Doctor Who: The Many Hands (5 page)

She thought that she was right, and that they were
crabs.

Then she saw that she was wrong.

The hands quivered slightly, standing on four fingers
whilst the index stood high, the neck to a fingernail
head. Each had a wrist at their back end, rising up to
a rounded stump of smooth grey flesh. These hands
hadn't been cut off, but gave the impression of having
been born like this, discrete little units. One of them
stood at Martha's feet, its back to her. Martha shuffled
her feet slightly to get away from it, but she was already
pressed tight against the door. Part of her was already
thinking that these must have been what Alexander
Monro had sewn to the body.

Gradually, each of the twitching hands began to
turn, the animal instinct sweeping across them like a
wave. The index fingers didn't seem to have eyes, ears
or mouths, but somehow Martha could feel every one
of them looking at her. There must be a hundred or
more of them, all locked in this tiny little room with
her. She wondered whether shouting would make
anybody come. And, if anyone did, would they be
able to find the hidden door?

There was more scuttling, and suddenly each of
the hands was hurrying across the floor towards her.
The one at her feet gave a little flex of its fingers and
jumped onto her foot, scurrying fast up her legs.
Martha gave a little cry and kicked out: the hand flew
across the room and landed in the middle of a knot
of its fellows. It picked itself up with a little shake and
hurried back towards her.

They were all around her, climbing up the cracks in
the stone work to get closer to her face, or cautiously
tapping at her feet as they tried to decide whether the
climb was worth it. More and more of them seemed
to be appearing from nowhere, and it was clear that
in a matter of seconds Martha would be completely
smothered by them. She tried to think, but she
couldn't help seeing them as little spiders that were
going to crawl all over her and... she didn't want to
think what they would do once there wasn't an inch
of Martha left visible any more.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and before she
could shake it off two more jumped from the wall and
landed in her hair. The hands around her feet began to
move onto her shoes, and caress her ankles. Martha
closed her eyes tight and tried to think something
useful.

The light.

Before she'd turned the light on, they'd been happy
enough jumping up at the window. Perhaps they were
just crawling up her to get at the light: if she blew it
out, they might go back to climbing the walls at the
other side of the room. It seemed like a good idea: the
only downside was that it would leave her standing in
near pitch darkness, with strange little hands crawling
all over her like insects.

Maybe her mother was right: she shouldn't be
travelling with the Doctor. How did she get herself
into trouble like this?

She leant over and blew out the lamp.

Everything went black.

There was a strange moment of silence. All the
soldiers, even Captain McAllister, stood immobile
and watched as the figures rose out of the water.

They looked so much like people – wet, weedstrewn,
pale-skinned people – and yet they walked
so slowly that their heads were held deep under the
water for much longer than any human could hold
their breath. There was no gasping for air as their
heads broke the surface, just the dribble of the filthy
waters running from their mouths and noses.

Their eyes were open as they walked, blind white
and staring glassily ahead. Their arms hung limply by
their sides.

'What are they?' McAllister breathed.

The Doctor saw the creatures' clothes still clinging
to them, damp and rotten with the water: the style of
dress varied from fifteenth-century farmer's wives
through to soldiers who might only have fallen into
the water the day before. Each was as remarkably well
preserved as the next, despite their varying ages. Was
there something in the water that was preserving
them?

'People,' the Doctor answered. 'Or they were...'

'It's witchcraft,' one of the younger soldiers cried,
and dropped his musket.

Before it even touched the ground, McAllister
spun.

'Attention!' he barked in his best parade-ground
voice.

The Doctor watched the creatures in the water that
were dressed as soldiers. If there was anything human
left in them, they might respond to something as
ingrained as military training. They just kept moving
blankly onwards.

McAllister tried again. 'You men will come to
order!'

For just a fraction of a second, it looked like the
soldiers would lose their nerve. Then each of them
made the decision that they were more afraid of
Captain McAllister than they were of the walking
dead and snapped to attention. The soldier who had
dropped his musket bent hurriedly and scooped it up;
when he stood, he was holding it upside down over
his shoulder and had to quickly spin it.

'The city is under attack,' McAllister said.

'They don't seem to be attacking,' the Doctor
corrected.

'Our duty is to defend it to the last man,' McAllister
continued regardless. 'Form two defensive lines, and
fire on my command.'

The soldiers quickly dropped back into two lines,
the first kneeling on the ground and shouldering
their muskets, whilst the second stood behind them
and waited. The Doctor looked down at the bodies
as they walked out of the stinking Loch: they weren't
co-ordinated, and they weren't attacking. They didn't
look like they had any goal in mind other than getting
out of the mire – which, admittedly, was rather more
ambition than humans were comfortable with from
their corpses, but didn't necessarily indicate an
invasion.

'Wait.' The Doctor spoke quietly to McAllister. If the
Captain's men overheard, then he would automatically
do the opposite of whatever the Doctor requested just
to save face. 'I don't think they're attacking. We should
wait and see what they do: they might be friendly.'

'Indeed,' McAllister agreed curtly. 'I'm certain they
wish to thank us for leaving them to rot in the city's
filth.'

The Doctor looked again at the blank-eyed
corpses.

They were nearly out of the water.

'They haven't seen us,' he insisted.

But McAllister had turned away.

'Fire!' he bellowed.

The five soldiers kneeling on the ground fired as
one, their muskets belching smoke into the air. The
moment the triggers were pulled, the five men behind
them took two paces forward and knelt, bringing
their muskets up. Behind them, the first five stood and
quickly reloaded their weapons. It was a marvellously
efficient system, allowing an almost constant barrage
of fire even with the muskets' lengthy reload time.

It was going to get them all killed, of course.

'Fire!' McAllister yelled again.

The kneeling soldiers fired, and the lines rotated
again, moving closer to their targets with each shot.

The musketballs found their targets easily, since
the walking dead were making no effort to shield
themselves. Of the first five shots, three found their
targets. Of the next five, none missed. One corpse
was struck in the shoulder, tearing the smock he had
on and sending a small shower of dust into the air. It
didn't even stop. Another was struck in the stomach:
a small hole punched straight through its middle and
made it stagger back into the water for a single step.

Then it looked about with its blind eyes, and
seemed to see the soldiers. The Doctor felt a sudden
chill as those perfectly white eyes fell momentarily on
him. There was a strange feeling of intelligence there,
and almost surprise that it was being attacked.

'Stop!' the Doctor shouted.

The creature's eyes fell on the soldiers as another
round of musketballs were fired. Its mouth fell open
and it let out an inhuman hiss, like an enraged cat. All
around it, the other corpses all stopped and turned.
As one, their mouths opened and they too hissed. The
air all around was filled with the sound of their anger,
and even McAllister had cause to pause.

'Fire!' he shouted again, and the moment broke.

Even before the soldiers could obey the order, each
of the creatures turned to face them and started to run.
Their outstretched arms each had a set of fingernails
that seemed to be carved of steel and which glinted in
the sunlight. There was no doubt that they could tear
out a throat in a single swipe.

'Fire!' McAllister ordered again.

Smoke filled the air, but not a single one of the
bodies fell to the ground. It would take just a few more
seconds, and they would be on top of the soldiers.

'Retreat!' came the order.

The soldiers didn't even look about to see where
it had come from. As one, they abandoned the line
and turned and fled. McAllister looked around for a
moment, and when his eyes fell on the Doctor they
were almost black with anger. The Doctor just glared
back coldly. For a moment, there was no one there
but the two of them, and the Doctor knew that, if
McAllister ever had the chance, he would kill him.
The Captain would have to join the back of a very
long queue for that one, and only then if the Doctor
managed to get him out of this alive.

But just for the moment, McAllister could either
pretend he had given the order, or admit that he'd lost
control of his men. McAllister turned and hurried
after the soldiers.

'Keep together,' he barked as he ran. 'You're soldiers,
not fishwives.'

The creatures kept coming out of the Loch, and
each one that did was already bearing down on the
soldiers. There were perhaps two hundred of them
now, emerging from the water and pacing up the hill
without pause. The soldiers hurried away in front
of them, but even for trained men it was a difficult
climb to run. They puffed and they panted and they
stumbled as they ran. The creatures didn't slow, didn't
tire, and didn't even seem to breathe. As the Doctor
ran behind, he noticed something else far more
troubling.

'Captain McAllister,' he shouted.

McAllister didn't stop, didn't turn.

'They're going to beat us to the top,' the Doctor
yelled.

That gave the Captain pause for just a moment as
he hurriedly glanced up the line of his men. It was
obviously true: in fact, some of the creatures had
started to swing to the right and would intercept
the hurrying soldiers before they were even halfway
up. McAllister froze, almost imperceptibly. His eyes
widened as he tried to come up with the perfect tactic
for escape, and failed. The Doctor was by his side
instantly.

'We have to go down,' he said.

'Are you mad?'

'Look at them,' the Doctor insisted. 'Most of the
creatures are moving up to block the route to the
Castle: if we go down, we might have a chance.'

'If we don't run straight into a den of smugglers,'
the Captain argued. 'If they see a troop of soldiers
running for them, do think they'll wait to ask what
we're doing before they open fire?

'Smugglers have boats,' the Doctor hissed.

McAllister looked into the Doctor's eyes, and
nodded.

'This way, men!' he ordered.

The soldiers turned, but none of them stopped
running. The creatures were closing in all around, and
all they could think of was the possibility of getting
back behind strong castle walls. Even if none of them
would ever make it.

'I said follow me!' McAllister barked angrily. 'Or I'll
shoot every last one of you myself!'

If it was an act, it was a convincing one. McAllister
glanced at the Doctor, and then led the charge back
down the hill. As one, his men charged behind him,
all heading for the shore where the Loch bent around
the foot of the hill.

The Doctor took a moment to watch the creatures
as they were wrong-footed: some slid a little on
the grass as they suddenly tried to turn and switch
directions, but some were already above the knot of
soldiers and just continued in their relentless march
downwards.

'Move, man,' said the first soldier as he passed.

There was a soldier at the end of the group, a young
man with short dark hair and blue eyes. He'd been at
the head of the charge away, so he was the closest to
the creatures that were cutting across to intercept. He
was almost close enough to reach out and touch their
dripping clothes. He had heard the order to turn, and
might even know that it was the right thing to do, but
his eyes were blind with panic. He kept on running
up, trying to swing around a knot of creatures in
mouldy sackcloth.

'No!' the Doctor shouted, pacing forwards. 'This
way.'

It was too late. It had already been too late when the
Doctor had first spotted him. The knot of creatures
reached out with pale, slimy hands and, although the
soldier managed to pull away from some, more of the
hands held tight. He was pulled down into the middle
of the creatures with a loud scream, and disappeared
amongst them.

A few seconds later, the Doctor saw him again. His
blue eyes were dead and cold, and he was marching
down after his fellow soldiers with the same relentless
step as the other walking dead. There was no saving
him now. There might be no saving any of them.

'Come on,' urged the last soldier as he rushed by.

Reluctantly, the Doctor followed.

McAllister harried his men down to the shore of the
Loch, where the ground grew damper and muddier
and the marsh gas hung on the foul water. The Loch
circled the rear of the Castle, cut at either end by a
road leading into the city: their best hope was to circle
behind the Castle and back up the Grassmarket. With
any luck, they would be able to attract the attention of
a few muskets on duty as they ran, and these watery
devils would soon be dispatched.

His men, however, had other ideas: they had
stopped by the Loch's edge and were fretting to each
other.

'Sir!' one yelled as soon as McAllister was near.
'Look!'

McAllister looked: the prisoner had been wrong.
Loping towards them from the other direction were
ten more of the undead creatures. McAllister and
his men had no escape route now, just the decision
between two groups of creatures and the dank waters
of the Loch.

'This way,' the prisoner shouted, charging in behind
McAllister.

The Captain expected him to stop and despair when
he saw the second group of pale figures moving in on
them, but he didn't. He just kept charging on – not
towards them, not around the edge of the Castle, but
towards the Loch and a small clump of sickly looking
trees that grew there. He disappeared into them for a
moment, making McAllister suddenly afraid that his
only plan was to hide and hope the creatures would
pass.

The trees shook, and something slid into view.

'Give me a hand, then,' the prisoner shouted.

He re-emerged, pushing a raft out of the trees and
towards the Loch. McAllister's men didn't even wait
for the order; they were by his side and pushing the
unseaworthy vessel out into the dark waters as one.
There was just enough room for all of them to perch
on it, as long as they didn't move too much, but there
were no paddles to be seen: it was a smugglers' vessel,
hidden there after bringing in untaxed alcohol to wait
for the return journey after the goods had been sold.

Another charge to bring against the prisoner.

'Well come on then,' the man said impatiently.

McAllister stepped onto the raft, and stood proudly
in the centre as his men each knelt at the sides and
began frantically paddling. The raft made good speed,
but McAllister could see the creatures as they reached
the water's edge. They didn't pause, just walked back
into it as easily as they had stepped out from it. They
seemed to move with the same relentless speed.

'We have not escaped yet,' he realised.

One of McAllister's men let out a cry and snatched
his hand out of the water. A pale hand broke the surface,
reaching out to try to grab him. Another appeared on
the port side of the raft, and then another.

'Keep paddling,' the prisoner ordered.

The waters bubbled all around them.

The Doctor knelt at the stern of the raft and alternated
between steering and batting away searching hands
with the only paddle he'd been able to find on the boat.
There were still several creatures under the water, but
they seemed to be having difficulty floating up to reach
the raft – probably understandable considering how
long most of them must have been down there. The
ones who were following them from the other side
also sank quickly below the surface and gave chase at
the same measured pace as they had on land.

Except for the soldier. Their most recent victim.