Free The Undertakers Gift by Trevor Baxendale

her way through the thistles. It reminded her of last night, when she had stumbled across the midnight funeral taking place in deathly silence.
    ‘There’s something else missing, too,’ noted Wynnie.
    ‘What?’
    ‘No Gillian.’
    Ray looked quickly around. ‘She did say to meet us at the Black House.’
    ‘And yet. . .’
    ‘Maybe she’s over there,’ Ray suggested, pointing. ‘I thought I saw someone in the trees just then.’
    A figure was approaching through the row of spindly black trees on the far side of the area.
    But it wasn’t Gillian.
    ‘Hi,’ called Wynnie, with a little wave. ‘We’re looking for someone.’
    The man was tall, dressed in a ragged black coat with thin arms and dark gloves. His head was covered in a thick cloth, wound around like bandages, leaving only slits where the eyes should be.
    To Ray, the sight was terrifyingly familiar and she felt a surge of cold, sickly fear. The figure raised one arm and slowly pointed at her.
    It was all she needed to snap her out of her paralysis. She grabbed Wynnie by the arm and physically dragged him away, pulling him along with her as she ran back towards the railings.
    ‘Run!’ she gasped.
    Wynnie was saying something but she couldn’t hear what. All she knew was that they had to get away, had to get out of this awful, dead place. There were more figures, the pallbearers she had seen the night before, walking across the wasteland towards them. All of them were slowly raising their arms and pointing.
    Ray held Wynnie in a grip so hard she knew it must be hurting. But she couldn’t let go; she couldn’t stop or even look back.
    ‘ Run! ’ she screamed.

SIXTEEN
    Jack stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, leaning against the concrete wall opposite Zero’s cell. His neck was still smarting where Kerko’s fingers had dug in like grappling hooks. Somehow he had mislaid his coat, too, and it was cold down here. He had a sneaking suspicion Ianto had whisked it away for repairs. It would be dry cleaned too, in all probability. That coat had been through a lot over the years and it still looked good. Could be talking about me, Jack thought.
    He stared through the plastic at Zero. What was the alien thinking? Was he even thinking at all? It was impossible to tell.
    Ianto appeared quietly at his side with a cup of coffee. Jack hadn’t even smelled it coming.
    ‘I’ve put the Blowfish back in his cell,’ Ianto said. ‘He’ll probably come round in a few minutes.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Jack looked at Ianto. ‘You look beat. Get some rest.’
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘Don’t argue,’ Jack smiled. ‘I’m in charge. Get some rest and that’s an order.’
    ‘Aye aye, Captain.’ Ianto turned to leave again, paused, looked back. ‘I am all right, you know.’
    ‘Yeah, I know.’
    But he wasn’t. Ianto looked pale and tired and there was still that sheen of sweat on his forehead. At other times Jack would have been mildly excited by that, but something was worrying him now. Ianto never sweated. At least, not without permission.
    ‘I thought I’d go back through the Archives,’ Ianto suggested, pausing by the steps. ‘You said there had been rumours of the Undertaker’s Gift for as long as you’ve been here. If I check the records, I may find something that can help.’
    ‘Yeah, good idea. See what you can dig out.’
    Ianto nodded and left, leaving Jack alone with his coffee and Zero.
    Jack remembered bringing Zero in, shortly after they detected the Rift incursion. The alien had been strangely compliant, utterly silent, bereft of hostility but completely lethal. Jack had worn a protective rubber suit and a pair of thick, insulated gauntlets – the kind of thing he imagined power station workers wore to handle radioactive isotopes, or fire crews on warships used to avoid burns. They had protected him from the fierce electrical charge Zero carried like a plague and they were hanging up nearby right now. Jack could put the gauntlets on and