Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  ON THE FLOOR NEAR ANGEL’S FEET, ALMOST UNNOTICED IN THE GLOOM, WAS A PLAYING CARD. SOLITAIRE, BUFFY THOUGHT BITTERLY.

  “He came here to fight you,” she said softly.

  “I’m a vampire, remember. I heal fast. I’ll be fine. Soon.” He rubbed a spot on his neck that was raw, wincing at the flare of pain. “Besides, it’s night now. He’s lost his advantage. But he’s coming for you next.”

  “So it really is true,” Buffy said. “He’s . . . immune to the sun.”

  “Definitely,” Angel responded. He composed himself, walking in slow circles to test his bruised and burnt legs. “I’d heard rumors about a day-walking vampire, hundreds of years ago, but I never believed it. Vampires don’t just walk around in the sunlight. I thought it was an urban legend.”

  “To scare the little vampire children?” Buffy said, but Angel wasn’t smiling at her attempt at humor. “All the Watcher books and journals can’t be wrong, can they?”

  Angel shook his head. Images of Solitaire blithely walking through shafts of direct sunlight haunted him. “Whatever he is, he’s dangerous.”

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  For

  Gloria Wagner, who fought a private battle against the forces of darkness with the courage of a Slayer and the faith of a Watcher . . . called too soon to conduct a choir of angels.

  Historian’s Note:

  This story takes place during the third season of Buffy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Kara Wagner and Andrea, for their early encouragement,

  Lisa Clancy, my editor, for warning me early on about the whip,

  Gordon Kato, my agent, who is probably wondering what he’s gotten himself into,

  and my parents, for their Saturdays on the road.

  PROLOGUE

  Not too far behind him, the water lapped against the docks of Sunnydale’s seedy waterfront district. Just ahead was the yellow neon sign of the EZ Rider Saloon, basically a biker bar. About a dozen motorcycles, glinting chrome in abundance, were lined up with something approaching military precision on the gravel parking lot. The saloon itself had been haphazardly built from cinderblocks and plywood, the former painted black, the latter a sickening shade of green. Various neon beer logos adorned each small window. All the buzzing neon sounded like a swarm of irritated wasps.

  Solitaire walked in long, easy strides, his black overcoat fluttering back from his black shirt and pants, revealing a red leather vest. A minor affectation dating back hundreds of years, he dressed in red and black to represent the colors of the suits in a deck of playing cards. His black boots fell softly on the concrete as he took the steps two at a time and swung open the front door of the saloon.

  Through the smoky haze of the dimly lit saloon, Solitaire counted thirteen hard-edged bikers. Many humans consider thirteen an unlucky number, he thought. Maybe they have good cause. He chuckled softly, rubbing his hands together with a degree of anticipation he hadn’t felt in over a century. He’d sorely missed the competition of his duels, but the pool of worthy opponents had been uninspiring. Until now. Here, in Sunnydale, he finally expected to find a foe worthy of his skills. Yet after such a long period of unfocused destruction—going through the motions, really—he was not foolish enough to believe he was in top form. Human pugilists, boxers, honed their skills on sparring partners and Solitaire wasn’t above a little sparring of his own to get into fighting trim. Well, let’s call a spade a spade, he thought, appropriately enough, considering his chosen name. Killing trim.

  His gaze swept the group, seeking his target while assessing what would soon become the arena for the match. Most of the bikers ambled around the three pool tables, alternately drinking from tall-necked beer bottles and sinking balls in called pockets. Many smoked cigarettes, but a few puffed on cheap cigars wedged into the corners of their mouths. Whether their jackets were leather or denim, the backs of every one were embroidered with the image of a flaming skull. Solitaire had a hunch the gang’s logo would prove prophetic this night.

  A lone bartender was on duty, cleaning glasses with a dingy rag behind a narrow bar, almost a counter. From an outdated jukebox in the corner opposite the door blared the Blue Oyster Cult song, “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” Again, Solitaire thought, a prophetic choice for musical accompaniment.

  In the far back corner of the EZ Rider Saloon, sitting on a tall four-legged stool with one elbow resting on a windowsill, was a barrel-chested biker with heavy arms wearing an unbuttoned black leather vest. His other hand gripped the handle of a large mug of beer that rested on his hairy stomach. Next to him stood a wiry man whose skin was the color and texture of rawhide. His boots actually sported real spurs. As he related a story that culminated in a rudely suggestive motion of his hips, the big man gave a hearty laugh, causing his beer to slosh back and forth in the glass. Foam lapped over the edge and settled on his hairy gut, not that the big biker gave it more than passing notice.

  Solitaire approached the nearest biker and, just as the man was about to sink the nine ball in the corner pocket, said, “I’m looking for Warhammer.”

  The man had a long knife scar along his cheek, pointing toward a permanently squinted right eye. Stitched over the chest pocket of his threadbare denim jacket was the name CYCLOPS. Solitaire figured the right eye was glass. “Buzz off,” Cyclops said and belched for good measure. As a heavy biker on the opposite side of the table chuckled over the rude dismissal, Cyclops bent over his shot again. He winked at his beefy partner with his good eye and said, “Gotta put these town clowns in their place, Hef.”

  Solitaire snatched the pool cue out of Cyclops’s hands and whipped it around behind his legs, spilling the one-eyed biker to the plywood floor with a loud grunt and a louder curse.

  Hef rushed around the table. “Hey! What the—?” He never finished the sentence, so quickly had Solitaire rammed the butt of the pool cue into his flabby gut. Doubled over in pain, Hef was ill-prepared to offer further protest.

  The bartender yelled, “Hey, buddy, you’re asking for big trouble. Get lost or you’ll need an ambulance.”

  Solitaire turned and hurled the pool cue like a spear, aiming high. The bartender screamed and dropped to the floor as the grimy mirror behind him shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Solitaire never saw his own reflection.

  Boot spurs jangling, the rawhide-skinned biker strode across the length of the bar with a cowboy swagger. Solitaire almost had to laugh but that would have spoiled the moment. Rawhide stopped two feet from Solitaire and whipped out a switchblade, which he pointed at Solitaire’s throat.

  “Where are your shooting irons, cowboy?” Solitaire asked.

  “Name’s Loon,” the man said. “Wanna know why they call me Loon? ’Cause I’m just crazy enough to carve your face up like a Christmas ham. Care to explain your death wish before I commence my wet work?”

  “I’m here for Warhammer,” Solitaire said. “The rest of you may live.” Solitaire was aware of Cyclops and Hef casually sidling up on either side of him, probably intending to pull his arms back so Loon would have an easy time with his switchblade.

  The barrel-chested biker, who had been perched on the stool with a mug of beer on his hairy belly, called out, “I’m Warhammer. What makes you think I want to waste my time kicking the
spit out of your sorry carcass?”

  “Fear is a perfectly natural response,” Solitaire said, grinning.

  That hearty laugh again, shaking the thick stomach. “Hardly,” Warhammer said. “You want your shot at me? Work your way through these . . . gentlemen first.”

  Several of them laughed at the term.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Yeah, right,” Warhammer said after a moment, nodding his head. “You’re a bigger fool than I took you for.” Warhammer spread his hands magnanimously. “Just realize there won’t be enough of you left for me to scrape off my boot heel.”

  Loon smiled with a slight nod to the biker Solitaire knew was standing behind his left side. Solitaire didn’t have to see the man. He could smell his beer breath, hear the quickened beat of his heart. When Loon lunged forward with his switchblade, Solitaire caught Loon’s wrist in his left hand and squeezed hard, hearing bones crunch. He planted his right hand on Loon’s shoulder and used the man’s own momentum to pull him forward. The extended knife blade drove hilt-deep into Cyclops’s good eye. Well, thought Solitaire, “good” was all a matter of semantics now. Loon released the knife, screaming from the pain of his ruined wrist. Cyclops simply fell with a thud, the knife lodged deep in his brain.

  Hef charged from the other side and wrapped his meaty hands around Solitaire’s neck, intending to throttle. Solitaire peeled back one of Hef’s fingers until it snapped, then popped a second and a third until, finally, Hef realized he was rapidly running out of functioning fingers and let go. Without even turning around, Solitaire drove his elbow into the man’s face, driving nose cartilage back into his skull. Another body fell to the floor.

  A fourth biker came thundering across the nearest pool table, knocking aside the hanging, green-shaded light as he dove toward Solitaire. Catching the airborne biker by the throat and belt buckle, Solitaire increased his elevation, flipping him into the jukebox. Varicolored glass shattered and the music screeched to a halt, replaced by the sizzle and hiss of sparks. The biker’s face was a bloody ruin.

  Four down, eight to go before Warhammer. He wondered if they had the stomach for it. Then again, one required a modicum of intelligence to know when to retreat, so Solitaire figured they would all be around until the bitter end. Warhammer himself had hopped down from his stool, his smirk of casual disregard replaced by, if not concern, a new measure of respect. Good, Solitaire thought. I finally have his attention.

  Two more bikers came at Solitaire from opposite sides, each holding a pool cue like a baseball bat. Solitaire waited until the first one yelled “Batter up,” and swung for the fences. Solitaire’s forearm caught the brunt of the pool cue, splitting it cleanly in half. At the same moment he leaned sideways and fired a kick into the other biker’s gut before he could begin his swing. He slammed into the wall and fell over, clutching a half-dozen shattered ribs. Solitaire turned to the man still holding half a pool cue and twisted his arm up behind his back until the arm dislocated from the shoulder. He then bent the man over and shoved him headfirst into the wall.

  Just as Solitaire straightened up, he saw the blur of a steel-toed boot driving directly toward his crotch. His reflexes were faster than the kick. Catching the boot in both hands, he wrenched the man’s foot with enough torque to shatter the ankle. The biker fell, writhing on his back as he screamed in pain. “Make it stop! Please! Please—make it stop!” As much as Solitaire enjoyed the man’s pain, the yowling was a bit much on his ears. He launched his own kick, but his landed with a sickening thud, rupturing the man’s temple. “All better now,” Solitaire remarked.

  Another biker charged, yelling, “You killed Spud!” He swung a beer bottle at Solitaire’s head, but Solitaire ducked under the blow, caught the man around the waist and flipped him over, slamming his back down hard against the edge of a pool table, breaking his spine.

  The next one was called Viper. He slipped on a pair of brass knuckles, with sharp metal spikes sticking out from each ring. “Had these custom-made,” he explained. “Like to grind my own hamburger.” He barreled forward with a yell, both spiked fists flying. Solitaire pulled a pool cue from a wall rack and jabbed the pointed end right into the man’s solar plexus. As Viper staggered back, Solitaire swung the cue stick around in a great whistling arc. It shattered across the bridge of the man’s nose. Viper went down, moaning in agony.

  Solitaire picked up the white cue ball and the black eight ball. He fired the cue ball with major-league speed at the nearest biker’s head, smashing his nose. Then the eight ball shattered another man’s front teeth. He sputtered and howled in pain, strands of bloody drool webbing down from his greasy fingers. An easy spin kick to the head took him down and put him out of his misery.

  One last man stood between Solitaire and Warhammer. This one was tall, but stood hunched over, emphasizing a hooked nose and a paunch that hung over his large silver belt buckle in the shape of the state of Texas. His name patch read HAWK. He seemed too confident. In a moment, Solitaire knew why. The man pulled a .357 revolver out of a shoulder holster, grinning like a magician who has just produced a bouquet of flowers from the sleeve of his tuxedo. He pointed his arm straight out, the wide bore of the barrel level with Solitaire’s chest. “Game over, man!”

  Almost as if time had slowed down, Solitaire saw the trigger finger tense. His own hands moved with lightning speed. His right hand chopped down on the inside of Hawk’s elbow just as his left hand went under Hawk’s wrist, jackknifing the man’s forearm, directing the barrel of the gun up, up, as the trigger finger continued to squeeze. The barrel was under Hawk’s chin when the Magnum went off, splattering the wall with what passed for Hawk’s brains.

  Hawk slumped to the ground.

  “Fear is a perfectly natural response,” Solitaire told Warhammer for the second time.

  All around him lay a dozen men, some dead, some dying and the rest in desperate need of medical attention, a weak chorus of sobs and moans an audible testament to that fact. “I don’t scare easy,” Warhammer replied, demonstrating his own lack of brains.

  He was as tall as Solitaire, but much thicker through the chest and upper arms, with layers of muscle only slightly gone to seed. “Catch,” he said, throwing the half-filled mug of beer at Solitaire’s head.

  Solitaire swatted the mug aside, expecting the heavier man to bull rush him, but was surprised when Warhammer reached back and hoisted the barstool up by two of its legs. He brought it down quickly, hoping to crush Solitaire’s skull with one mighty blow, a tactic that had probably earned the biker his nickname. But Solitaire ducked nimbly to the right, then snap-kicked the outside of Warhammer’s left knee, hyperextending it inward.

  Warhammer roared in pain but launched a roundhouse right. Off balance, he missed high and wide, allowing Solitaire to duck inside and land a crushing blow to Warhammer’s right kidney. The biker crumpled to his knees, but managed to wrap both arms around Solitaire’s calves and flip him backward. The back of Solitaire’s head rapped against the edge of the pool table as he fell, causing him to wince as the lights blinked out for an instant.

  But a moment was enough time for Warhammer to use his weight advantage. He straddled Solitaire’s prostrate form and wrapped beefy hands around his throat. For the first time, Solitaire needed a distraction to recover from a vulnerable position. The transformation was instantaneous. His face contorted, his eyes burned yellow and slavering fangs appeared under snarling lips.

  Warhammer froze, his jaw dropping. “What the—?”

  Solitaire was quick to seize the advantage. Clasping his hands together, he swung them up with enough force to break Warhammer’s grip. He then struck the biker under the chin with the heel of his right hand, slamming his jaw shut. Solitaire followed with a succession of powerful jabs, alternating left, right, left, right, until Warhammer fell back, blood streaming from his smashed nose and split cheeks. In a move that initially confused Solitaire, the big man fumbled at his pants leg until he finally pulled a hunting knife from
a sheath inside his boot. Solitaire chopped at his wrist with enough force to shatter bone, and the blade clattered to the floor. Solitaire swept it aside with the back of his hand, far out of the big biker’s reach.

  Warhammer rolled over on his side and scrambled toward Hawk’s still form, working his way toward the gun. Solitaire leapt to his feet and caught Warhammer by the scalp with his left hand, then clamped his right hand under the man’s grizzled jaw. Warhammer’s fingers spasmed inches from the butt of the gun until the vicious twist of Solitaire’s arms snapped his neck.

  Solitaire planted his boot heel on Warhammer’s face as he reached into his red vest and removed a playing card. A king of clubs. He dropped it on the dead man’s back and said, “You were highly overrated, Warhammer.”

  Yet that was not the whole truth. Warhammer, a mere human, had gotten the better of him, if only for a moment, and Solitaire had had to resort to a flash of fangs to regain the advantage. The duelist in him was disgusted with his own inadequacy. He could never afford such slip-ups in high stakes matches, especially in the battle to come, the one challenge that had drawn him out of his listless retirement. Cracking his knuckles, he remarked, “Definitely rusty.”

  As he walked back through the saloon, several of the bikers continued to writhe and moan on the floor. Not one made an effort to stop him. Those with any sense were glad to see the last of him, or would be, once the medication kicked in. Only after Solitaire strode out the door did the barman raise his head above the counter. He took a moment or two to survey the carnage, then reached for the telephone with trembling hands.

  * * *

  Outside the EZ Rider, Solitaire paused beside the row of motorcycles with their glistening chrome and Grateful Dead decals. He planted his foot on the seat of the first one in the line and gave a great shove. Like a row of dominoes they went down, one after the other, protesting screeches of steel that ended long before the first sirens could be heard.