Ernie backed through the shattered doorway, firing his shotgun till it was empty. He retreated into the church, fumbling in his pockets for fresh cartridges. He had none left.

Phil Robinson sank down into a heap and hugged his knees to his chest, muttering to himself and rocking back and forth. Tara Caddick was crying, holding Jess’ baby close and mumbling to him. He wasn’t crying. Was he dead? Might be lucky if he was. Better than the creatures getting their claws on him.

Milly shook, exhausted. Her throat felt scorched and parched and cracked: she wondered if there was enough time left for a sip of communion wine, assuming there was any around. Funny the places your mind went, at the last.

Reuben chased his tail a couple of times, then darted towards the windows and halted a few yards away, barking furiously. Laura and Noel shouldered their guns, although they were only gestures; Ernie reversed his empty shotgun and held it like a club, then yelped and dropped it; the barrel was too hot to hold. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands and picked it up again.

A pale, spidery shape climbed into one of the empty window frames. Then another, and then another still. Something crawled into the empty doorway and crouched there.

Finished, thought Milly; finished.

And she’d neither breath nor words with which to pray.

The pack sailed towards the altar. For a moment it looked as though it would land directly in the silver fire, but it fell short and landed at the very edge, hitting the stone with a splitting thud that rang out even over the piping and the drumming and the thunder in the earth.

The music stopped. The Dancers and Priests began to swivel slowly towards the source of the noise. The earth groaned and growled; dust fell from above.

Surely the canister must have buckled from the impact, but if any gas was leaking, the silver flame didn’t ignite it, even though the canvas pack had begun to blacken and crumble.

“Go.” Ellie gave Charlotte a push. The girl stared. “Go! Run!”

The Dancers crawled to the edge of the altar. The Priests stood silent, in their masks of buckled skin. And the backpack lay blackening beside the fire.

The earth creaked and groaned; otherwise, the only sound was the thud of Charlotte’s feet in the dust as she ran. Ellie stepped slowly backwards, holding the Ithaca at hip level, hands wet with a paste of sweat and dust. Pull the trigger. Pull the bloody trigger. But the shot would draw the creatures straight to her. A treacherous, coward’s thought: if she didn’t move, made no sound, they’d go after Charlotte instead of her.

Pull the trigger, Ellie. But her finger wouldn’t move. One of the things leapt down from the altar and scuttled across the cavern floor homing in on the prints Charlotte had left.