The Undertakers Gift

by Trevor Baxendale

  Her voice echoed madly and she heard an answering volley of what sounded like an SMG.

  She turned to Frank. ‘I think someone’s coming to rescue us,’ she said excitedly. ‘I mean me. I mean—’

  ‘It’s a bit late for me, love,’ said Frank. His voice rasped in the still air. ‘There’s nothing for any of us invalids now. We’re the leftovers of the war. Blind, legless. . . what is there for me now?’

  Gwen didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ she ventured at last. ‘I’m really. . . sorry.’

  ‘I wish I could see you,’ said the rotting skull. ‘You’ve got a kind voice. I bet you’re a real smasher.’

  Gwen felt her throat constrict and the tears welling up in her eyes. She stepped closer to where Frank’s limbless torso dangled in its nest of metal spokes and wires and tubes. His head, held secure by thin metal bolts, looked parchment-thin and so delicate, as if a single touch would cause it to crumble.

  ‘You have no idea, do you?’ she asked gently. ‘No idea of what the situation is down here.’

  ‘It’s bloody awful, that’s what it is,’ the skull insisted. ‘If I get out of here I’m going to complain.’

  ‘Do you remember how you came to be here?’

  ‘They came and took me from the military hospital in Calais. That’s where I woke up after the bomb blast. They said it was a 1,000 pounder. Left a hole fifty feet deep.’

  ‘Do you remember who took you?’

  ‘Not really. Lost my sight in that blast. Couldn’t hear much for a long time afterwards, either. And to tell you the truth my hearing’s pretty poor now. The bombs do that to you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Gwen faintly.

  ‘They didn’t say much when they brought me here. I haven’t heard from any of my mates, even though I keep asking. They just operate on me, I think, when I’m strong enough. Must be a big job though. I remember a pal of mine who got his jaw shot off in Ypres.’ Frank pronounced it ‘Wipers’, like all the Tommies in their day. He seemed lost in recollection now. ‘Took seven operations and a piece of his thigh bone screwed into his face before he could even talk again. And even then no one could understand a word he bloody well said. I hope I’m not that bad.’

  The tears were streaming down Gwen’s face now, leaving white tracks in the grime.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ Frank asked in a plaintive tone. ‘I mean, be honest, love. I know I was never much to look at, but will I scare the missus when she sees me?’

  Gwen stared at the decimated skull, the hole where the nose had been and the sunken eye sockets. The brain matter inside the head was still crawling with worms.

  ‘No,’ Gwen whispered hoarsely. ‘You look fine, Frank.’

  Something made a noise in the doorway behind her and Gwen swung around, flashing the torch. A pallbearer stood framed in the entrance, its bandaged visage half hidden beneath a hood. Slowly it raised its flechette weapon and aimed it at her head.

  FORTY-THREE

  Gwen stared dumbly at the pallbearer, just before it was thrown aside by a hail of automatic gunfire. Smoke rolled into the room and through it strode Captain Jack Harkness, clutching an old-fashioned sub-machine gun.

  The light from his torch found Gwen’s face and he rushed forward, throwing the Sten gun aside so that he could embrace her. He whirled her around with a loud whoop of joy. ‘Thank God you’re alive!’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Rachel Banks told us.’

  ‘She got out?’

  ‘Just. We thought you were dead, Gwen.’ Jack held her close, kissed her, looked deep into her eyes. ‘She told us you were dead,’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Well I’m not. I’ve got a busted ankle but otherwise I’m OK. Where’s—’

  Ianto followed Jack into the room, sweeping his torch around until the light fell on the monstrosity in the centre. He levelled his gun.

  ‘Stop!’ Gwen shouted. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Ianto hesitated for a moment, his aim already wavering. He barely looked strong enough to hold the rifle up to his shoulder, and had to lean against the doorway. ‘What is it?’ he asked roughly.

  ‘It’s – he’s Frank Morgan,’ said Gwen. ‘He’s. . . still alive.’

  Jack moved cautiously forward, taking in the tubes and wires and the limbless cadaver. He stopped in front of the ravaged skull and swallowed hard. After a pause he smiled and said, ‘Hi, Frank. How ya doing?’

  The skull twitched. ‘You a yank?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Captain Jack Harkness.’

  ‘Officer, eh? Pardon me if I don’t salute, mate.’ The paper-thin lips cracked into a ghoulish smile. ‘I knew a yank once. He was with us at Ypres. Name of Hank Schengler. We called him Hank the Yank. He was a good bloke.’

  ‘That’s nice. What are you doing here, Frank?’

  ‘Good bloody question. I’m supposed to be convalescing. Got myself blown up and shipped back to Blighty. They’ve been moving me from hospital to hospital ever since and now they’ve brought me here.’

  ‘You’re not in hospital, Frank.’

  Gwen touched Jack’s arm. ‘Jack, don’t. . .’ she said quietly. ‘He doesn’t know. . .’

  ‘What d’you mean, I’m not in hospital? Where am I? What is this?’

  ‘It’s bit difficult to explain.’

  ‘It’s all right. I think I can guess. This is where people like me come to die, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that.’

  There was a pneumatic hiss of a flechette weapon and a metal spike embedded itself in Jack’s shoulder, spinning him around. Jack let out a yell of surprise and pain and collapsed to one knee, his fingers scrabbling at the bolt.

  Gwen whirled round to see the pallbearer standing in the doorway. Ianto was standing right next to him, already bringing his assault rifle up. The pallbearer hadn’t seen him, and the barrel of the gun was practically touching the side of its head when Ianto pulled the trigger. The pallbearer’s skull disappeared in a black mist of blood and shredded bandages and the bullets went on to carve chunks out of the wall opposite.

  Ianto sagged backwards, the rifle dropping as what meagre strength remained finally left his arms. But as the decapitated pallbearer sank to the floor, two more appeared behind it, spears levelled.

  Gwen rushed at the first, grabbing hold of the end of the weapon and heaving it sideways. The pallbearer, taken by surprise, allowed the stick to be dragged from its grasp. Gwen, screaming as her ankle gave way again underneath her, swept the handle of the stick upwards to connect with the creature’s jaw, hurling it backwards.

  The second pallbearer stepped past its falling comrade, weapon extended. It released its blade with a deadly hiss, and the flechette clattered into the ground where Jack Harkness had lain a second earlier. He rolled, came up on one knee, aimed the Webley carefully and put a heavy .38 calibre slug right through the creature’s brains – or whatever it kept inside its head.

  ‘They’re trying to get in,’ Gwen gasped, sinking to the floor and clutching her ankle.

  ‘No kidding,’ Jack said. For a minute there was silence, save for the painful echoing of the gunshot. Smoke drifted across the bodies piled in the doorway. Jack crossed over to where Ianto sat against the wall. ‘You OK?’

  He nodded, smiling weakly. ‘You’ve got another hole in your coat.’

  Jack reached up and pulled the flechette out of his shoulder with a grunt of pain. Blood glistened in the ragged tear of his greatcoat. ‘You’re gonna be busy with that needle and thread.’

  ‘Jack, I don’t feel well.’

  A look of anguish crossed Jack’s face. ‘Hang in there, Ianto. We’ve come this far. We’re not gonna stop now, right? Soon as we’re done, I’ll get you to a doctor.’ He forced a smile to his lips and winked. ‘A proper doctor.’

  But the smile faded as something cold and metallic touched the side of Jack’s head.
>
  ‘Jack. . .’ whispered Gwen.

  ‘I got it.’ Jack didn’t need to look round to know that the razor-sharp tip of a pallbearer stick was now resting against his temple. Any second now the blade would slam into his skull and skewer his brain. He kept very still.

  Two more pallbearers stepped past him and crossed over to the hideous contraption in the centre of the room. Frank Morgan had fallen strangely silent.

  ‘OK,’ said Jack softly. ‘You’ve got us. What’s happening?’

  The flechette tip probed a little deeper, slicing the skin. Jack felt a trickle of hot blood run down his face.

  ‘Y’know, you guys really need to loosen up,’ Jack said. ‘Strong and silent is one thing. Downright rude is another. I asked you a question: what’s going on?’

  The pallbearers, flanking the corpse in its glass casket, turned to face the doorway without another word. Another of the Already Dead followed them in, forcing a small, frightened figure in front of it.

  ‘Ray,’ said Gwen, surprised.

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ray said. Her voice sounded choked with fear. ‘They came after me. Just like I said they would.’

  The pallbearer marched Ray across the chamber to stand next to the casket. Ray cringed as she saw the contents and tears flooded down her face. Confronted by the nightmare vision she had first seen the night before, Ray found herself unable to think or speak. But that didn’t matter any more, because something was about to do the thinking and speaking for her.

  The pallbearer grabbed her by the back of the neck, digging its long, grimy fingernails deep into her flesh. She gagged, eyes bulging in their sockets and the pain hit home. She hunched her shoulders up, trying to dislodge the grip, but it felt as if a tourniquet had been applied to her neck. She couldn’t move. She was completely paralysed.

  She could see Gwen looking up at her, her face a mask of anxiety and tear-streaked mascara.

  Ianto leant against the wall, pale, eyes hooded, waiting.

  Captain Jack stood between them both, one hand clutching the bloody mess of his shoulder. His eyes never left Ray’s. ‘Let her go,’ he said firmly.

  And then it happened. Ray let out a sharp gasp, purely involuntary, as a cold, unyielding pain slammed into her. It felt as if a thousand nails had been hammered simultaneously into every inch of her skin.

  She fought against the grip of the pallbearer but it was useless. The strength was draining out of her with every passing second, replaced by a horrible, dreading numbness. She felt as if something cruel and alien was flooding through her veins, turning her blood into a thick, cold jelly. Bile rose in her throat, making her retch, and she felt a chill slime running down her chin. Panic filled her then, and her vision darkened as if her tears had turned to oil. And it was at that moment that Ray realised the truth.

  She was about to die, just like Wynnie.

  And that was her last natural thought. Because then she became aware of something else inside her – a presence, a person, something alien and wrong and nothing to do with her, invading her mind and body. Thoughts that were not her own started to wriggle inside her head, looking for a way out. Her tongue writhed in her mouth as if it didn’t belong there and she heard a voice speaking – her own voice.

  ‘Human filth!’ She spat the words across the room, as if they had taken form as the dark, sticky matter in her mouth. ‘Prepare for the end.’

  ‘What have you done to Ray?’ Jack’s voice sounded a long, long way off.

  ‘We use this animal to speak to you.’ Ray said the words but they were not her own. She was a puppet, and she felt overwhelmed with an inescapable, burning sense of abuse and shame.

  Jack spoke again. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We are the Already Dead. We are here to bring about the end of your world.’

  ‘Why? What for?’

  ‘No explanation is needed. The time has come for this planet to die.’

  ‘Now just hang on one minute.’ Dimly, Ray could see Jack stepping forward, hand out, imploring. His eyes were wide and focused entirely on her own. And she could guess what he would see: her face, grey and taut, black tears running down her cheeks, lips smeared with dark, alien bile. She could feel her heart heaving in her chest, straining against the inhuman sludge that now filled her veins and arteries.

  ‘Listen to me.’ Jack took another step closer, carefully, slowly. He spoke softly. ‘I’ve got to understand. What’s going on? Why are you doing this?’

  Ray’s voice ground out its reply: ‘There is no explanation necessary.’

  ‘There must be! Why else would you take that girl and use her like this? You want to communicate? Go ahead, I’m listening.’

  ‘This planet is fractured. The fault line runs through all four dimensions.’

  ‘They mean the Rift,’ realised Gwen.

  ‘We’ve got it under control,’ said Jack. ‘Torchwood has a Rift manipulator—’

  ‘A toy.’ The pallbearer’s thoughts forced their way out through Ray’s lips. ‘You have no understanding of the power of a Time Rift. How could you? Your civilisation has arisen in the blink of an eye, and thinks it understands the universe. Such arrogance. Such temerity. You look up to the stars and see wonder and beauty when you should see terror and ugliness. There is nothing but death and pestilence waiting for you and yet still you live in hope rather than fear.’ Ray felt the black spittle fly from her lips as she spoke the pallbearer’s words. ‘If you knew anything about the universe, you would run back screaming to your primordial slime and never return.’

  ‘Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ Ianto muttered.

  ‘You can’t destroy us,’ Jack said, although his words sounded hollow. ‘You mustn’t—’

  ‘Enough. It is time for the end. We knew that the Time Rift was too important, too dangerous, to be left in the charge of mere humans – stripling minds, weak and blind as worms in a cosmos more complicated than you could ever imagine. We installed a failsafe here – a device that could be used if and when the Time Rift fell into enemy hands. That time has come.’

  ‘Enemy hands?’

  ‘Your hands.’

  ‘We’re not your enemy.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you cannot be allowed to govern this Time Rift.’

  ‘You’ve got us all wrong,’ said Jack. He was trying to keep his voice calm and authoritative. ‘We don’t seek to govern. We try to. . . regulate. Control. It’s damage limitation.’

  ‘There is no limit to the damage a Time Rift can cause. And this one is too dangerous to be left to the likes of you. The device will be deployed.’

  ‘What do you mean,’ asked Gwen carefully, ‘by device, exactly?’

  ‘When the Time Rift was opened, the plan would automatically come into operation. A suicide unit would be despatched to Earth to set up a temporal fusion device that would use the power of the Rift to eradicate the human race. The planet will be cleansed by opening a controlled time fissure.’

  ‘No one has ever opened the Rift,’ said Jack carefully. ‘Well, not recently.’

  ‘Hokrala,’ said Ianto. He stepped closer to Jack. ‘The Hokrala Corporation has been backwards and forwards through time, using the Rift. That’s what Harold told us.’

  ‘Warp-shunt technology,’ Jack recalled. ‘They’ve been forcing the Rift wider with every trip. Allowing things to come through with them. They set all this in motion. . . they caused this insane plan to be put into operation – and they didn’t even realise it.’ He looked at the pallbearer. ‘This isn’t our fault. We haven’t opened the Rift. Like I said, we monitor it, clear it, keep Earth safe. . .’

  ‘The situation cannot be allowed to continue,’ the pallbearer stated. Ray’s voice had grown more ragged with every sentence. Now it was little more than a bubbling croak. ‘We have come. The device has been activated.’

  ‘What device?’ Jack repeated.

  ‘There is no device,’ Ianto said. He held up his PDA s
canner. ‘There is no technological equipment here anywhere. I’ve checked and double-checked.’

  ‘The device does not rely on technology as you know it,’ Ray answered. ‘Our systems were designed long before life evolved on this planet. You would not – cannot – understand.’

  ‘It’s Frank,’ said Gwen, with mounting horror. ‘You’ve used him, haven’t you? All this. . .’ she gestured angrily at the tubes and wires that stretched from the casket into the dark corners of the room. ‘This is your device, isn’t it?’

  ‘The device is all around us.’

  Gwen aimed her torch upwards, at the ceiling. The light beam trailed the wires and tubes which led from Frank Morgan’s casket into the darkness, and then rippled across a surface full of strange, twisted shapes. The tubes sank into orifices all over the ceiling, which had a disturbingly organic texture. Ianto was aiming his own torch at the walls, which were similarly full of weird lumps and branches. At first it looked as though some tree roots had thrust out of the crypt walls, but then it became obvious that this assumption was wrong.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Gwen. A tear ran down her cheek and her lips trembled as she realised what she was seeing. ‘Please tell me it isn’t true. . .’

  The roots ended in angular, withered claws – the shrunken remains of skeletal hands. And the rest of the mass surrounding it resolved under careful scrutiny, like a macabre optical illusion, into the decaying bodies of animals and people: Weevils, dogs, cats, rats, human beings, all squashed together into one twisted mass, flesh fused together as the putrefaction had broken down the tissue over the years.

  ‘Antilositic energy,’ Ianto realised. He rechecked his PDA, the blue light flickering across his anguished face. ‘Why didn’t I realise? It was there staring at us all along. No need for electronics or mechanics. It’s living tissue. They’ve used living tissue.’

  ‘This man is the control element of the device,’ said the pallbearer, and Ray felt her hand jerk towards the casket at the centre. ‘He will undertake the final activation.’