Doctor Who_ Autumn Mist Part 7

She was feeling detached now. It was as if her whole body had succ.u.mbed to the constant buzz of a raging toothache. She'd give anything for it to go away... anything for comfort.

She heard German voices somewhere towards the road, but didn't dare look round to see what they were doing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw men in black SS coveralls moving through the field, stopping occasionally to examine a body here and there.

There was a sudden shot from somewhere out of vision and Sam tried not to start. If they thought she was dead they would leave her alone. Then maybe she could move, get away. Or maybe someone would find her.

What was left of her.

Several more shots came over the next few minutes. 'Does anyone need help?' a voice was calling. 'Put up your hand if you need medical attention.' Sam felt hope stir, tried to raise her hand, but was too weak and too cold. To one side, she saw a wounded man raise his arm.

The would-be Samaritan laughed and shot him in the head. Sam was too weak even to cry over it. Why was she still conscious, anyway? What was she supposed to do now?

This was mad. This was an outrage. She wanted out. This just wasn't b.l.o.o.d.y fair.

The Doctor paced around the little courtyard at the back of the makeshift hospital, scribbling notes on a little pad. He didn't really need to do that while thinking, but it felt and looked more practical. It would set people's minds at ease.

On the pad, he had been drawing little patterns ones that linked Sweden and San Francisco with the Ardennes. More accurately, he was drawing things that would hopefully make sense as some kind of pattern.

There were always patterns in things. He considered asking one of the humans to try, since they had an innate talent for this sort of thing. But if he did that then he'd be at a loose end while waiting, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Why had the TARDIS brought them here? To punish him for allowing the things that had happened to her in Sweden and San Francisco? Giving him a taste of his own medicine perhaps? Or maybe he was thinking too theatrically always a fault of his. It was all just chance. The TARDIS loved Earth, as he did. Because Because he did, he told himself. he did, he told himself.

He could feel the TARDIS out there, smug and secure even under rubble at the bottom of a river. She never grieved for herself. Maybe at the time, she would feel pain, or outrage, but never for long. Like him, she bounced back. She kept kept bouncing back. Just like him. bouncing back. Just like him.

'I must stop imagining things,' he muttered. 'I'll be talking to myself next.'

He still hadn't heard any more of Fitz or Sam. He knew they could look after themselves, but it didn't stop him needing to take care of them. To watch over them more, to Strange that he should think this way, he thought, then realised that he wasn't. The TARDIS's telepathic circuits were operating at an increased level. He could feel them trying to spark an alert in his brain. Something was going wrong somewhere.

'A penny for them?' The Doctor looked round it was Garcia.

'Just wondering where my friends are, and whether they're all right.'

'You look more like you've seen a ghost.'

'More like a premonition.'

The silence was strange after the hours of constant noise. Sam's tears had frozen to her face and the numbing pain was all that was left to concentrate on. Darkness was falling she wasn't sure if that was real or just her senses failing and there were fewer moans or gunshots.

The frosted gra.s.s beside her crunched under boots, and she sensed someone bending down. A foot rolled her over, though she didn't really feel it. Two Germans were looming over her. 'You want help?' one of them asked.

In spite of herself, Sam nodded weakly. They could see she was alive. There was no point in playing possum. There was always a chance.

The two men exchanged unpleasant smiles and one of them bent to help her up. 'We can help each other,' he said. 'The boy here's still a virgin you can help him with that, eh?' The Germans laughed, and Sam just stared at them.

'Or perhaps not...' the German said. He had noticed her wounds now. 'Sorry, kid,' he said to his comrade. 'I don't think she's got what it takes left.'

Sam hoped against hope that this meant they would leave her. There's always a chance. There's always a chance. Even so, she was about to tell them what they could do with themselves, since really it was all she could do, when her words froze in her throat. The German pressed the muzzle of his pistol against her breastbone. Even so, she was about to tell them what they could do with themselves, since really it was all she could do, when her words froze in her throat. The German pressed the muzzle of his pistol against her breastbone.

She didn't register the sound of the shot, or the flash that scorched her chest, as he pulled the trigger. She didn't register anything.

She tried to take another breath, but couldn't. There was nothing in her. Nothing in the world. You're dead, she told herself, but it seemed ridiculous, a hollow word, more nothing.

Chapter Four.

The Oz Factor Leitz lit up a cigarette as they sat on the flank of his armoured car, poring over the plans and rota that Farber had drawn up for protecting his prisoner. 'Your precautions seem adequate,' he told Farber. 'I'm sure they'll be pleased at Wewelsburg.'

'The important thing is to be pleased here. If your prisoner escapes, you'll be hard put to catch another one.'

'Not necessarily,' Leitz argued lightly. 'With the new 232s, and the experience we've had with this one, it should be child's play to repeat it.' His features hardened slightly. 'But we won't have to, will we?'

Farber shook his head.

'All right, you can turn in now. I'll see you at dawn.'

Farber nodded sharply, and saluted before leaving. One of the old school, Leitz reflected. Reliable, not a thug like most of his men, and smart enough to see which way the political winds were blowing.

Leitz winced as another volley of sh.e.l.ls was fired at the American positions from the other side of town. War would be a lot more pleasant, he reflected, if it could be done quietly.

He walked back to his armoured car, ignoring the distant gunfire and the flashes on the horizon. He had kept the bottle of schnapps his vehicle had been issued with before the attack. Most of the men who had had bottles handed out drank theirs around their cooking fires the night before they went into action, but Leitz felt more comfortable with the idea of drinking to celebrate. Going into battle drunk was always a bad idea, and he was sure they had lost more men than they should because of the alcohol.

So long as none of those losses were his men, he didn't really care. It wasn't as if this offensive would win the war, whatever the rank and file thought. It would inflict some pain on the enemy, and delay them so that some plans could be made by those with foresight. That was all, really.

However, it had given him this opportunity to research some of his theories, albeit in ways he'd previously never considered. For that, he was grateful. Leitz grinned to himself, wishing he could speak of this to someone to anyone. It would be worth it just to get it off his chest.

He knew that wasn't possible, at least not if he didn't want to get his head off his shoulders as well. Things had changed over the last five years, and not for the better. It wasn't just the strategic developments, but the personal things. When he had first ridden into France in one of Kleist's tanks in 1940, the pay had been good and the home leave was generous. Nowadays the pay was useless and the home leave was something to be avoided, since the billets were better than a bombed-out house and dead relatives.

He paused at the hatch set between the middle wheels of his 232 and gave the dark marquee a habitual glance. He froze, then. Something was moving in the shadows, emerging from the tent. For an awful moment, Leitz thought that his prisoner might be escaping and foresaw a short life-span on the Eastern Front for himself.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was one of the SS Infantry, in a winter camouflage overall. It looked like that man he'd spoken to earlier: Kreiner, wasn't it?

Leitz smiled to himself. He hadn't thought Kreiner could resist poking his nose in. He approached Kreiner silently, having put out his cigarette. 'Everything quiet?'

Kreiner jumped. 'I Er, I mean, yes, sir.'

'I saw you coming out of the tent.'

'I thought I heard a noise,' Kreiner said.

Leitz decided that the man was trying to bulls.h.i.t him. Everyone in the village could hear a noise from the tent.

'And was it saboteurs?' Leitz asked drily.

'No... To be honest I thought maybe the prisoner was escaping. It's probably keeping half the town awake.'

Leitz was slightly mollified. Perhaps he was going to be honest after all. 'I think it just makes that noise to annoy us. Tell me, have you ever seen anyone like our prisoner before?'

'No,' Kreiner answered, and this time Leitz knew he was being completely truthful. 'It was dark in there anyway I'd be hard put to say what he looked like.'

'He's a mystery man. You seem to enjoy mysteries, Kreiner?'

Kreiner paused. 'Sometimes.'

'Curiosity may kill cats, but I also find a use for it. Now that you've seen my prisoner, I hope you understand why I ask you to join my unit permanently.'

'Because I have an enquiring mind?'

'Because if you refuse I will have you shot. My project is of the most secret nature. You might say I am investigating the abilities of...' Leitz broke off and gave a staccato laugh. 'Well, of Light and Dark Elves, if you will. I suppose that is as good a code-name as any.'

Kreiner didn't react except to widen his eyes a little. 'And you're telling me this?'

Leitz nodded. 'I've been watching you today, and you seem intelligent and curious. You are also quite well educated by the sound of things. So I would rather recruit you than kill you.'

Kreiner smiled nervously. 'Works for me.'

'Good. If it makes you feel better, this will help the war effort.' They both looked up, and listened to the distant hum of aircraft far overhead. 'd.a.m.ned Allied bombers.... Barbarians murdering our children in their homes.'

'As the Luftwaffe did in 1940... If the British can take it, why can't we?'

Leitz found himself laughing briefly. 'You have a point there, Corporal. But every man has his degree of hypocrisy.'

Night was falling quickly, and the temperature plummeting even faster. At least, Bearclaw a.s.sumed night was falling, as the light was fading, though to be honest it didn't really seem to be getting dark. It was more as if the light was being replaced by some opposite force...

Who wouldn't be spooked in a place like this? he asked himself. It was nothing. Bearclaw carefully crawled over to where the girl, Sam, had fallen. She was dead all right; her skin cold, no pulse... He was going to kill some Kraut for that, he promised silently. Bad enough that they shot the rest of these guys, but civilian girls? Some things could be forgiven only with the shedding of blood.

The girl's eyes wouldn't close because they were already frosted over, so he put a handkerchief across her face. The handkerchief fluttered from the shaking of his hand, and it was neither cold, nor fear, nor weakness that caused it. He moved away, sadly, to check on some of the other GIs.

Suddenly, there was something like a noise from behind him and he turned round. Except it wasn't a real noise: it was sort of... musical. A tinkling sound. It seemed to be coming from the area where Sam and a couple of other men were lightly blanketed with fresh snow. Maybe one of them was still alive after all...

There was a faint light hovering around some of the bodies, casting an eerie glow as touches of mist rose from the ground. Bearclaw shivered in spite of himself. Was he imagining things, or were there really tiny glowing light sources circling a few inches above the bodies?

It was getting harder to tell as the mist thickened. He could almost make out humanoid shapes within; it was as if the lights were reflecting off parts of limbs. But there was no one there. Suddenly, the lights gathered around Sam's body and the mist swirled around it. Bearclaw resisted the urge to yell at them, because that would bring more Germans. They winked out, and Sam's corpse was gone too. Only the mist remained, desolately thinning and fading.

Bearclaw blinked. What the h.e.l.l was that? He scuttled over to where Sam's body had been and her outline in the new snow was all that was left.

Bearclaw blinked several times, looking around. She couldn't have got up and left, and there had been no one to carry her away. He shuddered again, and a word came unbidden into his mind: Kachinas.

Cloud people. He snorted. There had been a little mist, to be sure, but hardly a cloud, and surely no people. Yet someone had moved Sam's body.

He stood there for some time, silent. He hadn't even been able to keep her safe after death.

What sort of man was he to let these things happen, and stay alive himself?

'...There's no way he could have got off that wire himself, or anyone could have taken him, so quickly. It's physically impossible.' Wiesniewski was sipping a morning orange juice, while the Doctor played with a stethoscope.

Garcia agreed with the Doctor's judgement that Wiesniewski's tale was interesting, but it was hardly rational. 'A body vanished in the s.p.a.ce of a moment?'

'That's right.' Wiesniewski spread his hands. 'I know it's crazy, and probably just a mix-up in all the confusion, but I'd swear to that on a bible.'

'You'll have to forgive me if I jump to fairly paranoid conclusions,' the Doctor said, 'but I can't help seeing a connection here. Two bodies literally vanish into thin air while someone's back is turned. No one could have carried them, and they couldn't have walked away...' He shook his head. 'Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.'

'Bodies vanish and go undiscovered all the time,' Garcia protested.

'Not from hospitals,' the Doctor countered, then seemed to think twice. 'Well, except under some pretty exceptional circ.u.mstances,' he added.

'Then what happened to them?'

'I don't know. But I will; I promise you that.'

'You haven't even got anything to go on.'

'Ah, but I have. The Oz Factor.'

Garcia's mind went blank in a failed attempt to understand that. 'The what?'

'The sudden silence and disa.s.sociation from the environment. It's a phenomenon that some experts on this matter call the "Oz Factor". There are very precise sets of experiences that follow it, and so that's my starting point.'

Garcia had finally managed to get away from the little hotel/hospital to have dinner at one of the few remaining restaurants that were still open. Naturally it catered only to the officers, and the place was staffed by the Army's catering service, serving army food, but the atmosphere was more convivial.

Here he could relax over breakfast, getting a quiet hour or so away from the hustle and bustle, and the screams that even morphine couldn't stop some men from making. The coffee was good too.

As he sat, trying both to relax and wake up he didn't think about how much of a contradiction that was he caught a glimpse of a uniform in the kitchen. The kitchen staff were from the Catering Corps, but they generally wore coveralls or chefs' ap.r.o.ns. Garcia could have sworn he just saw a combat uniform, wrapped around a stubble-headed bulldog of a man.

Curious, he switched seats, to get a slightly better view. He saw that he was right: there was a sergeant in there, counting out money. Garcia knew he should probably keep his nose out of it, but he was also sure that the sergeant was very much out of place there. Which most likely meant he had an illicit reason for being there.

Garcia drained his coffee, his tiredness momentarily forgotten. He left the little restaurant and found a narrow alley that came out into a back street along which was the back door. Piles of trash had built up around the door, but he could still see the sergeant when he left.

Not even having the common grace to look around furtively, the sergeant marched off in the opposite direction. Garcia followed quietly, suddenly awake and alert at the mystery. Perhaps a change really was as good as a rest.

Wiesniewski was feeling a lot better than he had the previous day. He was sitting alone in the little room where they'd treated him. As an officer, he'd been given the little luxury, though as a combat veteran he didn't really need or even want it.

He had written down the memories of his experience, in case he forgot again. The thought of going nuts was totally creepy, and he felt reading and rereading the note, knowing the experience was there in black and white, would help him rest easier. And anyway, there were others who had believed him.