"The truly frightening flaw in humanity is our capacity for cruelty – we all have it."
- Libby Day, Dark Places by Gillian Flynn
Blood.
Covered in it, like the day he was born – like they all were.
Is this what it meant to be born again?
Only his son neither kicked nor screamed this time; he only stared with those open, dead eyes – as grey as an oncoming storm.
Red burst from his open throat; was it still warm as it congealed against his pale, cold skin?
All he could do was stand there and stare – all shivering spine and hardly any fight left to his still beating heart – at the terror that he saw beyond the image of his son.
Chewing.
Moving.
Snarling.
Then came a strangled, garbled sound – like a child's first cry after its exodus from its mother's womb.
Born again was right.
The Doctor woke.
Breath, heavy in his chest, like he was inhaling smoke from a forest fire but it was the only air left in a world reduced to ashes. Sweat ran down from his temples, he rested a hand against his chest and felt his own heartbeat. Every beat hurt (his chest, too tight) but it fought, valiant and Sisyphean, to keep him alive.
The body's judgment is as good as the mind's, he read somewhere once, and the body shrinks from annihilation.
Where was he? Where was this place?
Thin fingers, calloused and cold, rubbed life into his red-rimmed eyes that, for a moment, saw nothing but black and white static. There were new scratches all over him – angry and raw; just a bit more and he might have split skin. Again. His knuckles were still bruised, though healing. A stiff pain made itself known at the side of his neck; it hurt to turn his head even just so. He groaned. That was what happened, he supposed, when you pass out without any semblance of grace in a sofa that was far too small to shelter your gangly limbs and sharp angles. Seconds later, colour started to flow back into his vision though dark spots still danced when he looked into any light.
Brown was the first thing that registered – frayed and hastily taped together (overlapping blacks and beiges) – and the word box followed soon after. Cardboard. The words "fragile" and "this side up", stamped and red and faded, displayed at the sides. Upon inspection, there were books inside. There were more titles scattered around its radius but, for some reason, it was evident that he'd been in the process of packing books before he'd unceremoniously succumbed to slumber. It took him a moment to remember why.
Clara.
He shifted from the couch and a title fell from his lap. Pages, yellowed and worn, and its soft cover had a rather large part of it torn away. The title could only be barely made out: The Myth of Sisyphus and other essays by Albert Camus. Without thinking, he packed it up. Next to it, he noticed, was a smaller book though in much of a similar state; Marcus Aurelius, it read. Meditations. A little flesh, a little breath, and a reason to rule all – that is myself. It was a box of moderate size and where he found it, he could not recall.
He licked his thin, dry lips; he ran a hand against his cheeks, his chin. Rough to the touch where stubble grew. He licked his lips again and the vague aftertaste of good, sweet coffee made itself known as it had lingered on his skin from the day before. Had it only just been a day? How hours ago had it been? He pressed his lips together, rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth for friction, and swallowed what coffee-flavoured spit he could make.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
He packed more books into the box until the flaps could not shut the box completely. That should be enough, he thought. It should be enough for the day, at least.
He bit the nail of his thumb, his forefinger rubbed absentmindedly against the stubble on his cheek while his other fingers scratched by the line of his jaw. The skin there stretched and sagged, he found. Dirt and dead skin and scabs of all sizes from wounds he could not remember gathered on his nails when he looked. He scraped them against the gap between his teeth to clean them. Scratched again. Repeat.
All the while, the scene replayed in his head.
It was not a simple dream that visited him, no. It was a memory. His son, his first born, splayed on the bed with limp limbs with a faraway gaze, wrapped in a blanket of his own blood. The image burnt but his eyes did not water – there was more terror in the memory that he wanted to remember so he froze it like icy poison in his veins. He tasted coffee on his tongue.
The Doctor moved.
Willing himself from the couch, he focused his thoughts on the things that he had to do and nothing else but these most rudimentary tasks.
He washed his face (as best he could) – the cold water felt good against his skin, at least – and changed his clothes. Plaid trousers (how many pairs were there in this pile?), a white shirt that he knew was a little too tight – it had a beetle on it, overexposed against the image of a skull (he liked it for some reason that he could not quite point out) – and the same fleece-lined zip-up jumper as the day before. Katana, strapped to his shoulders; magazines, tucked into his back pockets; handguns, hidden away in the pockets of his jumper. He rubbed his chest and felt the metal of his flat's key through the fabric of his shirt. All that was left was the hefty box; he picked it up.
The walk from the reserve building where he stayed to the impossible café went by much quicker than before. Was it because he had a destination this time and was not just wandering about, half starved? Perhaps. Be that as it may, he made his way there all the same, with a clearer head and an end in mind.
There was something different about this walk, though. His firm, decided attempts to think of anything else but the images that he saw in his mind's eye made him look at where he was going – and pay closer attention to the things around him.
The scene had not changed – and he knew many of them, over the years.
Streets littered and covered with mountains upon mountains of discarded, rotting corpses (some of them, headless) and rubbish that no one found use in cleaning up after anymore. Styrofoam containers, empty plastic bottles, used plastic cutlery lodged themselves into drains. Signs on storefronts were long since faded but he knew what might have been there before – clothes boutiques, pawnshops, furniture stores, specialty bakeries, little offices for would-be entrepreneurs, drug stores, and the like. A fucking McDonalds, maybe, or even a Costa's. There was more dried blood on cement and asphalt than there was paint. Wrappers of sweets and dried autumn leaves and balled up, crumpled missing children posters rolled and scattered with every breeze.
The United Kingdom had it easy, though, in direct contrast to other countries.
There was the mayhem, of course, that came with this one and that; arguing and fighting and killing over who got to rule over this patch of the world and that. There was the mad scramble of denial in almost every government's attempts to hide the truth from the public – every known spin tactic, initiated; anyone who said anything about anything, charged with perjury or treason. Most were never heard from again.
The most violent, corrupt countries had populations left in the hundreds, at most. Gangs and monarchies fell within themselves in the first months alone. Corpses with heads bashed in, limbs and intestines left to rot in the open air – scenes like this lost their novelty in the second year or so; they were practically the new kind of litter. It was a man-eat-man world of the most literal sense.
But the thing is – you can only live so long when you all you live for is keeping yourself alive.
The scene had not changed, yes, but as he looked closer – there were the little things that he'd failed to notice because the scene was, in fact, in the process of changing. Little by little. It was the people, of course. The ordinary ones – the regular citizens that most places of government were too busy to control to imagine that they could possibly have a mind of their own (to organise their own communities without prompt, to survive and save themselves) – who took initiative and that surprised him. It was hard to remember the people, he supposed, when the things you put down were once people too.
How do you tell the difference? How do you know who's worth saving? How do you know when to pull the trigger?
The Doctor looked at them, his pace slow as he carried the box, their faces never quite registering in his mind's eye but he could see them. There was still the air of them minding their own business – hardly anyone looked up from their own tasks – but there was the indubitable knowledge that he was just barely starting to understand.
These people were helping each other – they were actually helping.
There were people pushing a car to a side that had a collection of other vehicles while others took them apart. Oil and gasoline, drained and bottled into makeshift containers; engines and batteries, piled together and tested. There were some who were stacking up plywood that had been used to board up doors and windows. By God, there were children who were even playing. Laughing, smiling, singing. Paper windmills made out of missing person flyers spun in their hands and there was a young woman – bright hair like copper against sunlight – who played with them and looked after them.
Were these all Clara's people?
He could not help but wonder, still, how this all came to be. It still made no sense. So long had he been with those who saw only the big picture from a distance – talking of people and populations in numbers and statistics and life expectancies, not as individuals who were capable of independent movement or thought. Do not fault him too harshly for that.
In the end of days, he'd been with the military and governmental officials, for the most part. What with all their top of the line research facilities, for he was one of the first (then the lead) scientists who worked to develop a cure, where else would he be?
(His advantage of a contained specimen helped considerably.)
And he has seen so much of this world – the absolute worst of the worst that this world had to offer and just how outright terrible humans could be – that it started to get easier. The shooting and hacking without thinking, without remorse; it was not out of cruelty or cowardice, after all. It was simply what had to be done. In a world where colours drained and turned muted except for bright, dark red – it was just easier.
It was so easy to be hopeless in a world where there was nothing beautiful left to see.
Yet this was happening before his very eyes – the human race, rebuilding what they destroyed. Baby steps, yes, but they were still moving forward.
Incredible. Impossible. Amazing and wonderful.
The bell rang to announce his entrance and Clara turned her head to look. She flashed him a bright smile without hesitation. He could only blink in return, stilled and too stunned that he hadn't quite considered that there would be other people in this place aside from her.
"Be with you in a mo," she said. Smiling like she meant it. Holding a raised finger in the air like a schoolteacher. He just stood there, box in his arms, and did as he was told. She turned her back to him.
"I still think it was aliens…" said the old man sat at the booth that the Doctor had occupied before. There was a red beanie on his head and he sipped a cup of what could be something warm. Coffee, he thought. He could still taste the memory of it on his own tongue. The woman next to him, red hair tied in a ponytail, rolled her eyes, smiled a tired smile, and gave his arm a pat meant to soothe, probably.
"Yeah, gramps. It was the aliens," said the woman in such a reply that he could only assume that this was the not the first time they have had this conversation.
"I'm just saying, Clara; keep playing favourites like that—"
"I wasn't playing favourites, all right? She would have died—"
"A lot of people have died."
"She's just a child—"
"A lot of children have died. Sorry to be crass but I thought we were trying to keep the ones who are still alive as just that, not just the ones who—"
"Look," said Clara, cutting the other woman off. She gestured with her hands – hers were restless fingers, palms, wrists that settled against her hip sometimes (but never for very long). She kept a clear tone – level and calm – but exasperation could be read from it. Her shoulders dropped when she sighed and it was only then that he realised that she oft kept them rigid. "Donna, it was just—it was personal, okay? They're my children, or as good as. And they've been restless this whole time and they—they need the hope. I tried but I—"
"That's exactly what playing favourites is, innit?"
The woman called Donna did not sound unkind – blunt, perhaps, but those were not eyes that accused. She raised a brow and pursed her lips, unimpressed by the brunette's excuses.
"I've already told them I won't be able to do it again. You can take me out of the ration listing for a month, if you like."
"You know I won't."
"But I'm saying you could."
"Most of us are grateful to you, love. You're a good leader, a good woman," Donna started. Her fingers were twined and she pushed them forward against the tabletop. She looked up at Clara, tilted her head, and continued, "You keep us all in check. God knows how you do it, after everything, but you know how these things go once people start making exceptions."
"I know. That's not—" Clara raised a hand; thumb, against her temple whilst her fingers rubbed circles against her forehead. She sighed again. When she spoke, she sounded more resigned. "I'm doing my best. I swear I am."
"You know that Maitland girl's never going to forgive you anyway."
"I don't expect her to," she replied. Clara laid a hand against the table and shifted her weight on her other leg. Her head hung low. "I just want her to not hate me quite as much, I guess. It might make this whole thing a bit easier."
Donna's brows furrowed in the pause that followed. She reached and rested a hand against the back of Clara's.
"When was the last time you slept?"
Clara rolled her eyes and scoffed. Tried for a laugh but no one in that room thought it at all sincere.
"I'm fine, mum," she joked.
"Do I look like someone's who's given birth?" replied the other, an accepted levity between them. She gave Clara's hand three pats and then took back her hand. It was then that her gaze flicked to take in the figure standing in the corner, still as a statue with a box of books in his hands. He hadn't uttered a word and simply watched the exchange in silence. Donna cocked her head in his direction.
"Who's that then? Is he a new one?"
"Oh, him?" With a hand on her hip, Clara looked over her shoulder to give him a look. There was a dimple on her too-round, too-wide cheeks. She shrugged. "That's the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
"I can hear you, you know," he quipped, finally.
"Isn't like I'm trying to keep it much of a secret, am I?" Donna shot him a hard look. "What's he doing here?"
"Making a delivery, it looks like," Clara said in response. She turned to face him now, properly. Her bum just against the table and her arms crossed against her chest. She eyed him from head to toe and raised a brow. "Books, yeah?"
"Oh, brilliant," Donna complained, "Making me into a bloody librarian now too."
"Weren't you already a librarian once?" Clara asked, smirk clear in her tone; her hair swished to the side as she twisted her head just so.
"I was a temp at a library. There's a difference. And that's not the point, Oswald." Clara laughed and Donna rolled her eyes. The Doctor's eyes went back and forth between the two women as if he were watching a tennis match. Donna then went to ask, "Put him in the roster?"
"Don't know if he's staying yet," Clara replied. "I'll let you know."
"Donna—" the old man then said. There was a faraway gaze to him, as if he hadn't been aware of anything else around him. He tugged at the sleeve of Donna's purple blouse.
"Okay, gramps." Donna sighed. "Better get him back up."
"It was nice to see you out of bed, Wilf," said Clara, a carer's kind lilt prominent just then in her tone. "Rest up, okay?"
Wilf gave her a small salute and a twitch that gave the promise of a smile but he couldn't quite follow through with it; his limbs trembled and his steps were slow. Donna had an arm around him as she helped him rise and walk out of the booth. His granddaughter, though patient, still managed to give a few parting words just as Clara was about to attend to the matter that was the Doctor.
"You know I think McCullough's trying to chat up Chang upstairs," she said in a tone that could only be described as conspiratorial.
"Shona?" Clara smirked, brows quirked up; the tip of her tongue loosely bit between her teeth. A cheeky grin if the Doctor ever saw one. "You just picked up on that?"
"Don't know how old Nick's going to feel about that," the other woman replied as they shared the look of mischievous amusement. "May just tell him, I might."
"Donna…" It was just a name, softly spoken, with her head tilted just so – but the rebuke was there all the same.
"Yeah, yeah. All right, I won't." The pair were almost by the door now. "Come along, gramps."
The Doctor watched them go and so intent was his watching, apparently, that he did not notice Clara's approach when she did; she only registered in his mind when he felt her hands on the back of his as she took the box from him. Her hands were warm – from the baking, presumably – and soft, if calloused. His were more so but he knew his palms were not nearly as soft as hers.
"You can sit down, Doctor," she said and gestured to the now emptied booth with a cock of her head. He let her take the box and only in hindsight did he think that it was, perhaps, not in proper etiquette for him to have let her do that. He should have carried it himself and saved her the trouble. But she was already carrying it with no trouble. It seemed silly to ask for it back – and he'd brought it for her anyway. Sort of.
"The loud woman—" he started as he slid into the booth but, again, she cut him off before he could finish. She put the box on the table, picked up Wilf's own empty mug, and walked towards the coffee maker, as she spoke.
"That's Donna: resident bookkeeper of sorts, for lack of a better word. And that was her granddad, Wilf."
Mechanical were her movements as she set the used mug aside and flipped a clean one by the handle – expertly, by the looks of it – and poured coffee into it. One spoonful of sugar came next – and another, and another… eight, all in all. He spoke again once she made her way to him with the coffee and a small bread bun in her hands.
"I brought you these, like you asked," he said as he gestured to the box.
"For me?" she smirked.
"For—" He felt heat rise all the way up to his ears. He shifted in his seat. "You said I had to."
"I did not say had to," she said as she handed him the coffee and bread. "I suggested a bit of give and take; you're not obligated to come back, you know."
He said nothing in response as he simply started to break the bread apart. He dunked it into the coffee for a few seconds then ate it. A leisurely pace. Not quite as starved as he was before, she was pleased to note.
"Does this mean you're joining our little family?" she quipped. "I ask 'cause then we have to put you in the ration list and stuff. Think of it like a chore wheel."
"You have chores?" he asked, half-chewed, coffee-soaked bread shoved (for the moment) to the hollow of his cheek.
"Yep." She crossed her arms and let them rest on top of the box. At her height, it was at just the perfect spot that she could even do that comfortably. "We've mostly been in clean up and acquisition for the past year and I reckon it'll be like that for a longer while still. You mentioned painting the last time. This is, by far, the most up and running building we've managed to fix up, hence why it's mostly headquarters. It could use a bit more life into it."
"I was thinking about that," he said as he swallowed. "I could—the walls? I was thinking a mural, maybe?"
A pause. Clara considered it.
"I think we can find paint that isn't too dried up somewhere," she said, finally. "That'd be nice, yeah."
He thought he smiled then; she'd say it reached his eyes.
The Doctor ate slowly and in silence as she surveyed the titles that he brought. Clara brightened, he noticed, as she saw the little philosophy book by Marcus Aurelius.
"Oh, my God; I loved this when I was fifteen," she said. She bit her lower lip to keep herself from grinning; she grinned all the same. "I went through a phase. Had posters of him up on my wall and everything."
"Of Marcus Aurelius?" he asked, his turn then to raise one of his prominent brows. Every line on his face bore his shared amusement and bemusement. Clara only shrugged.
"I was that girl."
He resumed to eat and she proceeded to take each title with precious care but sometimes asked him for comment for one or two or several that she had not quite expected from him.
"Doctor, this is a manual for a Windows '98," she said, holding up the said manual. "Not exactly great literature."
He shrugged. She kept digging.
"Murder mysteries?" In her hands was a copy of "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie. "Really?"
It was an impressive (if eclectic) collection, one she has not quite seen in a long while. (A lot of the books were discarded and used for bonfire fuel as wood was regarded as a more precious commodity in the worst days.) There was a book or two of philosophy. Several more of poetry and quite a number of pocketbook-sized novels. A few non-fiction titles – manuals, a tourist guide to Myanmar, and a study guide to the GCSEs – were also in the pile. A good haul, all in all.
"I've got more at my place," he said when she finished looking through the box.
"You want me to bring a few people over? Help haul the lot here?"
"It might—attract more attention that way."
"Government still not too keen on the sharing?"
"No, not so much." That made her chuckle.
He drank what remained of the coffee when his bread was gone.
"You won't get in trouble for this, will you?"
"What're they going to do about it?" he shrugged. "They let me in and out as I fancy because they still need me, I think. Just want keep me staying put until— I don't know, whatever it is they're planning to do with me."
"Point taken," she conceded as she proceeded to pack the books back up. "How about just me, then? The transfer'd go by a bit quicker if you've got an extra pair of hands, won't it?"
He was about to respond when the bell rang.
Loudly, vehemently for the door was pushed open with such force that it might have torn the bell from where it was perched. A man came in – dark blue, military-standard coat that swayed as it reached it ankles – with a crazed look in his blue eyes.
"Clara, we've got 'em coming in hot. Toshiko says it's probably a Class 2, maybe more."
He sounded American. Clara's entire demeanour changed. She held her chin up, shoulders back – all five-foot-one of command.
"Where?"
"Canary Wharf."
"Shit," she swore under her breath, bellowed "Shona!" and then returned her attention to the other man. "Aren't Rose and John's lot still on duty by that perimeter?"
"I guess one of them lit the beacon, couldn't see who. You know it's bad if John's called for help. We gotta move fast."
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath. Hands against her hips, she tapped her foot on the floor. The other man looked at her with impatient intent, as if his continued, unblinking looking at her would get her to think faster. Clara then gave her orders, swiftly spoken (she gestured all the while) and not a hint of hesitation. "Three snipers, four on the ground for the front line. Leela's not with Mickey's SRR, right? Get me her. Ten in pairs of two on standby for backup and requisition. I want Rory to head medical. For everything else, just pull in who you can. Go to Perkins. Four vehicles – motors, preferable – for the front line. Faster that way. Back here in 5."
"You got it, boss," he replied and gave a salute before he ran back out. The bell rang with the same boisterous, ominous ring as it did before as the blonde woman came tumbling in from the flapping door.
"We've got a Class 2 at Canary Wharf," Clara told the blonde the moment she set eyes on her. "I need three more L115A1s. Ammo packs for ten and I want two sets of throwing knives. Go!"
Shona did not need to be told twice as she nodded and ran back from where she'd come. The Doctor only watched, though his posture dictated that he was ready to be given his orders as soon as she remembered he was still there. He looked just about ready to leap.
"You good to go with that thing?" she asked, finally turning her head back to him. She gestured with her chin to the katana that was strapped to his shoulders still.
"What's going on?" he asked, eyes wide and alert.
"Friends are in trouble. Class 2 horde's more than fifty but less than a hundred. Are you good to go on that thing?" she pressed, speaking more swiftly with every syllable. Hardly a hint of the cheerful, genial woman he'd known her to be remained in her stance then – she was all seasoned general; like a mother who'd just found out her children had been threatened.
"Wouldn't carry it if I wasn't," he replied.
"Good. Borrowing you, then." Bossy, this one, he thought. "Gear up. You okay on the front lines?"
"To maximize ammo?"
"Isn't like we're running on an unlimited stock."
An appreciated moment of levity as, though exasperated, she managed a hint of a smile for him.
She licked her lips and peeled off the dried skin there with her teeth. Clara chewed on her lip then; her hands on her hips still; her fingers tapped and dug into the fabric of her dress that she could feel the pressure on her skin. The Doctor rose from his seat and went to the window – outside, there were others who were starting to run as the man who'd come in was barking her orders. They'd dropped everything as soon as he spoke and they followed suit.
"That's Captain Jack," she said. He found her standing next to him, looking at the scene as if she'd seen it all before. Part of him wondered why, if there were people like him and Donna who were a part of this "little family" as Clara had so fondly called them, she (in particular) seemed to be in charge of this whole operation. Why was it that it was to her to whom they consulted and reported?
"He said something about a beacon being lit?" he asked. Though there were other questions he wanted to ask, he has also been in situations only too much like this one where there was only so much that you could focus on. There was a time and place for his questions – and for some reason, he could tell that it would take more of the former and a lot of trust for her answer with a modicum of truth.
"You know Lord of the Rings? Like the beacons of Gondor?" His brows furrowed in questioning but she did not wait to see if he knew the reference to which she was alluding. "It's a bit like that. A plead for help. Either means they're outmanned or just out of firepower. Canary Wharf's with a team of ten as far as I can remember; can take on a Class 1, easy, especially with Rose and John? Two of the best, meant to survey the area to see if it was ready for the branch out. If they've lit the signal, they're in serious trouble. Class 2 at least."
"So where's Minas Tirith?" he asked after a moment.
"This is Minas Tirith."
"Smart."
"Is that a compliment?" she threw him a look that, despite it all, was still cheeky.
"An observation," he deadpanned. Not that that was a deterrent for her in the least.
It was then that Shona burst from the door, rounds of ammunition and two rifles on her shoulders. Behind her was a bespectacled man that the Doctor was fairly certain he'd never met before. This new man held another rifle, two belts adorned with small makeshift blades, and more ammo packs that the one called Shona could not carry by herself, he could only assume. Clara was quick to address them, never missing a beat, as she helped them unload the gear onto the counter.
"Shona, I need you to check on Donna upstairs, she'll manage here. Then go to Amy, tell her to put the kids in lockdown until we get back. Do the rounds. We'll need a bonfire after this so get a team together to get it ready." She turned then to the spectacled man as she reached for a rifle beneath the counter. "Chang, you're next in line for CMO after Rory; get prepped."
The pair of them nodded and did as they were told. Clara, on the other hand, set to work with her own firearm with swift, careful precision. Magazine, still full, she pocketed two more clips from an ammo pack instead and swung it around her shoulder.
"You need anything?" she asked him just as Jack and the others came in and started their own preps without need of further instruction. The Doctor shook his head, lips pursed, and looked as if he were forcing himself to breathe.
"You sure you're up for this?" she asked.
"Isn't me you should be worrying about, Clara."
The café he'd come to know in the two times he'd been here – this, of course, being the second – was soon filled with people. Too many faces that had all started to blur together and he could not be bothered to keep up with him that he simply shadowed Clara instead.
"Jack, where's Perkins?" Clara asked.
"On his way," he replied. Jack holstered two handguns with magazines, newly replenished. He eyed the Doctor then – a good old fashioned once over, everything in his stance dictating a lasciviousness he did not think could exist in a single human being. "Who's this guy?"
"He's with me," she said, as if that answered everything. "Doctor, Jack; Jack, the Doctor. Save the flirting for later, will you?"
"That a promise?" Jack asked, grinning.
"Got to work for it, Captain." She winked.
"I love it when you go all Dom on me, Oz." He returned the gesture.
The Doctor frowned at them both.
They filed out as soon as everyone was armed and loaded. Outside, there were several motorbikes that were being pushed – as she'd requested – and a van (broken windows, barely repaired with cellophane and masking tape) that followed just behind them.
"Clara, ma'am," said the man who set up her bike. On his head was something that resembled a newsboy cap from the 1950s. The man called Perkins, he thought. "Old Bessie's still taken a bit of a beating from the last time, couldn't make her out in time—"
"Not a problem. This'll get us from A to B, won't it?" Clara grinned at him. He tipped his hat to her and backed away as the rest of them boarded their respective vehicles. Most of them seemed to already know their designated partners and vehicles – remarkably organized (though, to their credit, they have been a team for more than a year or two, he had to remember).
"Clara—" he started but when she threw him a look (this, she did as she swung a leg over the bike – and it was only then that he decided what a peculiar sight this is; her hair was short and glossy with grease, like she hadn't washed it in two days; she wore leggings, a plaid, blue pinafore and a patched up yellow jumper, and heeled biker books [anywhere else, she might have passed for a sweet little schoolteacher, if it weren't for the fact that she was armed with military-grade weapons {rifle strapped to her shoulder, handguns on her sides, and a belt of knives around her waist}] and he looked and blinked at the sight), he found he could not remember what he was going to ask her.
"Get on," she said. Gestured with a cock of her head to the space behind her bike.
He did not to be told twice. She revved the engine to life once he was on and he barely had time to hold on to her with his arms wrapped around her waist before she was off before anyone else, though the rest of them followed just a few seconds after.
The streets – once again, he noted – were more of the same. And this was a scenario with which he was already familiar. There was that rush that built in the middle of your stomach, the anticipation for the fight that rose up your throat like acidic aftermath of a lunch you had two weeks ago, the anxiety that made you wonder if your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest or if it had stopped beating altogether.
The Doctor did not know if it was quiet in the streets or not; all he could hear was the roar of the motor's engine and the beat of his heart in his ears. He felt the heat from the engine penetrate through the material of his boots.
That was one thing he could say for the end of the world, though. The traffic was remarkably less congested. It had something to do with the fact that instead of billions of people in the world – there were now but a million or two. Maybe less. A count has not yet been made. They smoothed past the mostly cleared out streets – work of Clara's people, he knew now – and the motor beneath them purred under her capable hands.
The first shot rang past his ears – he did not know how long they had been on the road but it made a sound like a surprise round of thunder. His hold on her waist tightened as the bike whined for she took a sharp turn that skidded it to a sudden halt. He blinked into the distance and saw it – the first of the horde just coming into view. The Doctor looked up and, sure enough, there was Canary Wharf. A fire roared from the topmost part of the building, a large portion of the windows chunked away – there were the remnants of a crashed helicopter that peeked from the wreckage.
"Snipers, draw back!" Clara called out. When did he part from her and from the bike? The Doctor didn't know but he did see another one of the undead drop to the ground – a knife protruding from its skull. He afforded a look behind him and there was a woman, knives in her hands, with an intense stare that he could only describe as feral.
"Go high – cover those of us on the ground. Backup and rescue – find Rose's lot, arm the ones still alive, and give these things hell!"
"All right, you heard the boss!" Jack hollered, a handgun in each hand as he shot every undead head he saw still standing. "Go, people; go, go, go!"
Canary Wharf was a battleground with more wreckage – there were still cars trapped in a broken down gridlock. Fires burst from boarded up windows. There were screams from directions that he could not pinpoint – but this was not a scenario where you overcomplicated things. This was not the time to philosophise; there was only instinct – to save and survive – and it roared in this team now, never flinching at the prospect of a kill.
He never liked to think of them as zombies.
It sounded made up, like a tale told to young, impressionable, mischievous young folk to trick them into not making too much trouble. But it was hard to think of them as anything but exactly that. They groaned and growled with gaping mouths, blood and spit dripping all over them but none of them cared. They, too, were driven now by sole instinct – to eat – and in the end, is that not what they were reduced to?
For a man of his somewhat more advanced age, it was perfectly acceptable to find it difficult to imagine him as sprightly and strong but he was. Oh, he was. There was a fire in him – there was a deliberate viciousness as he swung his sword with expert, graceful skill. Not a grunt came from him; there was no joy in his intensely intent eyes. Only fire. He left body after fallen body in his wake – heads rolling clean off.
He kept his lips firmly pressed and his legs pushed him forwards and sideways and backwards like some kind of dance – he slid past bloodied car hoods to escape the clutch of those who drew too near. If one got too close – and that was a rarity – he found a bullet would catch it straight in the head.
They swarmed towards him and this was odd, he would later think upon in hindsight. Zombies did not swarm – they were not an intelligent species that hunted in groups. Hordes happened when there were too many of them in a single area with limited food supply, yes, but they were not concentrated like this. They did not hunt; they did not have the cognitive capability to be able to stalk prey and attack only after consideration and in strong numbers. Together.
They were not predators – they were parasites. So what was going on?
There was no time to consider the implications of that as chaos erupted all around him. Shots rang and they kept ringing in his ears. Not once did he let go of his sword as he only swung and beheaded them. Swing, behead, repeat.
A limbless woman in a tattered dress approached him and all it took was a swing. But there was something on her neck that caught his eye – were those sparks? wires? – and he stopped for but a second before the growl registered about a second close to too late.
It lunged for him – as did another from the back – but before they could administer a bite, blood spattered from the back of their skulls. Brain matter flew spectacularly from the force of the rifle's shot and when he turned to look, he saw Clara aiming in his direction. She took another shot and a thud came to the ground as another one of them fell by her hand. Then it was her who did not see the approaching figure to her left. The Doctor did not hesitate; his hands were swift upon his own gun. Swiftly taken out of the safety lock, he fired.
One shot, two shots, three shots.
He shoved an elbow to the middle of one of the things that very nearly got him but he sidestepped and, with one hand, he expertly spun his katana and took its head clean off. Farther along, he saw Clara throw a knife from her belt that hit its target square on the forehead and it dropped without ceremony. Others fought alongside him and bodies kept dropping, kept rolling but they all just kept going.
The fight was not over – but it can only be described for so long. The horde thinned out considerably after around ten minutes into the fight – another ten minutes, and they were about cleansed that the group could breathe again.
They lost two of the people in backup; one person in Rose and John's team had fallen before they got there; another four had been bit.
They had 20 hours for final rites, as was their protocol before the virus made them faint and fall into a sleep like death. Another hour and they would wake – two hours then, they would suffer the ice in their veins that burnt. Two of them had refused the rites and wanted it done swiftly – the man called John told them that he was sorry. The Doctor handed him the sword – save the ammo, he recalled – and John made quick work of it. Not a word said in passing, then, as he returned the bloodied sword to its owner.
The Doctor moved away then and he looked for Clara. She unhooked the belt – two blades left – and passed it to the woman called Leela, if he were to ask who she was. He didn't. This woman simply gave a quiet nod and went off to look for the knives that were lodged into dropped skulls.
"You okay?" she asked. Clara had met him halfway when she saw him in her line of vision. Her face was stained with sweat and grime and wiped away blood (not her own), and she looked up at him. Her eyes were wide; pupils, dilated from adrenaline. There was a smile in her features – in her eyes, specifically – but it did not reach her tired lips. Even though they tried. "I saw you out there. You were brilliant. God, where have you been all this time?"
He shrugged as he sheathed the katana back into its scabbard. He'll clean it later, he decided. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, yeah," she replied, not a beat of hesitation. Flawlessly reported like she'd said it a million times before. "Wouldn't exactly go on to say peachy keen but you know… Alive, at least."
"Thank you," she added. "For helping us."
"Is anyone—?" he trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase the question.
"We lost two. Lynda and Gretchen," she admitted. Her gaze drifted far away. Surveyed the surroundings – smoke rose from dying fires and her people rushed to and fro to help with the injured and the fallen. A man came to her and she straightened immediately. Rigid shoulders. Crossed arms against her chest. A standard pose for her, he'd come to notice, whenever she felt like she had to be in charge.
"Rory?"
"Clara, ma'am. You're going to want to see this."
He pointed to a heap of heads – decapitated – that they managed to pile together.
"What, what is it—?"
Clara squatted and, using the tip of a handgun, she pushed a head around until it rolled to the side. Attached to the back of its head was a small-claw like contraption. Wires protruded from the ends where it had been severed. There was more to the gadget attached to the body, it could be assumed. A small spark burst from the exposed wires; it made her jump back.
"Oh my stars," she whispered. "What is that?"
The Doctor mimicked her position and, as he held his breath, leaned into the decapitated head for closer inspection. It triggered something in his memory – something vague, something he could not quite bring to mind immediately. But he knew it this contraption. In theory, at least. He knew it.
"Transcranial electromagnetic pulses sent directly to the parietal and occipital lobes," he said by way of explanation.
"What'd you reckon it is?" asked Rory as he kept a cool distance between himself and the two of them who'd taken to peering too closely at the head.
"Wrong," the Doctor muttered.
"Wrong?" asked Clara.
He drew back and shot a piercing glare at Rory. He snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "You. Question: are all of them like this?"
"Yeah, I think so. Sorry— who are you again?"
"Rory, not now," Clara spoke up. Levelheaded, as always, but the requesting command was clearly heard. "Doctor, what does that mean?"
"Like mice in a maze," he started. He licked his lips. "Someone's controlling them."
