PLAGUE
TEN
A team of NASA specialists would arrive at Torchwood within the hour to retrieve their comrade, who was at present in the medical clinic, hooked up to a bank of monitors and still very unconscious.
Few knew that the complex underneath Roald Dahl Plass housed one of the most advanced medical facilities in the country, along with one of the most brilliant physicians.
Said physician was currently examining a patient, but not the Frenchman. Rather Owen was down in the vault, crouched over a Weevil that was laid out on the floor. He looked over his shoulder at Jack, who was standing behind him, and pronounced with an exaggerated scowl, "He's dead, Jim."
Jack blinked. "Both of them?"
Owen nodded in affirmation.
"But how? When?"
"I'm a doctor not a xenobiologist!"
By the pained look on Jack's face, Owen realized he'd gone too far, so he reined himself in. Besides, it really wasn't a laughing matter.
"I don't know how, not yet. I don't see any evidence of injury. As to when… we'll have to check the video but it couldn't have happened more than a few minutes ago; someone would've noticed. I'm going to need to do an autopsy; that should help us get better answers to your questions."
"Damn," said Jack. "On top of everything else this has to happen. Well, when it rains, it pours."
Owen nodded in silent agreement and took out a sheet from his bag to cover the body.
"Jack, Owen," Ianto's voice came over the complex's com system. "You'd better come up to the clinic. We've got a problem."
"And it is pouring…" groaned Jack.