A man near the back of the congregation yells: “Run for it!” He grabs his robe and legs it in the direction of the doors.
In front of my eyes, on the bed, and everywhere else I can sense around me, the dead are rising.
“ALPHA TWENTY, THIS IS CHARLIE MIKE , DO YOU RECEIVE , over.”
“Charlie Mike, Alpha Twenty receiving you clear, over.”
The Eurocopter EC 135 banks gently as it turns towards Brookwood. Behind it, the streetlights of Guildford sprawl across the North Downs like a gigantic luminous jellyfish, swimming in deep waters; ahead, the ground is dark and peaceful until Woking, another amber-pricked sprawl of suburbia sleeping lightly in the summer night.
“Alpha Twenty, are you in visual range yet, over.”
“Charlie Mike, two miles out and closing. No lights on the ground, over.”
“Alpha Twenty, roger that, we recommend Nitesun. Focus is any parked vehicle on side roads off Cemetery Pales, we’re looking for a Mercedes 500SL, color silver. Over.”
The police sergeant sitting in the backseat with the controls to the infrared camera is peering into his screen, searching the tree-lined darkness for any sign of life. Tracking down the straight boulevard that leads through the park-like cemetery, his eyes are drawn to a row of vehicles parked off to one side of a crescent-shaped side road. “Got vehicles,” he says, tweaking the joystick to turn his camera and zoom on them. “Location, Saint Barnabas Avenue, adjacent to building in clearing to south of road—Jesus!”
The bright pinpoints of bodies are clearly visible on his camera. They’re moving around in the woods northeast of the building, and a couple south of the building—and there are flares, moving fast, bursting like fireworks.
“Alpha Twenty, we see fireworks, repeat, fireworks, numerous parties, situation confused, south Saint Barnabas Avenue. Climbing to flight level twenty, over.”
The ground drops away and the airframe throbs as the pilot pulls up on the collective pitch and climbs at full power. “Roy, what’s going on down there?” he asks over the intercom.
“Not sure, skipper—looks like rockets—” There are dark pinpoint figures down there, what looks like a mob, but they’re not showing up as heat sources. “Something wrong with the camera, damn it. There are people down there but I think the rockets are masking their body heat. Never heard of that—”
“You can use the Nitesun once we’re above three thousand feet. Clear?”
“Got it. Tell me when. Jesus, that was big—they’ve set a tree burning. Oh Jesus fucking Christ I’ve never seen anything like it! Sir, there’s a whole crowd down there, and the idiots with fireworks are aiming at them—”
“Hit the switch when ready, we need to see this.”
The observer hits the power switch on the Nitesun searchlight: thirty-million candlepower dialed to maximum area washes over the churning landscape of the cemetery, turning night into day.
“Alpha Twenty, this is Charlie Mike, do you have a Sitrep, over.”
“Charlie Mike to Alpha Twenty, major incident in progress. Illegal fireworks, also major crowd control issue, vegetation on fire. Center of disturbance is the chapel on Saint Barnabas Avenue but the crowd—they’re everywhere. Is there an illegal rave? Request backup, major incident team, Plan Red, over.”
Half a mile up the road, a red fire-control truck has pulled up just outside the entrance to the cemetery, blue lights strobing; a small army of police cars are streaming in behind it, converging from every point of the compass, breaking the amber-lit monotony of the roads with red and blue flickers. The observer in the back of Charlie Mike zooms in with his FLIR camera, focusing on the crowd, frowning.
“Skipper, I don’t know how to put this, but a lot of the bodies down there—they’re showing up cold. I mean, stone cold. I can see them by Nitesun, but they ought to be in hospital with hypothermia, know what I mean?”
OVER THE CENTURY AND A HALF FOR WHICH IT HAS BEEN OPEN for business, roughly a quarter of a million funerals have been carried out in Brookwood; many more cremations have been held, and many older graves have been disinterred and their occupants moved piecemeal to the ossuaries, but the ground still holds more souls than the nearby towns of Guildford and Woking combined.
The cemetery grounds are churned like newly mown fields, but no birds will chance this terrain in search of earthworms and grubs. Below the helicopter, thousands of eyeless faces look up. They stand where they have risen: strange fruiting bodies sprouting from the decay-riddled earth, in concentric circles that ripple outwards from the Chapel of the Ancient and Honourable Order of Wheelwrights. Their withered faces track the helicopter as it spirals overhead, shattering the night with a thunder of blades. Among them, a handful of warm bodies still move, desperately trying to form a defensive line around the chapel.
But one by one, the pinpoints of warmth and life are going out.
THE STROBING BLUES CAST GHOSTLY SHADOWS ACROSS THE interior of the OCCULUS truck as it sits at the entrance to the graveyard, engine idling. W/O Howe and his paramedic, Sergeant Jude, are sitting over Angleton’s supine body.
“Flatline,” Jude says phlegmatically. “He’s breathing and his heart’s beating, but there’s nobody home. Might be a stroke, but if so it’s a big one.” Jude’s specialty is trauma, especially violent trauma; he’s rusty at this end of the game. “Wish that ambulance would hurry up.”
“It’s too big a coincidence,” Mo says harshly.
“You diagnose enemy action?” asks Barnes.
“Absolutely. We’re on our way to retrieve”—she glances around the cabin—“among other things, a document of binding. And there’s that.” She gestures forward, through the windscreen, at the churning night beyond the gates. “What are the odds that he’d blow a gasket right at the critical moment?”
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:
The dusty counterpane on the altar-bed falls away as the two mummified lover-sacrifices sit up. They glow with the pallid green of bioluminescence from within, their empty eye sockets writhing with a nauseating slow-motion churn as they look around. Bony metatarsals click on the flagstones as they rise to their feet.
A bunch of the cultists are fleeing, making a dash for the iron-studded door. They don’t care whether they end up on Iris’s shit-list; they’re more scared of the walking dead.
A male cultist, still robed and bearing one of their shotguns, is the first to show some balls. He moves into a firing line on one of the rising dead, bringing his gun to his shoulder. He aims, and fire gouts from his weapon. Indoors, reflected and reverberating from stone, a fired shotgun hammers your eardrums with spikes of compressed air as sharp as knives. I see people shouting, and Iris spasms and screams in my grip, but I hear nothing but echoes from that dreadful report. The walking cadaver’s head vanishes in a spray of bone and parchment, but still it stumbles forward, straight towards the shotgun-aiming guard. He stares at it in disbelief, then lowers his aim and fires again, blasting a hole in its thoracic cavity. The truncated revenant falls, but its arms and legs are still moving. Another cultist, one of the ones who stripped for Iris’s disastrous summoning, dances forward, holding up a billet of wood. He smashes it down on the twitching remains, raises it, prepares to bring it down again—
The mortal remains reach out, and one bony fingertip scrapes the inside of his calf.
I can feel what happens. The glory of satiated hunger, the sensual, almost erotic sense of dissolution as the feeder in the night moves from the parched, damaged host to this new playground of sensual corporeality, driving down and digesting its former owner’s identity, submerging him in a tide of white noise.
It only takes a split second. I make eye contact with the possessed one: I recognize the glow at the back of his eyes, a reflection of my own refulgent glory. I nod at the shotgun bearer, who is sidling carefully around the bed, clearly stalking the other cadaver, and mouth “Take him.” The syllables my tongue curls around are not English, nor any other language routinely spoken by human beings. The feeder blinks with delight at being so honored as the vehicle of my will. And then he begins to move.
Perhaps five seconds have passed since the man at the back shouted Run for it and broke for the door.
What Iris and those cultists who aren’t fleeing see is probably something like this:
They see the Eater of Souls, newly risen from his bed, grab their high priestess and whirl her around in a deadly embrace, warning them to stand back. Then the skeletal remains on the bed sit up. One of them stands and begins to advance on the congregants. A guard shoots its head off, then blows the still-walking corpse in half at the waist. A member of the chorus bashes it twice with a length of wood. He freezes for a second—then hurls the timber at the guard’s head and leaps.
The other feeder hobbles out from behind the four-poster bed. It’s halfway up the stepped ring of mattresses, and it’s moving towards the exit. Meanwhile, the mob of terrified cultists have gotten the door open. And that’s when the real panic begins.
Iris is shaking but I force her to turn, holding her so that she can’t look away. “This is your doing,” I shout in her ear, barely able to hear my own voice. Harsh words force themselves through my larynx, words that come without my willing them: “Death waits you! You’re all going to die! You have signed an oath of obedience to your dark master, and with Hell you are in agreement. Death awaits you all!”
Her congregation numbers perhaps thirty to fifty at most, with another eight to ten on guard outside. The Wheelwright dead, in contrast, number in the hundreds, and the honored dead of the Skull Brethren certainly outnumber Iris’s followers. I can feel the feeders waiting outside the door, eager for the warmth they can sense within. Wait for my word of release, I tell them.
(Eager? Sense? I’m not sure those words are applicable to feeders. I’m not sure feeders are conscious in the way that we are—or even as aware as mammals or birds. They’re bundles of rough reflexes, bound together by the strange grammars of night, more like software agents than anything that’s ever had flesh. But if it walks like a lizard and breathes gouts of fire you might as well call it a dragon, and the feeders certainly seem to prefer bodies with a bit of metabolic energy and structural integrity remaining . . .)
Behind me, the first feeder completes his leap, slamming chest first onto the floor with a bone-snapping crack. The shotgun-toting guard is reeling from the thrown baton as the feeder lashes out and grasps him by the trouser hem, yanks him closer, and touches skin to skin as the butt of the shotgun descends with force born of panic.
In front of me, the other feeder lurches towards a robed woman. She’s made of sterner stuff than the ones who are panicking, or perhaps she’s just running her anti-rapist self-defense training script on autopilot: she raises a highly illegal taser, and there’s a snap and a blue flare as she zaps the feeder. The cadaver collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, its rider temporarily banished back from whence it came: beings who are basically patterns of energy bleeding through from a parallel universe to ours don’t respond well to high-voltage electrical noise. A femur goes rolling underfoot among the panicking congregants, triggering a rush to avoid touching it. Wimps, I think contemptuously. Shoot her, I instruct my surviving feeder.
The feeder raises the shotgun, its butt sticky with a mat of blood and hair, and tries to aim it in the general direction of the door, but its musculoskeletal control is patchy—it has taken three hosts in less than thirty seconds, all in different states, and it’s confused. The shotgun pitches up as it clumsily jerks the trigger, and there’s a repetitive stabbing pain in my ears as it blasts away at the ceiling above the crowd.
They’ve got the doors open, and they’re trying to run away. Stop firing, I tell it, as the panicking cultists scramble for the exit. Shut and barricade the door behind them. I can see a hooded female, eyes staring back at me and full of hate; it’s Jonquil. She mouths something—probably some variation on I’ll be back—but she’s not going to stay in a locked crypt with the Eater of Souls, even to save her mummy dearest. That’s the trouble with cultists: no moral fiber to speak of.
Iris tenses as her followers leave, and it’s then that she makes her bid for freedom, stamping hard on the inside of my right shin and trying to elbow me in the guts. “Let me go!” she shouts.
I feel the pain in my leg as if from a great distance, and the elbow in my abdomen is just a mild nuisance. “I don’t think so,” I say, and tighten my grip on her. “You don’t know what’s going on out there,” I add. She keeps struggling, so I force her facedown on her own altar. “You made a really big mistake,” I explain, as the feeder with the shotgun stalks after the last fleeing worshiper, and reaches for the door.
“Fuck you!” she snarls.
The feeder with the shotgun draws the door shut. You may rise now, I call silently to the ones who wait patiently outside, and I feel them begin to stir in their niches, shaking the cobwebs from their uneasy bones.
“You made several procedural mistakes, Iris.” I don’t need to shout now, but my ears are still ringing. “You tried to summon up a preta but it didn’t occur to you to check first to see if it was already incarnate. Which it was, leaving you with an invocation a
nd no target. So it latched onto the first available unhomed soul in the neighborhood, and it just happened to be mine. You’re an idiot, Iris: you bound me into my own body. And you’ve just killed us both.”
She’s still tense but she stops struggling. She’s listening, I think. “You’ve killed me, because I—You know what happens to demonologists who run code in their head? You made a big mistake, giving me time to think about what was happening. Suicide invocations are always among the most powerful, and you put me in the middle of the biggest graveyard in the country, with all that untapped necromantic go-juice. Bet you thought it would make your summoning easier, didn’t you? Well, it worked for me. But I’m dead, Iris. I don’t know how long this binding is going to hold up, and when the field collapses I’ll be just another corpse.”
The ringing in my ears is subsiding, almost enough to hear the muffled banging and screams from outside the door. Oh dear, it sounds as if they want in again. Can’t those people make up their minds?
“I don’t believe you,” she says. “Ford’s report ...”
“Angleton arranged it. He knew we had a leak; Amsterdam proved it, but he’d already spotted the classic signs. He briefed Dr. Mike to put out a plausible line in bullshit, intending to drive you guys into a frenzy of self-exposure. I don’t think he expected you to go quite this far, trying to bind the Eater of Souls and turn it loose inside the Laundry, though.”
She’s shivering. Fear or rage, I can’t tell—not that it matters. Dimly and distantly I realize that fear and rage is what I should be feeling, but all I seem to be able to muster up right now is a vague malevolent joy. Ah, schadenfreude.
Fetch the taser, I tell my minion. I could kill her, but she knows too much. So I need to lock her down until the seventh cavalry arrive, even if I fall apart before then. And maybe get us the hell out of this crypt before the things in the air tonight get loose and come looking for me.
The Fuller Memorandum Page 31
