Free The Undertakers Gift by Trevor Baxendale Page A

walk into the cell and try to make the alien respond – push him or shake him or punch him or whatever, anything to get a reaction.
    Or he could just go in without the gloves.
    Take the charge.
    What would happen then?
    Jack had been electrocuted before. Four times, to be exact. Or was it five? It got difficult to remember, sometimes: he’d died so many times. And on at least one occasion the charge hadn’t been lethal and he’d only suffered second- and third-degree burns. That had been painful for a long time but, as ever, he had recovered. Not healed – just returned to his existent state.
    But Zero packed quite a punch: 50,000 volts at a rough guess. It would kill him, again, for sure. But for how long?
    And why was he thinking like this? What was so fascinating about dying? He knew he couldn’t do it, no matter how hard he tried. Or could he? Was there something out there that could finish him, draw a line underneath his existence? When would it ever end? When everyone he had ever known was dead? If the Undertaker’s Gift is real, he thought, then I might finally be about to find out. If Earth is shredded in four dimensions by a temporal fusion device detonating in the Rift, would that be enough to finish him? Or would Jack Harkness still be here, living, waiting for an end that would never, ever arrive? Just existing ?
    Would he float away into space, stiff and frozen, rimed with ice, to drift into an eternity of blackness with only his memories for company?
    Jack’s hand moved towards the lock on the cell door. Perhaps if he opened it, Zero would react.
    ‘Jack?’
    He turned guiltily as Gwen stepped into the cell corridor. ‘Jack?’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I’ve been looking into something on the net.’
    Jack felt as if he had to haul his attention back out of a deep pit. ‘What?’
    ‘The Undertaker’s Gift. I’ve done every kind of scan I can for a temporal fusion device and there’s nothing showing up. If it’s hidden then it’s bloody well hidden. So I did an internet search on all things associated with undertakers and came across something interesting.’
    ‘Hit me.’
    ‘There’s a student blog entry that talks about a night-time funeral procession in the middle of Cardiff.’
    Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
    ‘The blog also mentions Torchwood.’

SEVENTEEN
    Ray and Wynnie bolted to the gap in the railings and scrambled through in a tangle of arms, legs and rucksack. Wynnie stumbled, fell, swore, and Ray helped him up. Without a word, they sprinted together for another half a mile before both of them had run out of breath.
    They leaned against a wall, panting hard. Ray’s lungs were burning and Wynnie could barely speak.
    ‘What. . . what. . .’ he gasped, swallowing with difficulty. He pointed back the way they had come. ‘It was them! The people you saw last night!’
    Ray nodded. She literally couldn’t speak. Her heart was banging away in her chest and she was beginning to realise how incredibly unfit she’d got. Not that she had ever actually been fit in the first place.
    ‘I’ve never been so scared,’ Wynnie began, and then, quite unexpectedly, he laughed. ‘I mean. . .’
    Ray looked at him, aghast. How could he find this funny? She looked back the way they had come, but there was no sign of any pursuit. She heaved a sigh and rubbed at her sternum; her chest was really burning. ‘What’s so funny?’
    Wynnie was still chuckling. ‘I haven’t run like that since I was a kid.’
    ‘I’ve never. . . run like that,’ said Ray. ‘Ever.’ And then she started to smile too.
    In less than a moment they were both laughing, guiltily choking back the noise because they knew that there was no way they should find this funny.
    ‘It’s nervous tension,’ Wynnie giggled.
    They clung to each other for a few minutes, slowly getting their breath back. There was no sign of pursuit. In fact, there was no one else at all nearby.
    ‘Those were definitely the guys I