Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Buffy Season4 02 (8 page)

“Ooh, I love kittens. We know just what to do with kitties, don’t we, Spike?” There was bloodlust in Spike’s eyes. “Oh, we certainly do, pet. We certainly do.” Harmony stared at Drusilla. “You don’t hurt kittens. Tell me you don’t hurt kittens.” Dru seemed shocked. “Only when I’m hungry. I’m not a monster.” It took Buffy only a heartbeat to calculate the odds. These three behind her, three more in front. Parker’s Mercedes was hemmed in on both sides. Six of them. She’d killed six at once before. More than that, in fact.

But not
these
six.

Harmony and the stranger wouldn’t be a problem. But Buffy knew from experience that Clownface and Bulldog were tough enough. Spike and Drusilla, though, that was the final nail.
I’m not ready. Not now.
The world had changed and she had to find her place in it. At the same time, she knew that another world awaited her in the past, a place … a home … where she was desperately needed. She had to return there.

What had she told Faith, so long ago? The first rule of slaying:
Don’t die.
Once the decision was made within her, Buffy acted in an instant. She ratcheted around, fired a crossbow bolt at Spike. He snatched it out of the air, and then glared at her as though his feelings were hurt.

Buffy dove across the unconscious Parker, who slid off the horn. She popped open the door, then used her prodigious strength to shove him out onto the pavement. Her bag dropped onto the seat beside her with the crossbow, and she reached into it for one of the stakes she had made. The vampires saw that she intended to flee, and rushed at the car.

“Dammit, Buffy! I never took you for a coward,” Spike snapped at her. “I’m disappointed.” Buffy slammed the Mercedes into reverse and floored the gas. Spike and Drusilla had learned to be fast. It was part of the reason they had stayed alive as long as they had. They split up, each diving out of the way of the car in opposite directions.

Harmony stood frozen behind the car, her mouth open as though she were somehow offended. The Mercedes slammed into her, drove her back with all the horsepower the engine had. The car crashed broadside into the van with Harmony in the middle. There was a sickening crunch and she screamed, a shriek so wild and agonized that it seemed to be tearing her throat apart. Buffy spun the wheel to the right in order to avoid running over Parker, dropped it into drive, and floored it again. Spike and Drusilla had gotten up and were rushing at her from either side, but the tires spun under the Mercedes, laying a black rubber patch on the pavement, and the car lurched forward, away from them.

Behind her, Harmony tumbled to the ground, the top and bottom of her body only connected by torn flesh and a crushed spine. Her upper torso twitched as though she were having a seizure, but her legs lay still.

In the rearview, Buffy caught a glimpse of Spike and Drusilla running to their van. The Mercedes raced around to one side of the van in front, but the other three vampires were there already, coming for her. Buffy lifted up the crossbow in her right hand, targeted the one she did not recognize, and fired even as he leaped toward the car. The bolt found its mark and the monster dusted, orange-blazing eyes the last to disintegrate.

Buffy tossed the empty crossbow into the backseat as Clownface jumped onto the hood of the Mercedes at the last possible moment. Then Bulldog leaped onto the trunk and tossed himself into the backseat. The Slayer swore loudly.

Her right hand gripped the stake that lay beside her.

With all her strength, she stomped on the brake.

Clownface sailed off the hood and rolled onto the pavement, even as Bulldog was thrown into the front seat. The pug-faced vampire slammed his head against the dashboard, but struggled to right himself. Buffy punched the stake through his heart and he imploded, scattering dust all over the upholstery. She accelerated again. Just as Clownface was getting up, Buffy ran her down. The car rocked as she drove right over the vampire, and then she was away, leaving them behind. Spike and Drusilla gave chase in the van, but they had no hope of catching up to her. Not in the Mercedes. Clownface wasn’t dead. Buffy knew that. But three out of six wasn’t bad for a girl who was only trying to get away.
Maybe I should have stayed,
she thought. But she pushed the idea away.
Priorities.
A few miles and a left turn out of view, and she had lost Spike and Drusilla. As she drove through the darkness, streetlights flashing across her face, Buffy kept an eye out for other gray vans, or any vehicle that might try to get in her way.

She had gotten away, but she wasn’t free. Not until she had traveled beyond the area Camazotz controlled. And Buffy had a feeling that was not going to be easy.

The houses on Redwood Lane reminded Buffy painfully of the neighborhood where she had lived during high school. Perfectly groomed lawns, a smattering of trees—though none of them redwoods—and a minivan or SUV in every driveway. She had abandoned the Mercedes three blocks away, and as she skulked along from house to house, it unnerved her how silent they were. No loud voices, no radios. The few lights inside barely showed through the curtains and shades drawn across every window.

Six miles from the center of town, and still no one dared breathe loud enough to attract the vampires’

attention.

Halfway down the block, Buffy paused in front of an imposing Spanish-style house, and put her back against the stucco just beside a side window. From within, she could just barely hear a television set. In the driveway sat a Volvo sedan, maybe three or four years old. She hesitated only for a moment. Then she slipped around the back of the house and across the patio to the rear door. A heavy wooden door, not a glass slider. That was good. Less noise. Buffy kicked the door open and the three locks on it splintered the frame with a tearing of wood. It crashed open, the sound echoing out into the night. She only hoped that, locked up tight in their homes, no one would hear it.

“Oh God, no!” someone cried within the house.

Buffy rushed through the kitchen and into the living room where a haggard looking couple in their late forties cowered in a corner by the television set.

“How… we didn’t invite you in!” the man shouted, panicked. They thought she was a vampire.

“No,” Buffy said, both hands up as she approached them. “Just sit tight, right there, and I won’t hurt you. I swear I won’t. Cooperate, and maybe I can even get you out of here.” They stared at her as though she were mad.

“Where’s the phone?”

“What do you mean out of here? You’re not trying to leave, are you?” the woman said, horrified.

“You
want
to stay?” Buffy asked. “Where’s the phone?”

“On the wall in the kitchen,” the man said. “You passed right by it. But please don’t talk to anyone like this on our phone. They’ll hear you. They’ll think we’re involved.” Buffy had already started back toward the kitchen, but paused at his words. She turned to stare at him again.

“What do you mean ‘they’ll hear’?”

“They listen,” the woman replied.

With a sigh, Buffy shook her head. “Of course they do. Can’t have anybody spilling the blood-soaked beans, now, can we? Still, they can’t listen to every phone twenty-four hours a day. They’ve got you scared ‘cause you never know when they’re listening.

“Look, it doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll be gone by the time anyone can get here.” She regarded them closely. “I’m Buffy. What are your names?”

The couple exchanged a tired, frightened glance. The woman stood up first, followed by her husband, but they kept their distance.

“I’m Nadine Ross. This is my husband Andrew.”

“Nice to meet you. Sorry about the door. Come into the kitchen.” Buffy led the way, and the Rosses followed. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the breakfast table. They slid chairs out and stood gazing at her anxiously as she picked up the phone.

There was a strange clicking sound before the dial tone.

Buffy stared at it for a second. Of all the phone numbers she knew by heart, most of them would be useless now. Her mother’s. The numbers of all her friends in Sunnydale. But there were two others, one that she had used only a few times, and another she had never even dialed, yet she knew both of them by heart.

The first was a Los Angeles number. Angel’s number. Holding her breath, Buffy dialed, but the number was out of service. She closed her eyes and held the phone against her forehead.
Where are you, Angel?

“Please,” the woman whispered behind her.

Ignoring her, Buffy dialed information for Los Angeles. She asked for the number for Angel Investigations, but the operator said there was no listing under that name. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?

Again, no listing. Cordelia Chase?

Unlisted.

As disappointed as she was, this last bit of information fanned a tiny spark of hope in Buffy’s chest. It might be unlisted, but Cordelia had a phone number. Somewhere in this insane world, someone she knew still lived.

Buffy thumbed a button on the phone to disconnect, then waited for a new dial tone. There was only one other number she might call for help. It was a long sequence. Time might have caused part of it to change. Given that she had only memorized it, but never used it, she feared that she might have gotten it wrong.

Her chest rose and fell more quickly as she punched in the numbers. She felt the eyes of the people whose home she had invaded, and she shifted uncomfortably under their fearful, accusing gaze. Somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic, a phone began to ring. Buffy let out a shuddering breath of relief as the tinny sound reached her ears. There was a click as the call was answered.

“Yes?”

The voice was British. Buffy had never heard such a welcome sound.

“This is Buffy Summers.”

A pause, a harsh intake of breath. “That isn’t funny. Who is this?”

“Who the hell is this?” she snapped, angry and frustrated. “Put Quentin Travers on the phone!” Another pause. “Dear God, it really is you, isn’t it? My name is Alan Fontaine, Miss Summers. Quentin Travers is dead. Where are you?”

“Behind enemy lines and headed south,” she said. “Can you help?”

“Hold on.”

She heard a muffled sound and assumed he had put a hand over the phone. Dull voices could be heard, and a moment later, Fontaine came back on the line.

“Do you know Donatello’s? An Italian restaurant just off your one-oh-nine freeway?” Buffy thought about it, found a vague recollection of the place. “I think so.”

“That’s the border. We can have an extraction team waiting for you there. One hour.”
One hour,
Buffy thought. A smile spread across her face. One hour, and then she could begin to make sense of this insane world, this horrid future.

“If I’m not there it means I’m dead,” she replied. “Oh, and this line is bugged. There could be a Welcome Wagon there waiting for me and for your team.”

“One hour,” Fontaine repeated. “And Buffy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

He hung up, and before she could do the same, Buffy heard a series of rapid clicks on the other end. Though she knew there was no way the vampires could monitor all calls at all times, a dreadful certainty filled her that they had listened to at least part of
this
call. One hour.

She hung up the phone and turned to the Rosses. They flinched, and would not meet her gaze.

“Keys to the Volvo. Now.”

Andrew Ross shook a bit as he stood to face her, face growing red. “Just a goddamn second. Maybe you scare me. Hell, you kicked in a door with three dead-bolts in it. But I’m not just going to hand you my keys.”

“Are you kidding?” Buffy asked, amazed. “I’m not going to leave you two here. You’re coming with me.”

“They’ll kill us,” Nadine hissed, scandalized.

Andrew crossed his arms defiantly. “We’re not going anywhere.” Buffy gaped at them. After a moment, she shook her head in astonishment. “All right, look, I’m not going to make you come. The last thing I need is to wrestle with people I’m trying to help. And maybe you’re right, maybe you’re safer here until the nest is destroyed. But I need your car, and I’m taking it.

“Now, keys.”

“They’ll… they’ll think we helped you,” Andrew stammered. With a sigh, Buffy strode across the room and decked him. She pulled the punch, but it would leave a hell of a bruise. Andrew moaned as he sat up on the linoleum. Nadine just stared at them both.

“Now
they won’t think you helped by choice. I don’t have time to be nice. Give me the keys.” Nadine hurried across the kitchen and picked up her purse, rifled through it and dug out a key ring. She tossed them, jangling, to Buffy.

“I’ll be back,” Buffy told them.

The couple only stared at her, Nadine with her purse clutched defensively in front of her and Andrew on his butt on the floor, one hand over the rapidly rising welt on his face.

“What’s wrong with you people? I want to help.”

“No one can help,” Nadine whispered.

“This is helping?” Andrew snapped. “You can go to hell.”

“This
is
hell,” Buffy told them grimly. “And I’ve already stayed too long. I’m outta here.” She went out the front door and loped across the lawn to the Volvo. As she drove, Buffy tried not to think about the Rosses and the fear that kept them from even trying to run away. Her destination, Donatello’s, was about nine miles away. If the vampires were listening, they knew where she was headed. The only advantages she had at the moment were that they did not know what she was driving, and that she knew the roads. There were half a dozen ways to get where she was going. The hard part was going to be guessing correctly which one of them would get her there alive. After high school graduation, Xander Harris had retreated to the basement of his parents’ house and a series of dead-end jobs, not because he could do nothing else, but because he was burdened with a depressing ambivalence. He just had no idea what he wanted to do next. All he did know was that he did not want to sit in another classroom as long as he lived. And, while hanging out in the cramped, damp space he called an apartment while his parents battled it out upstairs was not his ideal living arrangement, it had a certain charm in the area of personal finance.