The Revengers;Always the Third Doctor!;Jo Grant;Katy Manning;Jon Pertwee;UNIT;TARDIS;
The Revengers
Episode One
Written by Jeri Massi
My love is a maid as fair as silk;
The lice she carries are white as milk.
She brings down game for food or sport:
Her teeth are long, but her legs are short!
My love, My love!
Fairest one in all the land!
My love! My love!
Thirteen fingers on every hand!
My love is bright as morning dew:
Her lips are green; her tongue is blue!
Her manure makes all the flowers grow;
When night has come, her udders glow!
My love! My love!
Her slender feet have many toes!
My love! My love!
And on for good measure on her nose!
Jo Grant poked her head into the open door of the TARDIS. "Doctor, I must say, that is the most deplorable song I have ever heard!" Her bright dark eyes snapped at him, half in laughter and half in reproach.
The tall, white-haired man at the control console glanced up. He had opened one panel of the hexagonal console, and vast quantities of wire and circuits were piled up around him and were draped like garlands over the piston unit. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He favored his young assistant with a smile.
"Good morning, Jo!" Then he turned to peer into the depths of the open gap in the panels. "So you object to my singing, eh?" Unoffended, he rummaged with his hands in the machine and spoke without looking up: "I'll have you know that song is highly favored in the Garterbra-bra civilisation. On a Spring night, when the chief male gets together with his friends and sings it in their native language, why, it's enough to bring tears to your eyes." He held up a burned bit of gadgetry to the light and surveyed it. "All twenty-two of them, in his case."
She gave a slight stamp of her foot. "Doctor, there is no such place as this Garterbra-bra, and there are no such women that carry lice and have udders that glow in the dark and toes hanging on their nose!"
He walked past her to the open doorway. "Noses," he corrected, and tweaked her nose before walking out into the lab.
"What?" She followed him out.
He turned to look down at her with mock solemnity. "One toe on one nose; many toes on many noses, but no toeses on any noses." And he went to the workbench. She went after him. One consequence of her acceptance with the Doctor and his fondness for her was that he loved to tease her, not unkindly, but with ridiculous stories that he stretched as far as possible. They had a sort of rivalry over who would give in first on his tall tales.
"You know there's no such place," she exclaimed. "You make up all that nonsense just to see how much I'll believe!"
The workbench was nearly as cluttered as the console had been. He sorted through some tools. "Jo, there is such a place as Garterbra-bra."
"That's not even a real word. A linguist would see right through you."
He stopped as though affronted. He turned to her, lifted a haughty eyebrow, and called her bluff. "Well go on then, call a linguist!"
She had to fight hard to hold back a smile at his face. "I don't know any linguists. Would you like some tea?" she asked.
"Look one up in the telephone book!" He chucked her under the chin and grinned at her.
"They don't list linguists!" She shot a saucy look at him and went past him to pour tea.
"Are there muffins?" he asked.
"Only for people who don't sing ridiculous songs!"
Unabashed, he crept up behind her while she tended to the electric teapot at the rickety table by the enormous sink. Deftly, he reached around her and nicked a muffin from the plate. She glanced at him. Without any apparent remorse, he demolished half of it in the first bite.
"I say, you are hungry!" She passed him a mug of tea. "Making up phony love songs must work up an appetite."
He finished the muffin in another single bite and glared at her. "I did not make up that song! I translated it years ago. During my literary phase."
The claim surprised a laugh out of her. She took up her tea with her left hand. "You're simply incorrigible. I give up."
"You'll have to accept me for the lout that I am." Noting that she left the muffins behind, he picked up the plate and followed her to the workbench. He set it down near her, took a long drink of his tea, and then smiled down at her. "How are those cuts and bruises, eh? Anything still bothering you?" And he brushed aside her bangs with his hand.
She beamed up at him. "Not too bad. My arm is still twinging. I think I must have bashed it crawling through that air duct at the naval base."
He set down his mug. "Let's see." She offered him her right arm, and he bent the arm at the elbow. "Hurt?"
"Twinges. Right on the muscle at the back of my arm."
"That's the tricep." He gently encased her arm in his hand, the flat of his palm against the tricep, and flexed the elbow again with his other hand. "No tears. Probably a bruise on the muscle." He frowned at the arm and then cocked his head. "A little physical training would do you no harm, Jo," he said. "Are you eating right?"
She became indignant. "Are you suggesting that I'm overweight?"
"Quite the opposite." Still holding her arm above the elbow, he encircled her wrist with his other hand. "I know you're not very big, but I would say you're losing weight." He released her wrist and slipped his hand up behind her jaw, palpating the lymph glands in her neck.
She shrugged. "A few pounds. Never hurts."
"Yes it does, in fact. We're overworking you." He released her arm and took her face in both hands, checking the glands at her throat on both sides. "Slight swelling. Nothing serious. Yet."
"Doctor---"
"You're got a mild case of overwork, Jo. Exhaustion. Call it what you like. That's why that bruise isn't getting any better, and why you're taking off weight. You're running a low fever, too."
He peered critically at her, looking at the coloring of the whites of her eyes. She made her eyes big with mischievous hope and peered back at him. "You could take me to breakfast. A proper breakfast," she said.
He straightened up. "I think I will! I've kept you cooped up too long!"
To her surprise, he swept up his cloak from the coat stand. "Nestenes and Daemons and Sea Devils! You need proper meals and a few decent nights of sleep. I mean to have a word with the Brigadier about your schedule. Come on!"
* * * *
"If I had the TARDIS working," the Doctor said much later as she sipped coffee and leaned back into a cushiony chair of the small restaurant they'd found. "I could take you to Floriana. It's a resort planet. Great calm oceans of water, all effervescent. The bubbles hold you up. A little like swimming in champagne!"
"Would certainly be better than the miserable cold we've got now," she said. She pushed away her empty plate. The restaurant was warm and cozy, hung in every corner with overflowing potted plants. Heavy, well painted beams supported the ceiling. But out front, the cold gray light of morning showed that it would be a chilly, damp day.
"Are you sensitive to the cold?" he asked suddenly.
She frowned. "I don't know. I suppose it has bothered me lately."
He took up her wrist to check her pulse. "I wish you would stop worrying," she said. "Two or three days rest, and I'll be fine."
"A week's rest, and then half days," he told her. "I'm not joking, Jo. You've suffered a great deal of trauma and stress over the last---how many months has it been?"
"Eighteen months of earth time," she told him.
"Yes, and in that time you've been bashed about, kidnapped, imprisoned, tied up, threatened with every weapon imaginable . . . . You need some rest and restoration." His voice was calm, but his eyes were anxious. She was surprised. The Doctor could be thoughtless to the point of complete oblivion of others, even her. Such concern from him was new, and alarming. He saw that she was suddenly worried.
He smiled ruefully, reading her thoughts. "I can use up my friends if I'm not careful, Jo. Not that I like to admit such things They get all swept up into whatever it is that has swept me up. But sometimes it's too much for them. And I often don't realize it until too late." He brushed back her hair. "I don't want to wear you down. I want you to be well and safe and happy with me."
"I am happy with you," she insisted.
"Take one week off," he said coaxingly. "We'll meet for tea every day if you like. All right? And then half days for a couple weeks after that."
"The Brig will never go for that."
"He may. I want you in the lab for half days because I need you there in the mornings, but I have plans for you in the afternoons."
"Plans?"
"Yes. Some fitness training," he said. He leaned back and took up a piece of toast. "Build those muscles a bit. Give you some energy."
She leaned back and her mouth dropped open. "You're not serious!"
"I am serious." In spite or having consumed the plate of muffins at the lab and an enormous breakfast at the restaurant, he munched the toast. Then he said. "A week of rest, and then some adequate training. Do you a world of good." He took up his cup. "We'll go see the Brigadier right away and get it arranged."
* * * *
Two hours later, alone in the lab, the Doctor settled down to continue sketching out his new dematerialisation circuit. But the electric clock on the wall buzzed softly to itself every minute on the minute as it ticked over one increment. He had never noticed this before, and he found it very annoying. As he tried to work, he found himself listening for the buzz and the click of the minute hand advancing. It began to get on his nerves.
He set down the sketchpad and decided that it was impossible to work with the entire work bench in such a state of disorganisation. Since Jo was taking the week off, he would have to clean it up himself. He carried the oscilloscope back to its place on the shelf and set it down among the rest of the clutter of gadgetry. Then he returned for more. A hopeless tangle of leads, logic circuit bits, and capacitors was knotted into the breadboard. He picked it up and looked at it regretfully. He could not even remember what he had been working on, and he certainly did not feel enthusiastic about disassembling the jumble of pieces.
"Doctor? How are you getting along?" The voice of Mike Yates nearly made him jump, but the Doctor recovered quickly and caught back the snappish reply he might have made.
He turned and beamed at the young Captain. "Fine, Mike, fine," he said.
Yates glanced around the silent lab. "Awful quiet without Miss Grant."
"Not so bad. Bit of peace might be nice for a change. And she needs her rest." The time lord tried to sound casual. "Care for some tea?"
"Wish I could. When I heard that Jo got a week off, I decided to invite her out to Creamer's tonight," he said. "I'm off shift in another hour. Just need to write up my report, and then get my dinner jacket pressed."
"You're taking her out?" the Doctor asked.
"Certainly. She loves to go out. See you!"
The Doctor went to the door as Yates strode away. "She's supposed to be resting!" But Yates was already clattering up the steps to the duty office on the main floor and did not hear him.
The Doctor returned to the lab and sat down on one of the high stools. He picked up the breadboard and ripped the knot of wires off of it, and then threw it down. The phone beeped.
It annoyed him. People were always calling when he was trying to get work done. He let it trill at him again, but he began to relent. The call just might be important. He scooped up the slim receiver. "Hallo?"
The Brig's voice was terse and crotchety. "I want you to look at a dead body, and I don't have time for arguments. Got a pathologist in a panic."
"Any dead body, or somebody in particular?"
"The city morgue. You know it well. Get down there as quick as you can. The fellow is practically babbling about a possible virus. Something about protein plaques."
"In the brain of the cadaver?"
There was a pause of surprise, and then the Brigadier said, "Well yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?"
"It's Alzheimer's Disease, Brigadier. Not very well understood yet on your planet. Most often confused with senile dementia. I'll go down, but I don't think the fellow has found anything infectious."
"Let me know what you find."
The Doctor cradled the receiver and called, "Jo, we've got---oh, never mind."
He went to the coat stand, got his cloak himself, and left.
* * * *
In the theatre at the morgue, the Doctor donned gown, gloves, mask, and went in with the similarly attired chief pathologist, a middle-aged man named Breed.
The body was waiting for them, draped under a sheet, the head uncovered and turned to rest on its right cheek, as though the dead man were looking away from them. Most of the skull had been sectioned off, leaving the ear and cheekbone untouched. The brain had been incised.
Dr. Breed removed the membranous protective wrap and glanced at the Doctor. "You see the damage done. It is visible to the naked eye."
The Doctor peered more closely at the lesions in the brain. "Acute cause of death?"
"Gunshot wound."
The Doctor turned in surprise to the pathologist, whose face was unreadable behind the sterile mask. "Discovering the lesions was entirely accidental, merely a part of removing the bullet that killed him," Breed said.
UNIT's scientific advisor resumed his examination. "Any idea who this poor fellow was?"
"Not much, sir. His body was found in the small bit of garden at the back of his flat. Neighbors at work; brother at work, sister-in-law not home. The police are looking into it."
"Did he live with his brother and sister-in-law?"
"It's not really relevant, is it, Doctor?" Breed asked. "What we have to determine is what caused these lesions."
"Find the killer, and you may get closer!" the Doctor snapped, but he returned to the dead man. "Hand me that visor, will you?"
Breed passed him a visor equipped with magnification lenses. The Doctor slipped it on and peered more closely at the brain. The bullet wound had been flushed and was clean. He pushed it with his fingers, distorting the hole and peering into it.
"They go right down the cerebral cortex," he muttered. "We'll need some Congo Red dye and some samples of the brain tissue."
He straightened up and stripped off the visor. "Neurofibrillary deposits have caused amyloid plaque build up along the cerebral cortex. That is certain. But the pattern of the lesions are not typical of Alzheimer's Disease."
"And he's a bit young for Alzheimer's," Breed added. "Not thirty."
"Environmental factors can hasten the beta-A4 peptide breakdown and cause early onset of Alzheimer's," the Doctor told him. "But it is unlikely."
"Do you think we're dealing with an infectious illness? A transmittable viral disease?" Breed's eyes were anxious over the white mask, and the Doctor understood why the man had brushed aside the issue of murder having been done. The prospect of a brain disease was terrifying, especially if it were highly contagious.
"I don't know. We'll have to take a look at the samples through a microscope to positively rule out Alzheimer's and any other known amyloidosis."
* * * *
Hours later, wearing a shirt and trousers much too small for him, the Doctor cautiously peered around a corner in the back hallway at UNIT HQ. He stealthily and quickly slipped up the hall, feeling ridiculous and exposed in the sandals, high trousers, and excruciatingly tight shirt.
"Ah Doctor! I say---" Brigadier Lethbridge Stewart cut himself off as the Doctor slipped past him and leaped into the sanctity of the lab. Instantly, the Brigadier followed him.
"What the devil have you got into?" he asked. "You look like an organ grinder's monkey!"
"Shut the doors, Brigadier, if you don't mind!" the Doctor snapped. "I rather dislike the idea of being mistaken for a marionette in a puppet theatre!"
Lethbridge Stewart closed the door to the lab. The Doctor disappeared inside the TARDIS. Ten minutes later, clad in narrow trousers, a white starched shirt, and his green velvet waistcoat, he re-emerged, the other clothing over his arm.
"What happened?" the Brigadier asked.
"We had to take extreme measures in case of disease," the Doctor told him. "My clothing had to be sealed and specially cleaned. Dr. Breed lent me a shirt and trousers of his own, but it was hardly a good fit."
"What did you find?" The Doctor sat down on a lab stool and looked around for Jo to ask for tea. Then he remembered and let out a regretful sigh. He got up and went to the great lab sink where she kept the tea things.
"The fellow was killed by a gunshot wound, and I want to look further into that," he said. "He must have been suffering from dementia. We found lesions in the brain and deposits---plaques if you like---along the cerebral cortex."
"So, was it this Alvin's Disease you suggested?"
"Alzheimer's," the Doctor said. He filled up the electric tea kettle and shook his head. "I don't think so. Similar in effect, but could have a very different cause."
"Any threat of public danger?"
"Possibly." He set the teakettle down on the rickety deal table nearby and plugged it in to the extension cord. "Too early to say. The blood work is still being done, and I brought back some samples of brain tissue for testing, but testing will take time. I'll be working in the TARDIS."
He pulled down two mugs from the small shelf over the sink, passed them to the Brigadier, and took down the glass canister of tea bags. "What we need to do is review the diagnosed cases of senile dementia over the last six months. Some of them may have been misdiagnosed. Can you spare me a clerk to do the digging? I'll need the information as quickly as possible." He dropped the limp tea bags into the mugs and returned the canister to its place.
"I'll have Sgt. Benton assigned to you."
"Right then, I'll be off to the police to check into the criminal aspects of the case. Have Benton start checking 'round the hospitals and collecting records."
The Brigadier poured their tea. "Should UNIT be officially sticking its oar into this?" he asked.
The Doctor paused, and then nodded. "I think so. It may come to nothing. But then again it could be a threat that we have not anticipated."
"What's the most likely cause for these plaque things in the brain?"
"Poison," the Doctor told him. "Something highly toxic."
* * * *
Mike Yates found it slightly annoying at dinner that night that Jo was so anxious and on edge. She and he had been to pubs before and even had a running tally of draughts victories against each other. But here, in a formal setting, she was self conscious and ill at ease with him.
It made it worse that she was wearing that black velvety dress with the laced up bodice and the choker at her throat. In spite of the sheen of white blousing under the bodice that swept up over her shoulders and added an almost nun-like effect to the dress, the entire outfit made her seem both sweet and sensual. Her dark, bright eyes, made brighter by the candles on the table, might have been the eyes of some elusive fairie creature, now nervous under his glance, vulnerable, and yet capable of effusive, enthusiastic warmth and laughter. He tugged at the tie around his throat. He was suddenly too warm and had forgotten what they were talking about.
"I say," he finally blurted out as the waiter set their soup down. "We're a fine pair tonight, Miss Grant. Not cutout for the high life, are we? I'd have done better to take you down to Hunting's for beer and sandwiches."
"No, Mike, this is lovely," she said quickly.
"Let's choke it down and get out of here," he told her. "We'll nip back to your place so you can change clothes, and I'll get rid of the tie and jacket. We can be at Hunting's by nine."
He was being sincere with her. If a romantic dinner could not win her, he would gladly settle for their friendship. But Jo's next comment nearly ruined even that last refuge of his enjoyment. "I suppose I just miss the Doctor and the lab. I do hate to be out of the loop."
"There's more to life than UNIT and the Doctor, Jo." He was sorry as soon as he said it, and he knew it was a tactical blunder. Before she could make reply, he added hastily, "I mean, you're supposed to be taking a rest. It's not much good you're worrying yourself when you're the one who needs to recover, right?"
It was her turn to look annoyed, but then she gave in. "I suppose you're right, but it's awfully hard to know what to do with myself."
"Didn't the Doc want you to start some weight training?" Mike asked. "Have you found a gym?"
"No. I don't even know where to look."
He brightened. "Ah! I can help you out, there. There are lots of little weight rooms in town. I'll show you 'round. Tomorrow, if you like."
* * * *
"Well now, how was your first day off?" The Doctor stood and poured the tea. Jo realized that he missed her. She was far better at reading him these days, and she could see the happy light in his eyes as he contemplated an hour or so of her company.
He was such an odd mix: so ferociously independent at times, and yet so completely unable to bear solitude and loneliness. It had surprised her several weeks ago when he had taken her along on his jaunt to visit the Master in prison. She had supposed that the two time lords would prefer to converse without humans around, even in those circumstances. Yet he had never sent her off to wait for him. Jo had realized the Doctor's sense that she was a part of him now, especially when they had walked into the cell to see the Master. It was no longer the Doctor's view that he alone was the rival to the evil timelord; rather, he and Jo together were the adversaries against the Master.
The Doctor sat down and passed the plate of sandwiches to her. "I'm having a lovely rest, really," she told him. "Had dinner last night with Mike and a grand time at Hunting's."
"He didn't keep you out late, did he? You're supposed to be resting."
"I got in before one, and then I had a late lie-in this morning. Didn't get up until it was time to get ready to come to lunch with you!"
Satisfied, he beamed his approval at her. "That's the way to do it! Late nights and late mornings if you like!"
"You do worry, Doctor." She passed the sandwiches to him. They had this corner of the tea room to themselves, though there were other customers at some of the other tables. "Mike's taking me around to some health clubs and gyms later today," she told him.
"Excellent!"
"Is anything going on at the lab?"
He shrugged as he swallowed a finger sandwich without much chewing. "Bit of pathology work. Probably a great fuss about nothing."
She hesitated and ate one of the little triangles of bread and filling before she said, "Sort of lonely, not being there."
He glanced at her, his eyes thoughtful, and he swallowed two more of the little sandwiches in succession. "So dinner with Yates is not as much fun as sweeping up the lab and keeping things organised?" And he smiled.
She smiled, too, but she said, "No, not really."
The great, quiet eyes flickered with some thought of his own, and then he turned to his food. "You do need a rest, Jo. I wonder if we can get more of these. They don't fill a person up very well, do they?"
* * * *
In the late afternoon, Mike Yates picked up Jo at her flat and took her to the best weight room that he knew.
It was a long, low building that shared space on one side with a small appliance repair shop. The weight room side of the building had a desk in the front room, two dressing rooms off to the side, and the vast, open floor space of the weight room beyond it. The carpet was a worn, shiny, indoor-outdoor material held together in places by duct tape. But it was perfectly clean. The many mirrors out on the main floor sparkled, and there was no litter anywhere.
A powerfully built man wearing sweat pants that had been cut off above the knee and a tight, white tank top that revealed bulging pectorals, shoulders, and arms hurried to the front as he saw them. His body was like that of a young man, but Jo saw that he had thinning hair streaked with gray, and his face was lined. His jaw dropped at sight of Jo, and then he collected himself.
"What can I do for you?" he asked Mike, but he kept his eyes on Jo. Rather then being offended, she had to try not to smile. She got the idea that not many women frequented the place, and in the man's face was the honest surprise of being caught completely off guard. The fact that he also evidently thought her pretty did not bother her.
"My friend here was wondering if she could take a look 'round," Mike told him. "Do you give a discount for military?"
"Are you in the military, Miss?" the man asked.
"Yes," Jo said. And she smiled.
He suddenly relaxed and smiled. "Need a bit of beefing up? Got to pass a fitness test?"
"Something like that," she said.
"Right then. You just call me Len. I'll show you the weights."
He led them back to the large, open room. At this time of day there were not many people working out. A few men, clad in ragged, loose clothing, pumped dumb bells up and down at some of the stations.
"It's all quite clean," Len told them. "The weights are old; the machines are old, but we keep the cables new. Nothing fancy, but if you want a good, hard workout for a low price, this is the place."" He turned to her. "Except there's only a woman's loo. I mean, no showers for the women."
"You don't have many women customers?" she asked.
"Every now and then. Not often. They prefer the women's health clubs. Pitiful waste if you ask me: dancing around instead of working their muscles systematically."
She stated the obvious. "Perhaps they're afraid of becoming muscular." Mike nodded in agreement with her observation.
Len smiled at her and was suddenly parental. "Not much danger of that, Miss. It's testosterone that makes big muscles. If you was to push weights hard for an hour a day, you might just raise your testosterone level a bit, but you would never even get to the lowest levels for a man. Men have a hundred times more testosterone than women."
"So I could lift weights and never get stronger?" she asked.
"Oh, you'd get stronger. In the first six weeks you'd probably double your strength and then level off for a bit before you started to make regular gains. But you wouldn't be able to do this." And he flexed his enormous arm for her. His biceps had to be nineteen inches. The veins stood out on his arm. He smiled at her and pretended not to see Mike. "And why should you?" he asked her. "God gave women grace, didn't He? Lifting weights will make you strong and fit." He lowered his arm. "But it won't make you a man. Take a look at this station if you like."
He led them to a bench that sat under an upright, single rack. A stripped bar used for chest presses lay across the rack. "Now you just lie on that bench if you like, and we'll see how you do with 20K," he told her.
Jo understood what a bench press was. She complied, genuinely interested to see how much she could lift.
"This is about 44 pounds," he told her. He came and stood at her head, his strong fingers under the bar. "Go ahead and lift off and let's see how you do. I'll catch it if it comes down."
She grasped the bar, but he stopped her and showed her how to space her hands evenly. Then she lifted. For a moment she thought that the bar would come down on her, but she pushed up.
"Good girl! Now lower it gently, and take in your breath evenly as you bring it down. Bring it right to your sternum, but don't touch it to your chest."
He was still over her, his hands ready to take it up if she should lose control of it. Oddly enough--to her---it was easy to control the bar coming down, until she got it within inches of her sternum. Then it was difficult to lower it with the same steady motion. But she managed it.
"That's the sticking point. Now push it back up, and exhale as you go." She did, found that it was difficult to make the lift for the first few inches, but then it became easier. She extended it all the way up.
"Aye, you're a natural. If you don't mind my saying so, Miss, a woman's graceful even when she's lifting weights. They understand the principal of the lift even better than men do at first."
Her coached her through several repetitions until her arms and chest were trembling and she could not get it up past the sticking point. He took the bar and effortlessly set it on the rack. Mike helped her up.
"Good job!" Len told her. "That's exercising to failure, when you keep at it until you just can't complete the next rep. The muscles are completely spent. Come on then, I'll show you the basic exercises."
He led them around for the next hour. Mike and Jo had intended to visit several gyms, but by the end of the tour, she decided that she likely could not do any better than this. She paid her first month's dues. At the desk, Len carefully filled out a membership card for her, pressed it between sheets of laminating paper, and trimmed it down.
He beamed with pleasure as he handed it to her. For some reason, having her sign on seemed to make him especially proud. "You come back next time and we'll work out a training schedule for you," he told her. He was interrupted by some sort of melee out on the floor. Somebody was screaming terribly.
"Mike!" Jo exclaimed.
Len turned quickly, his youthful body suddenly fluid in spite of the bulky muscles. "No Jimmy!" he yelled. A younger man, older than Mike but younger then Len, suddenly broke free from two other men who were trying to restrain him out on the floor. Like them, he was dressed for lifting weights. He suddenly seized a short bar used for tricep exercises, hefted it like a staff, and raced directly for Len.
Mike and Jo were both on the other side of the desk and should have been safe. Len ducked as the other man swung the bar down. It rammed into the top of the doorframe between the desk and the weight room.
"Jimmy, stop! Stop!" he exclaimed. He tackled the younger man around the middle. "Some of you help me!" he shouted. He tried to force the man down to the floor. The two other men ran to assist. Before Mike or Jo could even move, the younger man somehow rolled Len aside, tried to club him with the bar but was again blocked by the doorframe, and then saw Jo.
He fixed his eyes on her, gave out another horrible scream, and leaped right past Len, who grabbed at him and fell. Jo jumped back to get out the door, but tripped backward against a row of folding chairs against the front wall. She fell into them. The man was incredibly strong and agile. He leaped onto the desk and brought the iron bar down as he jumped down on her, determined to crush her skull.
