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Part 3: Blood & Love Section 3.6: Hunting Party NOTES: Still set during "Seeing Red." This section takes place the next night after the last section. Sort of a completely alternate version of the armored car scene. I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm The doors to the fraternity house open up, spilling out a stumbling, raucous crowd of humans. They stand for awhile at the entrance, the males mocking each other in loud voices in an apparent attempt to impress the females. One of the women, a petite brunette clad in a skintight tee shirt imprinted with the predictably ironic proclamation of “Angel” takes a last drag from her cigarette and drops it into the bushes beside the doorway. No one notices the hand that reaches out from the darkness to snatch up the still burning ember. An equal lack of attention is paid to the black van parked across the street. He waits and watches. The only movement he makes is to bring the fag up to his mouth, getting as much from it as he can before it’s down to the filter. Menthol. Balls. Still – beggars, choosers, et cetera. It’s an eternity before the drunken clump begins to disperse, shouting slurred goodbyes to their mates. “That guy! There. In the red shirt. See him?” the hated voice in his ear is whispering, all cloak and dagger like. As if anyone else could hear. Tosser. Once again, Spike resists the urge to rip the receiver from his ear and stomp on the thing. He peers through the foliage. Draws a bead on the red shirt guy as he and the angel splinter from the group, staggering together with arms entwined. He rises and cuts diagonally across the yard, fast enough to remain unseen. He falls into step behind the couple, melting into the shadows whenever one of them hesitates or turns. He follows close enough that they can sense his presence, pissed though they may be. The smell of their mounting anxiety is intoxicating. It’s been awhile, but he’s still got the stuff. Just like pushing someone off a bloody bicycle. His quarry quickens in pace and he speeds up to match it, grinning for the first time in… well, long enough that he’s forgotten the last time. This is his element. This is what he was made for. The hunt. The kill. It’s a tasty bit of freedom, is what it is. Several blocks behind, he can hear the engine turn over in the van. Hears it idle slowly down the street, following. Its presence dampens the mood a bit. Reminds him of his situation. Reminds him whose hunt this really is. “The alley! The alley! Drive them into the alley. Now.” At the command he advances ahead of the couple, gliding silently within the shadows of hedges and parked cars. The van passes them and rounds the corner. Sensing danger ahead if they keep to the sidewalk, the couple pauses at the mouth of the alley. As they hesitate uncertainly, Spike makes a scuffing sound with his boot. That decides it for them and they duck into the alley, moving quickly away from him. Too easy. He follows, wishing he could have drawn out the chase a bit longer. Once in the alley, he can see the van parked across the street. More importantly, he sees Warren standing in front of the happy couple, cast into silhouette by the distant street light. He holds the stun gun in his hand, tapping it dramatically against his other hand. This is where it stops being fun. Spike stands and waits, shoving his hands into his pockets, awaiting his next order. Warren taps the stun gun a couple more times for dramatic effect. The boy’s really seen far too many movies. Red Shirt crosses his arms impatiently at the obstruction. At last Warren smiles and speaks. “Hello, Percy.” Jonathan
stares morosely at the monitor. They’re all just standing
there. It looks like Warren is actually having a conversation
with the guy. It’s kinda sick. “Who the hell are you?” Warren raises his eyes skyward. God! Doesn’t anyone remember him from high school? “You don’t remember me?” Warren asks, disappointed. He stands, feigning patience while Percy leans closer for a better look. Percy shrugs. “Uh… no. Should I?” Warren spreads his arms indignantly. “Well, yeah you should remember me! I only did your homework for, like, an entire semester in high school.” Percy stares at him, still not clicking. Warren keeps trying. “I can’t believe this. Warren! Warren Mears? You seriously don’t remember?” This is ridiculous. Okay, sure… so he didn’t go to Sunnydale High long enough to even make it into the yearbook. But hell, you’d think someone would have at least noticed him there! After all, he’d been there long enough to come up with at two-page list of people the world could do without. See, that’s the problem. They’re like sheep. All of ‘em. Too busy partying and screwing and living their perfect little lives to even notice the stuff going on around them. They don’t even care about the people they step on along the way. It really kinda pisses him off. Warren sighs and looks past the befuddled jock to Spike who is standing with his hands in his pockets, watching. He looks slightly amused. One eyebrow raised. A hint of a smirk. Warren frowns. The vampire catches the look and quickly lowers his head, shuffling his feet nervously on the pavement. Well, that makes him feel a little better. The girl hanging at Percy’s side looks back at the sound and notices Spike for the first time. Her eyes grow wide. She tugs at Percy’s sleeve but the gears are grinding. He’s too busy trying to remember now. Or too drunk to care what she might have to say. Warren rolls his eyes. Finally the cloud breaks over the guy’s head and it dawns on him. “Oh hey… Warren. Right. You, uh… you hung out with those other computer gee– guys… Fritz and, uh… what’s his name.” “Dave. Yeah.” An irritating twinge of memory. “Didn’t they like, die or something?” “Um– yeah, anyway… my point here is –” Warren cuts himself off with a sigh, completely losing patience. “You know what? Never mind. Just forget it. Spike!” Spike raises his eyes, head still tilted downward. He stands patiently but Warren can almost feel the vampire’s hunger for himself. Warren licks his lips and looks Percy in the eye. “Snack time.” “Wait – we’re not actually killing anybody. I mean, it’s not like it’s us. Spike’s the one who’s doing it.” Andrew looks down at his shoes and spins in his chair, restlessly. “Yeah,” Jonathan agrees. “Spike’s doing it because Warren tells him to.” Unnoticed on the monitor behind them, Spike vamps and lunges, grabbing Percy around the throat and latching onto his neck. The girl screams soundlessly and turns to run. Warren takes off after her. Also unnoticed is another monitor showing the tiny figure of a girl walking alone down the street several blocks in front of them. At the same time that the girl in the alley screams, this other girl stops and looks around for the source of the sound. “Well, yeah, but… hey, y’know… you’re the one who said we should feed him. You said it. You said he needed blood. And he’s gotta eat, right? I mean, remember that snake Warren had? He used to let me pet it all the time? Before it got loose and his mom made him get rid of it? Jonathan can't help but snicker at the thought of Waren letting Andrew pet his snake. “Yeah. Uktena. It was pretty cool.” “Yeah. Well, if Warren hadn’t brought the snake mice, it would have starved and stuff, right? It was a natural and… uh…necessary part of the food chain that we really can’t –” “Y’know, actually, I remember you hiding your eyes and squealing like a little girl the first time you saw Warren feed the thing.” “Um… yes, well… okay. Granted. But I’ve… matured since then, thank you very much. I can accept certain… uh… fundamental laws of… y’know… snakes… and stuff. But, see… it kinda helps if you just think of it like… we’re bringing Spike mice.” He says that last part brightly, with a flourish of hands, as if presenting a platter of hors d’oevres. Jonathan sighs. “Okay… One: Spike’s not our pet, dorkface. He’s a person… kind of. A vampire. Whatever. He’s not a snake. And Two: People aren’t mice, they’re people. People who don’t deserve to die just so Warren can do whatever the hell it is he’s trying to do.” “Hey!” Andrew gets indignant. “Warren’s our leader. He knows what he’s doing! It’s not our place to–” Jonathan cuts him off, spinning him around in his chair so that he’s facing the monitors. He points a finger at the alley monitor. The only thing visible besides the dumpsters along the side of the building is the body of a man in a red shirt sprawled on the pavement. “Look, Andrew! Look at that! That’s Percy. We went school with him. We’ve known him our whole lives. He was a person. And now he’s dead.” We did that. Us. Andrew looks away from the monitor and shoves Jonathan aside. “Okay, yeah.” He narrows his eyes and looks evenly at Jonathan. “That’s Percy. Okay. Percy who stole my He-Man and then sat on me until I cried in the first grade. Percy who gave me a bloody nose in junior high because he said I looked at him funny in the locker room. Percy who picked on us every single day at school until he got bored enough to just ignore us. Percy who… who did something mean enough to Warren to get on his list. Percy was a– a–” His eyes go wide as he looks over Jonathan’s shoulder. “Oh – oh my god!” Jonathan turns and follows Andrew’s gaze to the monitor showing the street in front of the van. The Slayer is marching directly toward them, head cocked, scrutinizing the Death Star. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” Andrew shoves past Jonathan to the front of the van, diving into the driver’s seat. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. “What are you doing?” Jonathan scrambles to reach him. “You can’t even drive!” “We have to get out of here!” Andrew replies, shooting a panicked look back at Jonathan. “We have to get to Warren before the Slayer gets him!” He jerks the gearshift and slams on the gas. Jonathan grabs onto the passenger seat and pulls himself into it, looking up in time to see the van lurch forward toward a very surprised looking Vampire Slayer. He follows Warren’s scent – and the more enticing aroma of the frightened girl – to a nearly empty parking lot several blocks up. Warren is there, catching his breath. The girl lies motionless at his feet. No heartbeat. Dead. The buzzing in his head started a minute or two ago. High pitched and unnerving. More a sensation than a sound. It’s painful and quite – fucking – annoying. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. He approaches Warren cautiously, circling a bit, not sure of the reception he’ll receive. Warren, unaware of his presence is looking down at the girl thoughtfully. Spike stops a few feet away and waits. He smells fresh blood. The girl’s. And Warren’s. He takes a deep breath. When Warren looks up and notices him, he can see the split in the boy’s lip, the trickle of blood coming from it. The mixture of surprise and exhilaration in his eyes. The gun in his hand. The boy’s getting quite a taste for blood. And Spike knows how unpredictable a fellow can be after a kill. Especially when it’s all still a heady new experience. Spike knows what a rush it can be. The power of it. Wary, he struggles to concentrate despite the interference from the chip. “She hit me.” Warren says, sounding more astounded by it than angry. Spike nods, not daring to speak. “Am I bleeding?” Warren asks, reaching up to wipe the blood from his lip. He pulls his hand away and looks at it. “Huh.” Warren looks down at the girl again and takes a couple steps back, away from the body. “Stupid bitch,” he mutters. Spike’s getting a headache. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will the buzzing to stop. Right. 'Cause, of course, that sort of thing always works. Warren notices and when he opens his eyes again, he sees that he’s being grinned at. “How’s your head, there, Sparky?” Spike blinks. “Buzzing.” It’s an honest answer. Warren nods. “Yeah, well, if you hadn’t taken so long cleaning your plate back there, you could have been here to keep me from getting punched in the face. That’ll teach you.” Spike dips his head, “Sorry.” “Yeah, yeah.” Warren puts the gun away and licks the blood from his lip. “You gonna eat that, or what?” He points at the girl who lies, twisted on her back. Her slack face is wide open with fear. There’s a hole in the “Angel.” Blood still running out of it. What blood is left should still be warm. It certainly smells divine. His body, still trying to rebuild itself after having been torn down so drastically, cries out for it. He feels odd about it though. After all, she’d practically bummed him a smoke, hadn’t she? In his mind, he resists; turns away. Responds with a simple, “No, I’m good,” and walks away, back to the van and the others. But he’s not good. He’s still hungry. And his head is buzzing. Aching. He’s just confusing himself is all. Thinking too much. It’s the bloody Slayer’s fault. Her and her little morally upright citizens brigade. Bad influences. Hypocrites, the lot of them. He’s lucky to be rid of that nonsense, really. Warren is getting impatient, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Watching him. Spike picks up the body and drinks his fill. When he’s finished, he drops it and doesn’t look at it again. Looks pointedly away from it, in fact. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and awaits further instruction. “C’mon.” Warren gives Spike a friendly clap on the back. Spike grits his teeth. “Let’s get back to the van.” The van hits the Slayer with a sickening crunch as Andrew slams on the brakes. She rolls up the front of the vehicle and smashes against the windshield, which cracks and presses inward, not quite shattering. Then she rolls off and out of sight. Andrew’s head hurts and there’s blood on the steering wheel. The first coherent thought he has is that his head must have hit the steering wheel. Duh. The second thought he has is, “Oops. That wasn’t reverse.” Shaking, he shifts into park and makes sure it says “P.” And Jonathan is slumped in the seat beside him. Not moving. There’s blood on his forehead too. And on the dash. And he’s not moving. He’s not moving. Andrew leans over and grabs his friend by the shoulders. “Oh, no, no, don’t be dead. Don’t be dead, don’t be dead…” He feels for a pulse at Jonathan’s neck. Nothing. He tries another spot on his neck. Where is the stupid pulse supposed to be? Oh, hey, there it is. He feels a steady thrumming beneath his fingers and lets out a sigh of relief. Not dead. Not dead. Okay, good. Not dead. The back doors of the van wrench open and the Slayer pulls herself in. She's all scuffed up and her hair’s all messy and her shirt’s ripped, which is too bad because it looks like it was a nice shirt. Kinda pinkish with little scrolly things at the neck… “You are so dead!” she grits at him. Andrew cowers where he sits. Alarm bells go off in his head. This time, thankfully, not literally. He scents the air. Buffy. The Slayer’s around here somewhere. Close. He stops and looks around. He should know where she is by now. The sodding chip is not helping. Warren stops too. “What’s your problem now?” Spike holds up a hand to silence him and listens. He forces himself to focus through the commotion in his brain. Hears sirens. From the chip? No. ‘Course not. He shakes his head again. Police. Sounds like the children may have gotten themselves into bit of a mess. Warren nudges him, dropping his voice to an irritating whisper, “What? What is –?” He stops when he hears the sirens approaching. Spike doesn’t mention the Slayer. If he can just find her, get to her before… “Oh shit! The Slayer!” Warren is peering around the corner at where the van should be parked. Never mind. Spike sighs, resigned. He sidles up to get a peek around the corner himself. There she is alright. Looking a bit worse for wear. As does the van. She’s got Andrew by the shirt scruff, holding him out at arm’s length like a bedraggled stray pup. The boy whimpers as she slams him up against the side of the van and proceeds to give him a rather thorough tongue lashing. She’s using words Spike had never heard her utter before – at least not while wearing clothes. He can’t help but grin at the show. Warren is getting angry. He can smell it. Can see it in the way his back tenses. And when Warren is angry it usually means bad things in store for Spike. He swallows his grin and waits. He goes rigid when Warren reaches under his jacket for the gun and points it toward the van. Toward her. Spike closes his eyes. Could he knock the gun free? Shout a quick heads up to the Slayer in time? What would Warren do to him? His flesh goes all numb at the thought of it and the blood he’s had tonight suddenly wants to come back up. He swallows, opens his eyes, takes a breath. He makes a fist and prepares to strike. The sirens cut off one by one. Flashing lights all around. Looking to where Warren is aiming the gun, Spike realizes it’s not even pointed at the Slayer. He’s aiming for Andrew. Spike relaxes his fist and lets the breath out as a relieved sigh. Fine then. He doesn’t give a toss about the prat. Not that he cares about the Slayer either. He wouldn’t have actually done anything, anyway. It’s not like he’s bloody stupid. With a muttered curse, Warren lowers his weapon. The police arrive with their typical Sunnydale professionalism. Mostly they mill about in confusion. The Slayer reluctantly releases the boy into their hands and negotiates unsuccessfully with a dull-eyed officer to be allowed to question him. Andrew, meanwhile keeps blathering on from the back of a patrol car about his right to remain silent. As if he ever would. An ambulance arrives and Jonathan is loaded up and carted away in a blare of sirens and flashing lights. The Slayer continues to wrangle with the Sunnydale Police. Looks as if she might get violent with them soon. Spike and Warren remain crouched, watching, undetected until one of the milling officers stumbles across the body in the alley and raises a cry. At that point Warren stands up and turns to Spike. “Let’s go home,” he says with his jaw clenched. He walks away from the scene and Spike follows. After they’ve walked for several minutes, Warren, who has remained tense and silent for the duration, suddenly turns around and stops. Spike looks at him curiously, cautiously. Warren breaks into a grin. “Hey, Spike, can you hotwire a car?” |
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