Doctor Who_ Autumn Mist Part 1

Autumn Mist.

by David A. McIntee

Prologue.

15 December 1944.

Rapid fire pa.s.sed over Wiesniewski's head with a ripping sound as he gasped for breath in the shelter of a fallen tree. From all around him the rest of the platoon returned fire. Not that their carbines would do any good against the machine guns in their small trio of pillboxes around the roadside bunker, but at least they'd discourage any Germans from venturing outside.

Wiesniewski doubted they would want to anyway: even without the gunfire their bunker would keep them sheltered from the heavy snow. With dusk falling, his snow-sodden uniform was beginning to stiffen, making his whole body look as if it had been frozen solid. Wiesniewski risked a look over the fallen trunk.

Cahill, Jonas and Dexter were lying amid their frosted blood in the hundred-foot strip of open ground that separated the edge of the woods from the Germans. Wade hadn't even got that far: he was still suspended on the barbed wire ten feet out from the trees.

As Wiesniewski fumbled for a new clip for his Thompson, someone pitched a grenade at the firing slit of the nearest pillbox, but the white ground was too wet for it to bounce on, and it exploded several yards short. The German guns didn't let up, and further bursts tore at the branches around Wiesniewski as Corporal Harris dived into cover beside him. 'Any luck from the other side of the trail?'

Harris shook his head. 'The road's mined, L.T. We'd never get round that way.'

'd.a.m.n.' Wade's blood had stopped dripping, Wiesniewski noticed absently, and had frozen into red icicles. It was a strange last impression to have of someone who was usually huddled closest round the fire. 'At least night's falling. Some Christmas, huh...?'

A dozen miles to the east, a small town nestled in the shelter of the various embankments and fortifications of the West Wall.

A trio of SdKfz 232 armoured command vehicles sped into the town square. They were eight-wheeled armoured cars, as self-contained as any tank, with a 20-mm cannon in the small turret. All three had peculiar antennae mounted on them, not unlike an indoor overhead clothes rack. One end was mounted over the turret, while the other was bolted to the rear of the vehicle.

'Sturmbannfuhrer,' a man in the lead vehicle said, 'it's happening again.'

'Halt here,' the Sturmbannfuhrer Sturmbannfuhrer told the driver. He dropped from the turret into the cramped compartment in the centre of the vehicle. Where there would normally be ammunition, tools and paperwork stored, this 232 had a cl.u.s.ter of equipment that looked like radio and radar set-ups. Tiny green screens flickered with wave peaks. 'Where?' told the driver. He dropped from the turret into the cramped compartment in the centre of the vehicle. Where there would normally be ammunition, tools and paperwork stored, this 232 had a cl.u.s.ter of equipment that looked like radio and radar set-ups. Tiny green screens flickered with wave peaks. 'Where?'

'Difficult to tell,' the operator replied, 'but I think somewhere near Monschau.'

'd.a.m.n! We'll have to wait until the offensive has pa.s.sed. Set up a command post here. We'll notify Wewelsburg that we have a potential capture here.'

The guns in the German bunker nest were still firing sporadically once night had fallen, but now they were nowhere near Wiesniewski. He had had a couple of the men string knives and spare helmets in the trees near the road. Their occasional clatter in the wind drew fire from the bunker, leaving the men free to move quietly elsewhere.

Wiesniewski, Harris and the others slipped around to the far side of the emplacements under cover of darkness, and were now crawling along under the barbed-wire perimeter. It reminded Wiesniewski a little of trying to sneak into the ballpark back in Pittsburgh, to see games without buying a ticket. Back then, the threat of a thick ear from one of the cops seemed almost as scary as the threat of death here.

Sweating despite the cold, Wiesniewski emerged from the last stretch of wire and started probing the muddy ground with a bayonet, searching for mines in his path. Behind him, Harris was silently making sure the rest of the men followed exactly in Wiesniewski's path.

It was a painfully slow crawl to the depression that marked the bunker's steel door, and Wiesniewski would have given a month's pay to be able to stand up and run at it. If he could have done so without being gunned down.

Gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering, Wiesniewski slowly c.o.c.ked his Thompson, m.u.f.fling the sound with his gloved hand. Harris and the other three men joined him. Antic.i.p.ating his next wish, Harris took a grenade from his webbing. Wiesniewski nodded in agreement.

He then put his ear to the door, listening. He didn't want to find a bunch of gun muzzles pointed at him, if the occupants had heard him moving around. It might also help to try to judge how many men were in there.

'Was werden die Amerikaner jetzt tun?' a distinctly young voice was asking. 'Noch einmal angreifen, oder warten bis zur morgendammerung?' Whatever that meant, the man's tone seemed relaxed enough. He hadn't been heard.

There was a rattle of cans, and Wiesniewski could imagine the ersatz coffee being poured. Even that would be better than nothing right now. 'Weder noch,' a more weary voice replied. 'Sie werden sich unter dem schutz der dunkelheit zu ihren positionen zuruckziehen.'

'Glauben sie, Herr Feldwebel?' the first asked in a hopeful tone.

There was a sound of almost laughing, and a third voice joined in. 'Sie machen es genauso wie wir sie fechten kleinere gefechte, um die neuankommlinge ein b.i.+.c.hen pulver riechen zu la.s.sen, bevor sie an wichtigere fronten schicken. Wenn das ein ernsthafter angriff gewesen ware, hatten sie panzer mitgeschickt. Ich babe es ihnen ja schon gesagt: Hier pa.s.siert nie was ernstes.'

Easier not to think of them as people if he couldn't understand them. Wiesniewski held up three fingers to Harris and gently tried the door handle. He doubted they would have locked the door on their side of the lines, since it would have trapped them if someone got a flame-thrower near enough to the firing slit.

He was right: the handle moved very gently. Hoping n.o.body inside had noticed, Wiesniewski mouthed 'now' to Harris, who pulled the pin on the grenade. Wiesniewski counted to three and tugged the door open. He ducked back as Harris tossed the grenade in.

The three Germans in the central room barely had time to start a yell before the grenade went off. Wiesniewski immediately ducked inside, spraying the room with gunfire.

There were three other doors inside, one for each pillbox, and Wiesniewski went straight for the one directly opposite. A German opened it just in time to catch a burst of fire.

There was more shooting from behind and to the sides as his men took the other two pillboxes, but Wiesniewski knew better than to divert his attention to them before securing his own target. He trusted his men not to let one of their targets get to him. The remaining two gunners in the pillbox had barely started to turn round before Wiesniewski shot them.

Only then did he look round to see how the others were doing.

Jansen had fallen, but Harris and the other two men had finished off the defenders. Wiesniewski grinned with relief, and nodded to Harris. 'Nice work, Joe.' He led the men back out of the bunker, glad to be away from the trapped smoke and smell of blood. 'OK, Joe, get back to the road and get a medical jeep up here. I'll set a couple of thermite charges in the bunker's ammo, just in case '

Without warning, the harsh sound of machine-gun fire tore across the field. Wiesniewski dived to the ground instantly, catching Harris's freezing out of the corner of his eye. Across the field, a German half-track was heading down the road from behind their lines, a gunner firing from it.

He rolled to look for the others, but they were nowhere to be seen and Wiesniewski a.s.sumed they'd taken cover in the bunker. Only Harris was still with him, toppling slowly to the ground. 'Joe...'

The sound of the machine guns was slowing strangely, from the familiar maniacal chatter to a steady metronomic beat, like the ticking of an impossibly loud clock. At first Wiesniewski wasn't too concerned he knew that time seemed to slow down sometimes when a guy was in mortal peril. No doubt the medics had some name for it or other.

Then he realised that his own ragged breathing still sounded normal and his heart was racing.

Wire jangled abruptly and Wiesniewski spun, firing wildly at the source. It was the barbed wire where Wade's corpse had hung. The wire was quivering like a bandsaw, but Wade wasn't there any more.

He instinctively looked for the bodies of the others in the open ground, and realised that Joe Harris wasn't there, either. Wiesniewski could have sworn he was dead he had fallen right there... Could he have recovered enough to make it back to the bunker? Surely not without Wiesniewski hearing him...

Apart from the guns, there was no other sound. No birds, no footsteps, no voices. He could see flashes of mortar fire to the north, where another platoon was attacking a similar target, but they were unaccountably silent. The half-track was silent, too, and seemed to have stopped. He fired a burst at it, but nothing seemed to happen. The sound seemed like an insult to the forest.

He could sense something from the other direction, though. It wasn't a silence, but something beyond silence; it was, he supposed, the opposite of sound, where silence was merely the absence of it. Whatever it was, it was as noticeable as shots or screams would have been, and far more unnerving.

He turned to face the forest. Snow started to shake loose from the branches all around. Twigs broke soundlessly, and were carried on through the air. The forest closed in, black shadows grasping at the snow. Tiny breezes lifted snowflakes from the ground in an indistinct dance. The jagged shadows rippled and twisted, flitting around between the trees as if seeking shelter from the moonlight.

Skin crawling, Wiesniewski had the gut feeling that something was approaching. He c.o.c.ked the Thompson and backtracked slowly, afraid to turn his back to whatever it was.

He wasn't afraid of the Germans, but so what? This wasn't them. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that much. And he knew also he was alone out here.

Alone as far as men were concerned, at least.

There were no soldiers, no bodies, but something something was out here with him, and every animal instinct in his psyche told him that this was a war zone and he was an open target. was out here with him, and every animal instinct in his psyche told him that this was a war zone and he was an open target.

Something stirred the snow, but it wasn't a man. All around Wiesniewski, ripples of darkness rushed forward, and he screamed...

Chapter One.

Greif.

Fitz Kreiner was in the TARDIS's kitchen, trying to work out where the power for the microwave was coming from. An oven that looked like a TV and had no heating elements was weird enough, even before he had noticed that it worked without being plugged in.

Sam had originally told him that the TARDIS didn't have a kitchen: just a food machine. Fitz felt more comfortable slapping some scrambled eggs on toast into shape himself, if only because it gave his hands something to do when they wanted to be lighting up a cigarette. So he had found a kitchen.

The thing about it was, he wasn't sure whether Sam simply hadn't known that the kitchen was there, or whether the Doctor or indeed the TARDIS itself had created one for him.

It was, he had to admit, a h.e.l.l of a kitchen. All he'd wanted was a little cubbyhole with a stove on which to heat a tin of something, but he got a cross between a medieval kitchen and Frankenstein's laboratory. Stone and wood, mingling with chrome and plastic. He kept meaning to take a look up the chimney that was over the open fireplace, to see where it went. Surely there couldn't be an opening out of the TARDIS there. Unfortunately, the log fire that burned therein never went out, even though it had never been stoked up as far as he knew.

The most important thing today was that Sam never came to the kitchen. He wasn't sure he really wanted to talk to her until he got some things worked out in his head like, was the Sam he had slept with in San Francisco in any way any way the same Sam who was with them now? Did she remember any of it and, if so, what was she feeling about it? She'd been all sickly understanding to start with, but now she'd had time to think about it... Well, at least she hadn't hit him yet, so that was probably a positive sign. the same Sam who was with them now? Did she remember any of it and, if so, what was she feeling about it? She'd been all sickly understanding to start with, but now she'd had time to think about it... Well, at least she hadn't hit him yet, so that was probably a positive sign.

For a moment he imagined himself as the jet-setting playboy to whom this kind of concern would never even occur. He wondered if the Doctor had ever ever been tempted over all his years of travels with pretty girls. Probably not, he decided. That would be too obvious, somehow. been tempted over all his years of travels with pretty girls. Probably not, he decided. That would be too obvious, somehow.

The ground disappeared from under Wiesniewski's feet, and he plunged headlong into an abandoned foxhole, landing painfully. He gasped for breath, ready to set off again. His eyes darted frantically around, looking for any sign of that... whatever it was.

Something metallic jangled behind him and he rolled aside, grabbing for his gun. It wasn't there, and he wondered where he had left it.

Then he saw that the source of the noise was just a punctured ration can, hanging from a wire. The can's label proclaimed that it had once contained peaches from California. At least that meant he'd reached an American outpost.

He froze. What the h.e.l.l was he doing back at an American line, anyway? He didn't remember running just the darkness and its attendant silence rus.h.i.+ng at him. Then nothing nothing at all.

Now he was here.

Jesus, was he having blackouts now? He resolved not to mention that when he got back much as he wanted to get back to the States, he didn't want it to be as a mental case. 'Get a grip,' he muttered to himself, taking several deep breaths. He'd been scared earlier. That was nothing new, of course: he'd been scared since he got to Europe, but this wasn't the ordinary fear of battle. He couldn't even remember what it was that had so frightened him.

Whatever he had been running from, it wasn't the Germans, surely. He remembered seeing a patrol show up, but it was some way away, and the Germans there had seemed scared, too. There had been something else; he was sure of it.

Unfortunately that was all he could be sure of. Anyway, how did he know it wasn't the Germans? Maybe they were testing some new weapon that messed with your head and made you see things. Some sort of gas, maybe. That made some sense, didn't it?

Yeah, that must be it. They'd tried some sort of new weapon on him and it had worked, hadn't it? Sent him running like a spooked colt. He repeated the thought to himself until it drowned out the unnerving protests from his subconscious. Now he just had to figure out where he was and get back to Company HQ.

The destination monitor was reading temporal orbit when Fitz reached the console room, cradling a cuppa. Sam was there, of course; she and the Doctor stuck so casually together that Fitz could almost imagine they'd been married for years.

The Doctor was in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves but still looked like he was ready to audition for a biopic of Oscar Wilde. His hair, a little longer than Fitz's, but a little curlier, was getting in the way as he hunched over an open panel on the central console. 'Something's not right...'

'How d'you mean?' Sam asked. She had shortish blonde hair again, and was wearing jeans and a pinky and the brain T s.h.i.+rt. Whatever Pinky and the Brain was.

'I can't get the TARDIS away from Earth. Whatever destination I program, it keeps resetting back to Earth.' They looked up at the monitor, which remained frustratingly at the temporal-orbit setting.

'That's not the half of it,' Fitz said, noticing something on the mahogany console. He gingerly prodded the date readout. The revolving blocks, which normally indicated the day, month and year of arrival, were now blank. Fitz turned them over with a finger. 'Look. As if it isn't enough that something with only four sides could go up to ninety-nine...'

The Doctor came round to look. 'Four sides up to ninety-nine? That's just a function of the Heisenberg circuits. But I don't think they're supposed to go blank.' He sighed. 'I get the impression that nothing is going to help short of either invasive surgery ' Fitz blinked at the choice of term to describe repairs to a machine 'or simply materialising back on Earth.'

'Materialise,' Sam suggested firmly. 'You remember what happened last time you started working on the TARDIS while in s.p.a.ce...'

'I certainly never intended for us to be hauled off to Skaro. But you're right, of course,' he added with a smile. 'Materialisation it is.' The Doctor moved back to the relevant panel and operated some bra.s.s k.n.o.bs and levers. The destination monitor responded by finally giving a reading, though it wasn't as much as could have been hoped for. '"Earth, Unknown Era". Not very helpful.'

Sam shook her head. 'You should have got a better OS for the TARDIS's systems. Was this one from a free CD on a magazine cover?'

'You know what they say about beggars not being choosers. The same holds true for thieves at times.' The Doctor threw a switch and a sky formed overhead. It wasn't any brighter than the usual shadows up there in that indeterminate ceiling. At least, Fitz supposed that logically there must be a ceiling, since the destination monitor and part of the time rotor were suspended from it. But whenever he tried to look at it his eyes just slid away, without registering what was really up there. For now, however, there were dimly lit clouds and snowflakes. Even though it was only an image of the weather outside, Fitz felt colder already.

'Winter!' the Doctor exclaimed. 'Excellent! Crisp snow, clear air, hot toddies...' As he enthused about winter wonders, he went over to retrieve a dark green velvet frock coat from a nearby stand. His sonic screwdriver and a few other oddments were on a table nearby, and he dropped them into the pockets, then looked down at his shoes. 'Hmm. No weather for the likes of you,' he muttered, kicking the loafers off. 'Sorry, but you'll just have to sit this one out.' He pulled a pair of knee-length boots from the cupboard. 'I suggest you wrap up warmly,' he called to Sam and Fitz. 'Don't want you to catch a chill. Oh, and be sure to cover your throat. That's very important when going from a warmer clime to a cooler one.'

'Did you get that from some ancient source of Time Lord wisdom?' Fitz asked.

'No, from David Niven, but it's still good advice.'

Sam was first out of the TARDIS, having found a thick woollen coat to wrap up in. As well as needing the coat for the cold, it also felt oddly comforting to be wrapped in something so enfolding and protective.

The TARDIS had materialised at one end of a bridge across a fast-flowing river. Though it was still dark, the broad valley they were in was illuminated by an eerie and unnatural glow from the clouds above. That s.h.i.+fting glow in turn reflected off the snow that covered the fields to either side. On the far side of the river, on a ridge line above, a darker ma.s.s was spread. Buildings, Sam thought buildings without lights, backed by trees.

On this side of the river, the fields stretched away to some wooded slopes in the middle distance. Sam wasn't entirely sure, but there seemed to be some sort of buildings there, too. They didn't look like houses, more like squat blockhouses or bunkers.

The fresh air was nice, if chilly, and Sam wandered off along the bridge. She peered down at the water below, but it was just a dark abyss. She imagined in daylight the view would've been quite pleasant, if only Sam s.h.i.+vered, feeling as if she were being watched. She had that weird feeling, as if someone had walked over her grave.

'The Evergreen Man,' a presence in the tree line opined to its neighbour. From their position they could observe the newcomers quite unseen, though it didn't stop the neighbour from feeling nervous about the possibility of being discovered.

'Is that what you call him?'

'It is who he is. What we call him matters little.'

'I suppose he is, at that... I never really looked at it that way.' Lots of other ways, but not that way. 'Couldn't we just go down now, and '

'No. There are rules. Even we cannot flout them.'

'Even if the rules are wrong?'

'Who would judge whether they are? You? Me? Anyone who wishes?'