A marble angel stands at the head of Arthur Fletcher's grave. In her hands, she raises a bird bath to the heavens while, close by, a bulldozer flattens the council run cemetery.

Amid the noise of destruction, men wearing hard hats throw debris into industrial skips. Unseen, the angel grows taller and taller.

Beneath the angel's feet, Arthur Fletcher stirs, his skeleton shifting with new growth that has slept inside his rotting flesh for over twenty odd years.

Green slime pulsates. Amoeba like creatures hatch out. Hundreds of corpses, agitated by external activity, awake and writhe in many graves as yet untouched by demolition.

Rapidly, these creatures grow. Tentacles take shape. Heads like rugby balls enlarge. Hungry mouths yawn into cavernous pits and when the bulldozer draws close, the angel meets the startled gaze of its driver.

Suddenly, the bird bath smashes through the wind screen. Decapitated, the driver's head falls from the cab into the mouth of the first emerging Grunchling. Then the cemetery erupts and thousands of his species slither out from their dark nesting places.

Frantic, slithering on green slime, work men trying to escape, are sucked up by those immense, blubbery mouths and fresh white bones spew out on top of older, greyer ones.

Minutes later, their eating frenzy ends and the Grunchlings move en masse towards the town where, outside the Council Chambers, demonstrators hold up placards, chanting, 'Save our local cemetery.