PROSE: Night of the Kraken [Ch. 132, 59]

‘Excuse me,’ he says, addressing the zombies, ‘but can anyone point me in the direction of the nefarious character who has doubtless enslaved you to her, his or its – delete as applicable – implacable will?’
‘That would be me,’ comes a voice from the darkness beyond the ring of closing cadavers.
Then the filthy hands of the undead are upon the Doctor, nails black with grave-dirt clawing at his clothes. He knows that there is no escaping his fate now.
He feels a sharp blow to the back of the head, then nothing more as he blacks out.

[---]

The Doctor blearily opens his eyes, blinking them into focus as he slowly becomes aware of his surroundings. He is slouched against a wall in the corner of a well-lit chamber. Large barrels line the walls along with a number of wooden crates, some of which have straw spilling from them. There are no windows and the air smells damp, so the Doctor assumes that he is underground.
Fortunately his hands are untied and he does not appear to have suffered any lasting damage. He clearly hasn’t regenerated either; running a hand over his face, he discovers that his attack eyebrows are still in place. On the opposite side of the underground storeroom, a passageway leads away into darkness. Next to this stands a makeshift table fashioned from an old door placed across a pair of upended barrels. Standing in front of the table is a man dressed in a long cape, his black hair tied in a ponytail. He has his back to the Doctor.