.

  ‘We’ve no choice!’ Gwen shouted. ‘Go! Run!’

  She shoved them both forward, hooking a fresh magazine from her jacket pocket and slapping it into the butt of her gun. She cocked it and opened fire again, pumping bullets rapidly into the oncoming figures. They jerked and recoiled and spewed dark, treacly blood but it was clear they weren’t going down easily.

  The nearest pallbearer reached out for Gwen and she swung her Glock as hard as she could into its face, letting it crunch right into the bandages. Gloved hands scrabbled for her, grabbed her hair and yanked hard. With a shriek, Gwen found her head wrenched backwards, her body twisting to follow. Her feet kicked out as the pallbearer dragged her backwards, tightening its grip in her hair, pulling her into its cold embrace. Her heart pounded madly and panic flooded through her veins. Fragmented thoughts flickered through her mind – she was losing her grasp on the gun; Rhys would never find her; she should have told Jack before coming down here; she was going to die. . .

  And then, as if from a great distance and over the rasps of her fearful breathing, she heard Wynnie’s shout:

  ‘They’ve got Gwen!’

  And then suddenly he came barrelling back down the passageway, screaming like a madman, arms flailing. And somehow he struck lucky – his fist smashed away the pallbearer’s hand and the grip on Gwen’s hair vanished. The pain was enormous – it felt as though half her scalp had been torn out – but she hardly registered it because she was suddenly, impossibly, gloriously free.

  Ray seized her hand and pulled her upright and together they half-ran, half-fell away from the tumble of bodies. Until they heard a hoarse yell of fear from behind them and turned to see Wynnie’s terrified face lost in the midst of all the confusion.

  His eyes locked onto Gwen’s and he gasped, ‘Run!’

  Gwen grabbed him with her free hand, beating at the pallbearers with the butt of her gun. Wynnie had come back to save her and now she would do the same for him. But the pallbearers had a much better grip on him and Wynnie seemed to be paralysed with fear. His eyes were wide, wild, and his mouth was hanging open in a terrified, silent rictus.

  For a moment Gwen found herself locked in a bizarre tug of war. Wynnie’s hands clenched around her wrists as she tried to pull him free, but the pallbearers were insanely strong.

  ‘Help me!’ The words sprang from Wynnie’s lips in sudden, urgent grunts, as if this is all that his brain could come up with. ‘Help me! Help me!’

  ‘Pull!’ screamed Gwen. She could see the malevolent glare of yellow eyes between the bandages of the pallbearers behind Wynnie, she could see the deadly intent to compete with her for the life of the boy. Ray joined her, her hand scrabbling for a grip on Wynnie’s arms and together they pulled him back, shoulders scraping against the brick walls, feet sliding on the muck and filth that lined the floor.

  The pallbearers, suddenly losing ground, increased the savagery of their efforts. Gwen could see their fingers curling like steel talons into the thin flesh of Wynnie’s shoulders and she felt, rather than heard, the dull scrape of bone on bone. Wynnie’s mouth widened as a groan of pain and despair filled the tunnel. His eyes whirled in their sockets, searching for Ray.

  ‘Ray!’ he heaved the word into the air, just before a gush of black vomit filled his throat and ran over his lips.

  ‘Wynnie!’ screamed Ray.

  Gwen watched in horrified fascination as the dark emetic surged from Wynnie’s nose, darkened his eyes and trickled down his face. It was almost as if the murky filth that filled the pallbearers’ bodies had somehow infiltrated Wynnie, filled him with a torrent of evil and then overflowed.

  He suddenly went loose in her grip and she felt him slipping. Ray was screaming, and her fingers fell away from the boy’s sleeves at the same time as he suddenly reared, shaking as if gripped in the jaws of a giant, invisible dog. The veins beneath his skin had darkened as the alien matter surged through them, forcing them to stand out like a road map on his face. Then he was discarded, thrown with deadly force against the wall where his skull burst like a rotten fruit and disgorged a lump of sticky, tar-like brain.

  It had only taken seconds, but something, somehow, had changed his entire physical composition.

  Ray staggered backwards, away from the carnage, her mind racing wildly, trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed and at the same time looking for a way to escape. There was a sudden lull, almost silence, as if each side was pausing to take stock of the situation. The pallbearers stood over Wynnie’s shattered remains, facing Gwen, while Ray backed rapidly away.

  ‘What have you done?’ asked Gwen thickly. There was anger as well as fear in her words now. ‘What did you do to him?’

  The pallbearers made no reply. They stared implacably at Gwen from the shadows and then slowly moved forward, stepping over Wynnie’s corpse. Towards her.

  She raised the automatic again. ‘Keep away,’ she said, but there was an unmistakable tremor in her voice now. She could barely stand. />
  She only got one shot off. As she pulled the trigger and sent another bullet somewhere into the mêlée, lost among the dark figures, the leading figure suddenly moved like lightning. Almost as if events had been speeded up, just for two seconds, the pallbearer closed in on Gwen, wrenched the pistol from her fingers and reached for her face with its other hand.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Ray ran like she had never run before.

  All that concerned her was escape. There had been a momentary gap in the ranks of the pallbearers, a dark space for her to dart through and bolt. It was enough.

  The walls of the passages sped past her in a blur. She couldn’t see clearly because it was so dark and the tears were pouring from her eyes, and she was running blind, feeling her way along the dank tunnels, and in seemingly no time at all she had reached the steps that led up to the next level. She surged up them, lungs bursting, certain that there would be more of the pallbearers coming up behind. She reached the next landing, pounded through the mud and leaves and found the base of the steep steps that led up to the dim square of light that was the outside world.

  Suddenly her legs were as heavy as lead. Those last few steps to freedom felt impossibly hard. There would be clawing hands reaching for her, grabbing at her clothes and legs, if she didn’t hurry. Ray laboured up the steps, wheezing, broke out into the cold, cold light and fell heavily to the floor.

  Silence.

  After a moment, Ray started breathing again, long, ragged, sobbing breaths.

  She was out.

  But she wasn’t free.

  She would never be free – she knew that. Because even as she lay there panting, retching, clawing at the blessed ground with her fingernails, she knew that Wynnie was gone. For ever.

  The memory came back to her in tiny little spurts – all that she could bear. Momentary, flickering images in her head – Wynnie’s anguished face, the black liquid gushing from his mouth. The distended veins, creeping over his face like some horrible tattoo.

  And mixed in with all this were the lingering, rain-cold flashbacks to the funeral cortège the night before: the pallbearers, the casket, the indescribable contents.

  Suddenly, Ray jerked herself upright. She couldn’t allow herself to think like this. Lives were at stake. She had suddenly remembered Gwen – she had been convinced the Torchwood woman was bringing up the rear, chasing her for the exit, but there was no sign of her.

  She crawled back to the hole in the ground. Peered cautiously over the edge, down into the darkness.

  But there was nothing.

  No one.

  Not a sound.

  Ray wanted to shout Gwen’s name, to see if there would be any response, but she was frightened of attracting unwanted attention. She didn’t want to see the pallbearers again. Ever.

  She sat back and looked around the deserted church.

  There was no one here. No one to call to, no one to help. No one to understand.

  She was completely alone.

  She stood up, in a daze. There was still no sound from the hatchway, not an echo or a rustle or anything.

  Just a deadly silence.

  And she knew then, beyond all doubt, that Gwen was lost. The pallbearers had taken her.

  Numbly she wondered what to do. She stood, enclosed in the thick silence, just her and the black hole in the ground at her feet.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Jack helped Ianto into the Autopsy Room, which was full of every kind of medical equipment.

  Ianto sank heavily onto a step. ‘What’s wrong me with me, Jack?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out.’

  ‘You’re not a doctor,’ Ianto pointed out with a weak smile.

  Jack raised an eyebrow, affronted. ‘I told you I don’t have any limitations.’

  ‘Or qualifications for that matter.’

  ‘Qualifications! Who needs ’em?’ Jack started to check through the medical stores, picking up bottles of medicine and putting them back again. ‘I mean – white coat, stethoscope. . . how hard can it be?’

  At that moment Jack’s phone rang. He whisked it from his pocket and checked the display, a look on his face that mixed anticipation with relief in roughly equal parts.

  ‘It’s Gwen,’ he said, answering the call. ‘Hiya, what you got for me?’

  Ianto saw the minute but clear change that overcame Jack’s face as it happened: a sudden, slight stiffening of the jaw, a fractional narrowing of the eyes, the warm, clear-sky blue replaced in an instant by an arctic chill. A furrow appeared in the normally clear brow.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Ianto watched, puzzled, now ignoring the growing sense of nausea that continued to sap his strength. There was a tinny voice answering Jack, who had himself gone suddenly pale.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jack demanded again. ‘Where’s Gwen Cooper?’

  He thumbed the loudspeaker button on the mobile so that Ianto could hear the reply. A young, female voice stammered through the silence of the Hub:

  ‘I – I don’t know. . . She’s gone. . . They’ve both gone. . .’

  Ianto started to say something, but Jack silenced him with a sharp gesture.

  The girl’s voice continued: ‘Wh-who is this?’

  ‘I’m Captain Jack Harkness.’ Another change came over him now: he took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and somehow let all the tension ease away from his face. His tone grew softer, warmer, but still carried an unmistakable authority. ‘You’re through to Torchwood. Now why don’t you take a minute and then tell me your name?’

  Despite the calm, engaging words, Ianto noticed that’s Jack’s knuckles were still ivory white where he was gripping the phone.

  ‘R-Ray. My name is Ray. . .’

  ‘Hi there, Ray. Cute name for a girl. What’s happened?’

  ‘I – I don’t know. . . one minute we were all together, we were in the Black House. . . and the next it all kicked off with the pallbearers, they were there, waiting for us and they killed Gillian and then they killed Wynnie as well and oh my god oh my god they’re dead what am I going to do—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Take a deep breath. Go on. It’s OK, Ray, you can tell me all about it – but you gotta tell me one thing at a time.’ Jack raised his eyebrows at Ianto. ‘You said the Black House?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m there now.’ Ray’s voice was childlike, agonisingly brittle. ‘I think you’d better call the police or something.’

  ‘Just tell me what happened. I want to know where Gwen Cooper is. You’re using her phone.’

  ‘She. . . gave it to me. To ring Gillian, before we found the door. I – I must’ve put it in my pocket. I didn’t think. Please, you’ve got to help me.’

  ‘Where are you now, Ray?’

  ‘I’m still here. At the Black House.’

  Jack looked at Ianto, signalling to him that he should get the SUV ready. Ianto turned and headed for the cogwheel door, Jack following as he talked to the girl. ‘Tell me what happened to Gwen.’

  ‘It’s not just her. Wynnie’s dead too.’

  Jack’s mouth turned dust dry. He followed Ianto along the access tunnel that led to the SUV garage, his thoughts flying wild. After a second he composed himself, summoned his patience, licked his lips. ‘Just tell me what happened, Ray, as best you can.’

  ‘The pallbearers got them. I don’t know who they are, but they did something to Wynnie and it was horrible. Awful. He’s dead and it’s my fault. I made him come with me. He didn’t want to go inside, but I made him.’

  ‘Stay calm. I can only help you if I have all the facts.’ Ianto opened up the SUV and Jack climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘What about Gwen?’

  ‘She’s dead too. They got her as well. And Gillian too. Oh god, this is terrible—’

  Jack’s fingers were hurting where they gripping the mobile hard enough to crack the plastic. ‘OK, Ray,’ he said, carefully and calmly. There was no indication of stress in his voice at all. He hit the SUV star
ter and the powerful, zero-carbon engine rumbled into life. He eased the steering wheel around one-handed as he gave the mobile to Ianto to hold. The SUV turned towards the exit ramp and picked up speed. ‘Listen to me. You say you’re still at the Black House, right? Great. We’re coming to meet you, Ray. We can be there in less than fifteen minutes – let’s make it ten. Do you think you can wait that long?’

  ‘I – I don’t know. . .’

  ‘Tell me you can, Ray, because it’s important.’

  ‘All right. I th-think so.’

  ‘Good girl. Find somewhere safe and hang tight. Keep hold of that phone.’

  ‘OK. OK.’ The voice sounded small and frightened, even through the loudspeaker. Shock was beginning to set in, the words sounding numb and emotionless. ‘I’ll wait here. Who did you say you were?’

  ‘Captain Jack Harkness.’ The SUV roared out of the underground garage into the cold, evening light and surged onto the road. ‘And this is Torchwood.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The cold hands pulled Gwen down until the darkness took her.

  Perhaps this was what dying was like: Jack had once described it as a cold, infinite darkness. Or perhaps, she guessed in a spasm of panic, it was the poisonous black gore of the pallbearers infiltrating her body and killing her slowly and painfully from the inside out. Like Wynnie.

  But then she felt herself dropping through the grasp of the hands to hit the floor, hard. She closed her eyes and lay there, unmoving, not even daring to breathe. If she could have stopped the pounding of her heart she would have done so.

  The pallbearers moved around her, above her, the ragged hems of their long coats brushing her face and hair as they passed. She kept still, dead in every visible manner, her cheek pressed to the filth of the concrete floor.

  Wynnie was dead, and there was no sign of Ray. It crossed her mind that the pallbearers could have left her to pursue the student – and they would surely kill her when they found her. Gwen fought down the dull ache of despair in her stomach. She had to make those deaths mean something. She had to live and find a way to fight back.