Alan Barnes thinks for a moment, then nods vigorously. "All right, Doctor, assuming you're correct, how do you think I should deal with the situation? We came expecting to deal with cultists and a possible hostage rescue, not the night of the living dead. There are certain tactical issues to consider." He nods at the windscreen. "Notably, (a) how we get through the crush to wherever our cultists are holed up, (b) how we deal with them when we arrive, bearing in mind that our arrival is not going to be terribly stealthy, and (c) how we get out alive afterwards. I should say that the possessed are your department. We've got a SCORPION STARE interferometer, but that's an area denial weapon—wouldn't do us much good to burn through the walking dead and catch Mr. Howard in the sweep, would it?" He looks at her expectantly. "Do you have any recommendations?"

"Hmm." Mo squints at the windscreen. "If this truck can get close to the chapel—you've got a link to the police helicopter?"

"Yes—why?"

Mo looks up at the hatch in the roof of the driver's cab. "I need to be able to see what's going on," she says. "We need to find the center of this summoning and kill whatever's responsible. Can you give me something to stand on?"

"You're thinking of—" Alan looks at her violin case. "That's not terribly safe."

"Can you think of a better idea?" Mo bares her teeth in something not too unlike a smile. "Because I'm fresh out of subtlety right now."

"As long as we keep moving ahead, and they don't come climbing over the bodywork, it ought to get us in close," Howe says slowly. "Sir, if we ride topside with entrenching tools to keep 'em off her—"

"Very good." Barnes nods jerkily. He looks at Angleton: unconscious but breathing. "We can't wait for the ambulance," he says finally. To Howe: "Off-load him. Jude, you wait with Dr. Angleton. Howe, you want to leave a guard?"

"Sir. McDonald, you're staying with Jude and the doctor until the ambulance shows up. Once he's on his way to hospital, wait here. If the trouble overflows, leg it—we'll pick you up later. Clear?"

McDonald—short, wiry, still dressed as a fireman—nods. "Can do."

"Okay, get the stretcher and jump to it. Williams, get Dr. O'Brien's instrument patched into the external sound system. Scary, collect two shovels and get up top. Let's move it!"

Minutes later the truck rolls slowly towards the gates of Brookwood and the heaving darkness beyond, three figures crouched on its roof. Two of them hold collapsible shovels with sharpened edges; the third clutches something bone-white in her hands. She lowers her bow until it kisses the strings of her instrument. The walking dead turn to listen as Mo plays her lullaby. Beyond them, in the darkness, the screams are getting fainter.

HERE'S WHAT I SEE IN THE CRYPT: