It has been a long, hectic, harrowing time since I have made the effort to write.

A lot has happened, much of it fearful, some of it magnificent. Some of it absolutely soul destroying.

It has been four long, arduous years since I fled the abominations of the bombing of London, the likes of which the world had never seen before, escaping barely with my own life - my most precious Vanessa having succumbed to the invisible and insidious miasma cast upon the Earth by the invaders. Their immense counter attack happened when it looked as if they were beaten. We had been using many different tactics against them, and across the previous seven days it had been noticed that they were withdrawing. We thought ourselves victorious - if only we had known the real reason.

One bomb was all it took to obliterate the structures of the city and sicken until death the vast majority of the survivors. The hospital that had protected us in its cellars as we protected its countless patients to our fullest ability collapsed around us, the great sandstone structure literally blown away by the explosion. The great Thames river was evaporated in a second. When we lucky few survivors emerged three days later the city was flattened for as far as the eye could see.

Vanessa had taken ill the following day. I had escaped unscathed due fully to the luck of my position in the cellar. At the time my darling wife believed herself to be similarly blessed, but it became apparent over the next few days that a merest splinter of wood had stuck in the side of her thumb, from which her ailment grew. Red and vicious, the wound had grown, leading to amputation after amputation with the need to save her life. I of course was in no position to carry out the surgery but doubt not the skill and dedication of those that did.

I still wake at night feeling, almost inevitably the slow sinking into that final, painful darkness with her through our mental and physical link.

Eventually the knowledge burned in me that her illness was well outside of human knowledge and that there was nothing I could do to help except to share her final days with her. For the second time in my life I was impotent in the face of alien technologies, unable to save my most precious loved one, railing at an unjust and uncaring God.

That day, a great part of me literally died with her. That magical connection, of heart and mind and soul dripped slowly away, as I watched the wound turn sour and felt the pain first increase to a level which sapped my own strength before numbing us both, leaving me utterly bereft.

When finally she could no longer fight I felt physically drained and mentally … I jumped without provocation between frozen and feral. Between needing to die and needing to kill not just the Martian invaders but anyone and everything.

I could not leave my beloved to the ills of the world, knowing that I had to escape the ongoing devastation of our adopted city. Still it took me two nights and two days  to build a funeral pyre in the ruins, such was my strength. Selina and Bishop Burton had offered their help but I frightened them away with such foul mouthed ferocity that it pains me to recount.

The only person who might have gotten through to me in my self absorbed pain was Bernhardt and I had not seen nor heard from him in weeks.

I snarled and wept and laughed as I stared at the sparks rising into the night sky, imagining her rising to the eternal stars that tried their best to shine and sparkle through the black bank of clouds that had been in place above us since that fatal attack had taken place. Although it was July the temperature had plummeted in the days following the bomb. Even at midday it was cold enough for a grey dirty soot thick snow to fall.

Questions flitted angrily through my head - primarily survivors guilt - why could it not have been me that died, and her that lived? What had she done to deserve such a fate? What could I have done differently for her? Back and fore my reasoning went, blaming myself, God, Satan, the Martians and even the government.

My heart was broken, my soul was twisted beyond repair, but my primitive need for survival in the face of such universal betrayal forced me onwards. Escape was necessary. My Contessa would have wanted me to live. For that moment at least it was a case of flight not fight.

I knew not what the rest of the world was doing, nor frankly did I care. However, as I made my way on foot south there were two obvious facts. The first was that the Martians were nowhere to be seen. Had the obliteration of London been a last act of devastation prior to retreating? Or was it just a tactic used to break the will of the people who had managed to fight back successfully against them? Although I did not know immediately, it turned out to be the latter.

The second fact was that it appeared that every survivor had come to the same conclusion as myself and headed south. Except most of them hadn’t waited for their loved one to die slowly. The roads were packed with sick, angry, frightened people, fighting over anything edible or warm. The very worst of man’s nature was on show. Survival had overtaken compassion, fear and hatred had consumed love. Mobs grew, and ruled the routes with threats, fear and the occasional beatings and even executions. Morally bankrupt criminals were staking their claims for wealth and power in the next reality.

Even eight years prior I had seen nowhere the levels of depravity that I saw now. To say that we had turned into beasts would be an insult to the beasts of this world. The slightest of physical or verbal provocation was taken as a personal attack and justification for a brutality or baseness I had never before heard of let alone witnessed.

Even in my own desperate state I wished to be no part of it, not even an onlooker. I turned around and walked away.

West I headed, not wishing to end up back where I had started, circumventing London and then heading north. I was intent on making my way back up to my homeland, hoping that the familiarity might help cleanse my soul.

I foraged and scavenged and stole what I could. Weak in body and mind I travelled slowly, a tartan blanket pulled around my shoulders against the unseasonable cold through day after day as black almost as night.

It was not until I reached Oxford that I glimpsed a break in the black sky. It was night, and my eye caught a glimmer of light, a far off star which I look to be a sign from my beloved guiding me. Following it I came upon their ruined cathedral where I stopped for the remainder of the night, sleeping beneath an ancient oak pew. Tempted though I was I dared not start even a small fire, scared to draw attention to myself. I did however rip a once beautiful tapestry from the wall to keep myself warm.

The next morning I was rudely awakened by a hand on my shoulder. My fight instinct jumped to life and I sprang to my feet, without thought finding my hands around the throat of my would-be assailant. As I squeezed in what my feral brain assumed was self defence the meagre light showed me the reality of the situation. It was a young woman, looking up at me with rightful fear in her eyes. I removed my hands and stepped back, aghast. The relief came off her in waves as she gasped for breath, and my brain balked at the sin I had almost committed in my newly roused state.

“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. “Please forgive me. You startled me.”

She took a few more breaths and looked up at me. “No it’s for me to apologise Sire, I shouldn’t have tried to waken you, I just wanted to see if you were still alive. So many sick and dying.”

She looked down at the floor.

“Do you by any chance have any food to spare?” she asked meekly.

I rummaged in my pocket and found a few slightly stunted crab apples that I had found the day before. I handed over half of them, which she wolfed down hungrily.

“Thank you my good Sire,” she said as she wiped the errant juices from her lips. I sat down on the pew and she came over to join me.

“I have nothing to give you in return except this,” she said quietly, and taking my hand put it up her long skirt.

I recoiled in surprise. I did however feel that manly stirring that had evaded my senses for a number of days. She took my hand again.

“Am I that ugly and unkempt, Sire? It is all I have to trade. It is the currency for food around here and therefore mine own survival.”

So saying, she hoisted her skirt and lay my cold hand far up her warm thigh, spreading her legs. A gentle aroma of warm womanliness hit my senses.

I looked at her young innocent face as the day got lighter, seeing a once pretty girl beneath the grime. I realised that I myself hadn’t washed in a long time and must look quite a state. I would need to remedy that if and when I could.

“You are by no means unattractive and I meant no disrespect, but I gave freely and asked nothing in return.”

“But I insist. My old mother always taught me to pay me debts.”

My natural base needs fought against the memory of my beloved. Would I be betraying our love if I was to give in to this ancient style of barter? The world was devolving around our ears, and survival was key. Her hand moved to my crotch and the stirrings in my loins told me that resistance was futile. My brain was still not fully awake but my body knew what was needed. Sensing this, she expertly unbuttoned my trousers and lay her lips at my crown. She sighed as her mouth slid over me, and I leaned back allowing her to continue, revelling in the sensation.

“Please Sire, will you choke me again ? It got my heart racing wicked like when you did it a minute ago,” I heard her say as she took her mouth away while still stimulating me manually.

I looked down at her pleading eyes, a beam of coloured light flooding them through a stained glass window. Even in her dirt covered state she looked angelic.

I must have looked as confused as I felt, and she repeated her request.

I had read of the perversion of erotic asphyxiation in my medical journals but had thought it merely an article to help sell copies. But now here I was being asked to participate in such a venture. Well, for Science, I guess …

I nodded vaguely and she took my hand and put it on her throat. She could see that I knew not what was required, so she tightened my grip until she had to fight for each subsequent breathe. Then she manoeuvred her body above me with one foot on either side, hoisted her skirt and impaled herself on me. She was already highly lubricated and worked herself like a prize jockey, quickly stimulating us both to the point of no return and beyond.

As she dismounted, sucking in large gasps of air, she evacuated my spent seed on the ground at my feet, rearranged her skirts and said in a harsh voice, “That was good Sire, now do yourself a big favour and fuck off before I knife you for the rest of them apples.”

The shock must have been obvious on my face because she laughed in a way that told me in no uncertain terms that I had been taken in by thoughts of her being innocent. She drew a long kitchen knife from her pocket.

“Not joking mate,” she hissed, “You’re only alive cos I’m in a happy place cos you’ve got a good cock. Otherwise I would have slit your throat as you cum. Now be on your way before I lose this ‘appy feeling and change me mind.”

I didn’t need to be told a third time. I didn’t even stop to put myself away, but did it on the run. I heard a peel of laughter as I hopped away.

There was a ladies bicycle outside. I had little pride left and stole it, hoping it had belonged to the succubus I left behind. It was not a good fit, and I must have looked ridiculous as I pedalled away with both knees at forty five degrees. However it was a quicker mode of transport than Shanks’ pony.

The countryside was still covered in that grey snow, but it lessened as I neared the industrial city of Birmingham. Even cycling it had been a difficult journey, hiding whenever possible from bands of vagabonds or cycling away as fast as I could from individuals having learned a valuable lesson.

Here I saw my first active tripod since London, searching the city around the ironworks. The city itself appeared mostly intact from a distance, although there was no sign of life. I watched from afar as more tripods appeared, apparently on the hunt.

I didn’t hang around even at this distance, deciding that if I could see them then they could see me. Not surprisingly I decided not to head there, and skirted to the west.

That was my life for the next few weeks - scavenging for food, avoiding large towns, cities and people in general and sleeping when I could.

——

I crossed the border north into my homeland at Gretna Green and headed up past Glasgow, en route to Paisley where I hoped to find some old family.

There were a lot of tripods on view as I passed by the large city, but it was obvious that they were not having an easy job of it. I personally saw two fall from afar in my short trip and there were a large number of burnt out tripod ‘corpses’ littering both sides of the red weed choked river Clyde.

The ship building factories along the river were quiet, husks of half built vessels and abandoned alienesque cranes looming as I made my way west.

I slept for a few hours in the shadow of a massive metal ship skeleton not too far from my destination, waking early with the sun in my eyes. It was nice to see a clear summer sky again and feel the warmth radiating from the sun. The last few weeks had felt more like winter so it was a joyous feeling.

I found an old toiletry building, half destroyed, but with sinks full of rain water. I washed my face in the clean water in one of them, aware that my appearance was weathered to say the very least. I wanted to try and look presentable to my ex in-laws if at all possible.

I stripped to my under garments and washed the worst of the grime from my chest and arms then moved down to my undercarriage. Caught up in my deep thoughts and ablutions I somehow was unaware that a tripod had turned a corner from behind a large warehouse. As I revelled in splashing my gonads with cool clean water for the first time in I knew not how long I noticed its reflection behind me in a wall mirror and looking up through the broken roof to find it leering over me.

They say that there are two normal instincts that present themselves at such times - fight or flight.

I chose a third - freeze.

I knew in that second how it felt to be a coney or a doe caught in headlights.

Fight was impossible, and flight would only draw attention to me. I don’t know anything about the spirituality of animals, but I do know for a fact that I prayed, at least in my head, more intensely in those few brief seconds than I had ever before in my life.

To no avail, however.  The invader spotted me and the large eye-like housings and death-ray appendage quickly turned my way.

I know not where such an instinct was birthed from, but it was most assuredly from absolute desperation. The next thing I knew was that I was holding out the mirror from the wall with no memory of having removed it - holding it up above me like a shield as the tripod fired its death ray down on me. The force of it battered me down onto one knee. I estimate that at least ninety percent of the power and heat of the ray was reflected directly back off the mirror at the tripod, back through the nozzle of the weapon which caused a loud, bright explosion. I peered from behind my shield, but quickly ducked back, protecting myself against a rain of seering metal, burning fuel and chunks of charred gelatinous alien.

Adrenalin coursed through my system and I surged up and ran to the doorway to make sure there were not more of those mechanical beasts in attendance.

Running in my direction from the warehouse whooping and cheering and shouting hallelujahs, were two men and a woman. I assumed from their delight that it had been themselves being hunted by the tripod.

They stopped when they saw me standing  there, and their jaws dropped before erupting in side-hugging laughter.

And that is the story of how I came to be regaled around greater Glasgowshire for a short time as the Doctor Who Kills Martians Wi’ His Baws Oot.