Alexei melts into the shadows behind the figure climbing the steps from the crypt. It's wearing a robe and shuffling drunkenly, and he's about to slide the blade of his knife between its two uppermost cervical vertebrae when he realizes that it is not, in fact, one of the possessed. Which raises some interesting questions. A moment later his gloved hand is covering the climber's mouth and his knife is at her throat. "Say nothing," he grunts, tugging her backwards into the vestry. "You want live, yes? Be silent." The cultist stumbles as he drags her into the shadows, but doesn't say anything. Alexei rolls her to the ground and has her pinioned in a second. "Where is All-Highest?" he demands, in heavily accented but serviceable English.

"Downstairs—with the Eater of Souls—" The young woman stiffens for a moment, then sags bonelessly. Alexei rises, wraps himself in the cloak that she won't be needing anymore, and wipes his knife on the back of her dress. Then he tiptoes towards the steps down to the crypt. If the Eater of Souls is lurking downstairs, he reasons, then it's very probable that what he came for is to be found there. And Alexei doesn't give up easily.

TO THE NORTH, A RED TRUCK CREEPS ALONG A DARKENED AVENUE. Three figures sit atop its roof. One of them holds a white electric violin. Her two guards watch and wonder, entrenching tools raised and ready to shovel mortal remains off the roof should any such encroach. The truck bumps slowly along in low gear, pushing through a sea of withered bodies that sway and jostle slowly. Occasionally there is a crunch or crackle as the truck rolls over bones that failed to get out of its way in time. The driver doesn't speed up or slow down; to stop in the middle of this unnatural crowd is to court disaster, although none of the feeders has so far attempted to climb aboard the OCCULUS truck.

Down in the darkened truck cab Major Barnes rides next to the driver, peering into the darkness for any sign of ambush. He talks into his headset: "Two hundred meters in. Dr. O'Brien, do you see any sign of survivors—"

Mo, atop the cab, raises her bow. "Not right here," she says shortly. The walking dead are undirected; the grounded metal framework of the truck blocks their ability to sense those who ride within, and the warm meat on the cab roof is out of easy reach.