Free Doctor Who: Combat Rock by Mick Lewis

feathers.
    These were the true legacy of Agat: the trophy skulls belonging to former victims of his cannibalistic forefathers.
    Why should he be scared of the past? It had helped shape the noble, pure Papul townspeople of today.
    He arranged the pile of human jawbone necklaces neatly next to the trophy heads, and swept the duster over the first skull, tickling a naughty cobweb from inside the hole on the left temple – the entry wound of the killer’s spear, and the point from where the brains would be scooped out and devoured – and moved on to the next skull.
    He was just about to flick the duster along the top of the cranium when the first skull spoke to him.
    Akima, and the cruiser was parked cheekily in the centre of the compound as if it was a visitor from the gods.
    But these boys waved the banner of God spelt backwards and they certainly hadn’t come to offer the hand of blessing and peace to the villagers of Akima, and its infamous talking Mumi.
    The Mumi was dragged from the elder’s hut by Clown and Pan. Clown kicked it from its stool, and watched it roll onto its skinny side as if daring it to come to life and curse him.
    ‘See,’ he bellowed to the cowering Papul villagers who were held at gunpoint by the rest of the Dogs. ‘It’s just a pile of black skin and bones. It ain’t got no magic. It can’t do no voodoo on the Clown and his boys. Believe it: this is nothing.
    The only gods you have to fear are us,’ he gestured at the rest of his wild bunch,‘and these,’ he hefted his own pulse rifle demonstratively.
    Pretty Boy and the others were already beginning to herd the men of the village against one wall. The semi-naked women moaned and sobbed as they anticipated what would happen next.
    ‘You’ve got to believe in what is real,’ Clown continued, his eyes invisible behind the sunlight dancing on his eyeglasses. He kicked the Mumi. A moan of horror lifted from the villagers.
    Clown walked away a few steps, enjoying the reaction he was getting from the crowd. Pan decided to take his fun away from him and fired first, his Luger spitting a neat lance of energy at the Mumi’s feet, engulfing them in flame. Clown shrugged as if he wasn’t fussed about being deprived of his sport, and that’s when Grave seared the headman. Clown looked over his shoulder, saw the naked man drop, his penis gourd a shaft of flame, and sauntered off towards the cruiser.
    Pretty Boy and Bass followed, clearly not savouring the carnage that was going to ensue. Thoughtfully, Pan watched them go.
    Grave and Twist were flaming the men, Saw was revving his chainsaw and wading in, his rifle purposefully left behind in the cruiser.
    Screams and blasts of power mixed with the sputtering engine of Saw’s tool.
    Pan pulled a cigarette from his pocket and watched the Mumi burn.
    ‘People of Agat, warriors of Papul. You are free. We are free.
    Free to’kill. Free to regain what we have lost’
    The voice was husky and hollow, as if forced from a throat of bone, not of flesh.
    You are free.
    We are free.
    Free to kill.
    Free to kill.
    Free to kill...
    Regain... what you have... lost.
    The hell of the south coast, all his colleagues called it.
    So what if all the other missionaries who had ventured into those untamed swamps never came back again?
     
    Tomas was different. Resourceful, confident, well supplied. He would not take risks that his own common sense and faith determined were not worth taking. He was no fool.
    He was the best of them, and even Pieter who had achieved so much in this small heathen pocket of Jenggel, had learned a great deal from him.
    Father Tomas was a credit to them all. He was a symbol of what could be done.
    And now be was a bloody martyr.
    He cut the thought out of his head. Tomas would return.
    It had been a good thirty rainseasons since he and Tomas had arrived in Agat, two young men just out of theological school, intent on preaching the word of God to the cannibals.
    Earth’s missionary