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Now he thought of that young girl again, and that one thought seemed
to trigger something within
his mind and body, like a plug being pulled out of a drain. He felt
a curious, stinging energy invade
his limbs, a burning heat that came from his heart and pumped outwards.
The side of his neck felt
like it was on fire. He felt an ache in his stomach, the kind of ache
you feel after you've eaten far
more than you should have, and the food has expanded your belly to
the point of stretching
rarely-used muscles.
I think it may be time to get up and see what's what.
I hope that girl's okay.
* * *
"Pulling a Benedict Arnold, are we? How creative that isn't."
Ben's face had changed to his true, vampire look, but the gun was still pointing at Buffy's head.
"I saw how you handled those fools. I'm beginning to like this life…
or should I say death. In any
case, I doubt that you have much of a defense against conventional
weaponry. Like, say, bullets?"
"What, are you scared of a little Barbie Girl like me? Not man enough
to fight a woman? You're the
first vampire I've ever met who wimped out on a fight." Well, that's
not true, but…
The Ben-vampire smiled for the first time. "I'm the first vampire you've
ever met with his brains
intact."
Buffy put her hands on her hips. The stake in her right hand tapped
impatiently against her leg. "So
I guess you're just going to shoot me?"
"That's right."
"No room for a sequel if the hero dies."
"Who said you were the hero?"
"You should attend a few more script rehearsals."
"Is this the banter you were missing a few minutes before?"
"I still think it's a bit one-sided."
"Where would you like it - in the heart, or in the head?"
Behind them, the coffin that Ben had been sitting on shifted. The top
swung up, making a creaking
noise that momentarily distracted the vampire; his head moved slightly
to the right in an instinctive
motion, and without hesitation, Buffy flicked her stake underhand-style,
aiming for the center of his
body.
"The heart sounds good."
An explosion of vampire dust followed the impact, and she danced out
of the way of the falling gun.
It went off when it hit the ground, the bullet impacting the far wall.
If she hadn't moved…
"Dodging bullets is definitely not my style." Buffy picked up her stake
and went over to the open
coffin. She looked in. Blinked.
Laid out in the coffin was the not-quite corpse of the trucker that
had picked her up the day before.
Not quite, because he was still breathing. And his eyes were still
moving.
"Strength… gone." His voice sounded tired and afraid. "I pushed open the… lid. But that was it."
"That was enough," she said warmly. "What happened? What are you doing down here?"
"They wanted my truck," he replied with difficulty. The tingling heat
that had infused his body only
seconds before was now fading fast, along with, he suspected, his lifeforce.
"They didn't say… why.
I'm scared. Where am I?"
"You're in the basement of the Marsten House. You can't remember anything else?"
"The Marsten House?!? Oh, God, oh my God. There was a man. Outside my
window. He… bit me.
In the neck." The trucker began to cry.
Buffy leaned over and saw two distinct puncture-holes. Oh, no. When
he dies… Not worth thinking
about. Not yet.
"It's okay. I'll take care of you." She winced inwardly at the double meaning of that last sentence.
He reached for her hand with the last of his ebbing strength. "Please, tell me, what's your name?"
"Buffy."
"Buffy," he repeated wonderingly. "Are you an angel, Buffy? I see a white light around you."
She smiled, stroking his forehead. "I'm no angel. What's your name?"
"Brian. I'm going to die, aren't I?"
Her smile wavered slightly, but she knew she had to tell him the truth.
"Yes, Brian, you are. But it's
okay, I won't leave you." Her eyes started to fill with tears, and
she blinked them back.
"If I… turn into one of… them…" He paused.
"Yeah?"
"Will you…" He couldn't finish.
"I will, Brian, don't you worry."
* * *
"Where's your faith now, my boy?"
Mark found the Holy Water from his backpack and pulled it out.
"I got a bottle of it right here, Father. Want some?"
Father Callahan snatched the vial from Mark's hand and squeezed it in
his fist. Steam rose from the
vampire's hand, an acrid smell filled the room, but Callahan's gaze
never wavered, even when the
vial exploded in his fist.
"Don't mind if I do."
A stake right about now would be a good idea. Mark jumped back, hand
thrust inside the backpack,
searching for a nice, wooden stake to…
A pair of strong, cold hands took him by the shoulders and flung him
across the room. He crashed
into the wall head-first and lay still. Father Callahan chuckled as
he approached Mark's unconscious
body.
"This would be a far more enjoyable experience for me if you were awake,
but vampires can't be
choosers." Callahan bent down.
The door crashed inwards, impacting the floor with a BANG! Dust billowed
up from the
floorboards. The vampire turned to see a very angry young girl step
into the room.
"I just had to stake somebody that I liked. Now I get to stake somebody I don't."
Callahan straightened, taking a step over to his left so he was standing
in the center of the
pentagram. "Ah, yes, the young girl Ben has been telling me so much
about. Since you are here and
he is not, I can only assume that what he knew about you wasn't enough."
Buffy held the stake casually in her right hand. "I get that a lot.
I don't suppose you could do me a
favour?"
"What would that be, my child?"
"Just close your eyes, and in a few moments, it'll all be over."
The vampire smiled widely. "I couldn't possibly go without a fight."
"I was hoping you'd say that." As she uttered that last word, Buffy
leaped for him… and hit an
invisible barrier. She bounced back, dazed. She shook her head to clear
it, and advanced again,
reaching out as she stepped closer, and… That invisible barrier. Which
seemed to correspond to…
"The pentagram, very good, my dear. What is that quaint little Boy Scout
motto? 'Be prepared'? I
have been preparing for many years now, studying the black arts, gathering
my strength. It is
unfortunate that you disposed of Ben, but Mark will make a wonderful
right-hand vampire. So
quick and graceful."
Buffy was at a loss. What do I do now? I don't know any magic spells.
God, I wish Willow was here.
Or Giles. "Gathering your strength for what?"
"Did you know that this house has been a conduit for great evil for
decades now? How appropriate
that we begin here. How inspiring."
"Hey, digressosaurus, stay on topic, okay? Why did you need Brian's truck?"
The vampire laughed. "Why, how else are we to travel this great land
of ours converting people to
our faith?"
"Your faith? Oh… You've got to be kidding. Not another 'let's take over
the world' guy. Can you
get any more cliché? I suppose you planned to go from town to
town, biting people, building an
army of the undead as you go?"
"Yes, that was the idea."
"Well, I guess it's just as well that I stop you right here, before
you get all delusional with the
grandeur."
The former priest raised his arms and began chanting in a strange language.
Buffy stepped back. Oh,
this can't be good.
"Nixes kanti falta polnos bitra!"
A sharp, stabbing pain hit the Slayer in the gut and she doubled over.
Dropping to her knees, she
groaned. It was like she had swallowed a glass vase whole, and then
been punched in the stomach,
shattering the vase into a thousand tiny shards. She heard Giles' voice
speak in her head. The
pentagram is what gives him his power. Get him to come out of the pentagram!
The pain was intense,
blinding. She coughed suddenly, and watched a drop of blood hit the
floor. That came out of me.
"I'm so sorry that you cannot join us, little girl, but women are such… a liability."
Buffy raised her head, blinked back the agony, and said, "Come here and say that."
The vampire clapped his hands together in applause. "Such spirit! No,
I'm sorry, but I would rather
wait until you were dead. Safer that way."
Within her stomach, the ball of pain seemed to grow, stretching outwards.
Buffy found it hard to
think; her mind was totally occupied by the screeching nerve endings.
Behind the undead priest, Mark stirred.
He remembered flying through the air with the greatest of ease, and
landing into something
unyielding. Now his eyes were trying to open, and he didn't like what
he saw. The vampire was
standing with his back to him, grinning evilly at Buffy, who was starting
to curl up on the floor in
obvious agony. Past her, against the far wall, was his cross. What
can I do without the cross? Then he
saw where he was - inside the pentagram. The cross would have been
useless. He heard Father
Callahan's voice speak in his head: Faith is nothing without love.
Faith is…
What is Faith? Faith is believing in something or someone without proof.
Faith is absolute trust. Faith
is hope. Faith is love.
Love.
Faith is nothing without love..
Who do I love?
I loved my parents. I loved Ben Mears like a father. I loved my comic
books, and monster figurine set,
and telescope.
That's who I loved. Not the same question.
Who do I love?
I love… I love…
Buffy was feeling a strong urge to black out, and it was getting harder
and harder to ignore it. Father
Callahan stood there, patiently waiting for her to die. It was all
so unfair. Her ears picked up a
sound, a murmur. She focused her eyes on Mark, who looked like he was
still alive after all. He was
saying something, but what it was, she couldn't hear. Then Mark's eyes
snapped open, and his hands
came up to grab the vampire's ankles.
Mark yelled, "I love God! With all my heart!"
And he glowed like the cross, the brightness shooting up his arms, into
the vampire's legs and up his
body, until the light exploded through the creature's head.
Callahan screamed. He jerked and bucked as if a powerful electrical
charge was running through his
body, but Mark held on easily, his face calm and unafraid.
"This is the judgment of God, Father Callahan! How do you like my faith now?"
The ball of pain in Buffy's stomach dwindled to nothing, and she gasped
as if she had been holding
her breath for days. She shielded her eyes from the burning glow, and
got back up on her feet.
"Buffy," said Mark. His voice betrayed the obvious effort he was making
to channel the energy.
"Finish him. Give him peace."
She stepped up to within a foot of the vampire, who was still undulating like a whipcord.
"I can't. He won't stay still." That was one reason. The other reason
was that she was really afraid.
This glow seemed like nothing she had ever seen before. It felt tremendously
good, but she knew that
such power was dangerous.
"Hold him by a shoulder, Buffy. You can do it. Have faith."
She reached out, watched her hand get engulfed by the milky brightness.
She touched the vampire's
shoulder and felt a spark, but that was all. Dimly she was aware that
she was glowing now, too. She
firmed her grip and brought the stake up. Father Callahan looked down
at her, and she thought that
she could see the man behind the demon, the man Callahan once was,
brought up from the depths
for this moment, this absolution.
With Your forgiveness, Lord, my sins are cleansed.
The stake sank into his chest with the ease of a swimmer diving into warm water.
Instead of exploding, Callahan's body dissolved neatly into dust, and
was held in place by the fiery
glow. Buffy looked down and saw the light flow out of Mark and out
of her and into the dust, where
it made a compressed sphere of alternating white and black colours.
It started to hum, a toneless
sound that raised every hair on Buffy's body.
She ducked down and took Mark's arm.
"We've got to get out of here now!"
He nodded, and she dragged him away from the sphere, which was steadily
growing larger. He pulled
himself up with her help, and they hurried out of the room and down
the stairs. As they reached the
foyer, they both could feel a terrific urgency.
"What is it doing?" she asked him as they stepped out the front door.
He answered between short breaths. "It's - sucking the - evil - all
the - evil - into itself. We - uh -
don't want - to be - around - when it's - done."
"Right."
They ran as fast as they could down the Marsten House driveway.
* * *
The old-timer sat at the bar and waited. Someone would come, especially
now. Every time the front
door would open, he'd turn his head to see who it was, but so far today,
they were all locals, and
they all knew the stories anyway. It was a shame how fast the news
spread; how was a man supposed
to get some free drinks with all this gossip going around?
The door swung open, letting in a hot blast of sunlight. The old-timer
turned, squinted, and knew
that this was his man. Tall, tidily dressed; hell, he looked stuffy,
even from across the room. A
college professor, maybe, or a lawyer from down Boston or Connecticut
way. Up for a week's
vacation, but he doesn't want to be here. Rather'd be at the office,
suing this guy or that, making
some real money instead of spending it in tourist traps like Ogunquit
or Bangor. He seemed to know
what he was about, though, because the professor came right up to the
old-timer and sat down
beside him at the bar. The guy tending bar today, Billy Jay, asked
him what he wanted, and he
ordered - get this - a gin and tonic. God, if that wasn't a iron-rod-up-the-ass,
stuffy drink, the
old-timer didn't know what was. And what a surprise; the guy had a
British accent. The professor
didn't waste any time, though.
"Excuse me, but are you from around here?"
"Ayuh."
"Would you happen to know what transpired, uh, several miles north of here last week?"
The old-timer grinned. "Ayuh, I would, but perhaps you haven't noticed
that my glass is sorta
empty."
The professor blinked at him, then nodded. "Oh. Yes, indeed. Bartender?
A refill for this good
gentleman."
The glass was filled. The old-timer took it, slugged back a couple of
gulps, and smiled. "That hit the
spot. Well, it all started about five nights ago, when there was this
huge explosion. Felt it all the way
from here, shook the building and everything. Yep, my friend, Jimmy
Dupree, he says that the
Marsten House blew up like it had an H-bomb in the basement. That started
the fire, and I think
some houses are still burnin'. Reminded a lot of folks round here about
the fire in the Lot back
twenty years ago. But you know, until this new fire, most people said
the Lot had went bad.
"Now, though - it's like the place was cleansed or something. Used to
be, you didn't go down into
the Lot after dark, but you don't get that feeling anymore. Nope, now
it's just another ghost town."
The professor leaned forward. "Was there any mention of a young girl? Blonde, attractive, but…"
"Tough-looking, maybe? Ayuh, I may have met that girl. I told her to
steer clear of the Lot, though.
She seemed like a nice girl. I'm sure she didn't have nothin' to do
with what went on."
The professor smiled oddly, and downed his gin and tonic with one gulp.
"I'm sure you're right."
I owe Stephen King a huge debt, obviously, for writing 'Salem's Lot';
if you haven't read it, hit your local library or bookstore as soon as
you can.
I took a few liberties with the timeline and the Marsten House layout;
hope you don't mind, Steve.
I would also like to thank Kerstin for her faith in me, Kelly for her
support, and Rachel for her honest criticism. I don't know what I'd do
without
y'all.
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