by Ray Garton
On the western edge of town near the beach was the Hidey Hole, next to a rickety-looking pier and with a red-and-white Styrofoam life preserver on the door. To the east lay the Red Rooster, a red barn affair with a huge, weather-beaten rooster standing on the roof. But it wasn’t until they got to the northern end of town that Giles parked the van at the curb.
The Trap was a small bar with a gravel parking lot. There were no lights in the parking lot, and the bar itself was so dark, it would have looked abandoned were it not for the cars parked in the lot around it. It had two small windows with a glowing neon beer sign in each.
There were several cars and pickup trucks parked in the gravel lot . . . along with five Harley-Davidson motorcycles standing side by side beneath one of those two windows, metal gleaming in the glow of the flickering beer sign.
Giles let the van’s engine idle as they all looked at the bar and the motorcycles parked in front of it.
“We aren’t certain those are the ones we’re looking for,” he began quietly. There was a tense edge to his voice and he clutched the steering wheel tightly.
“Five parked in a row outside a bar that looks like some alcoholic’s id?” Buffy asked. “I’d say chances are good these’re the guys.”
“Wait a second,” Willow said. The others turned to her as her eyebrows curled downward over the bridge of her nose and her lips tightened and drew together without touching. She turned to Giles and said, “We’ve forgotten something. We’re all too young to go in there.”
Giles removed his glasses and nodded once, looking out at the bar again. “Yes, you’re quite right.”
“We can’t wait out here,” Xander said. “If our guys are in there, they could start making beer nuts and pretzels of everybody any minute now.”
“Not to worry,” Giles said, killing the engine. “I’m of age.” He replaced his glasses and opened his door.
“You can’t go in there alone.”
“We don’t seem to have much choice, Buffy.”
“Reality check, Giles,” she said. “You Watcher, me Slayer. There are five of those things in there. You could get killed.”
“I’m quite capable of handling myself if need be, Buffy.” He got out, then reached back inside and took two of the silver-tipped stakes from the middle of the seat. He tucked them beneath his belt, then closed his tweed sportscoat over them. “I’ll stay near the door, and should anything happen, I’ll signal you immediately. Once violence breaks out, I seriously doubt anyone will take the time to ask for your IDs. Pay attention and be prepared.” He closed the door, walked around the van, and headed across the parking lot.
“I’ve got a bad feeling in my stomach,” Buffy whispered as her eyes followed her Watcher.
“Let’s hope it’s something you ate,” Xander quipped.
The sound of Giles’s shoes crunching on the gravel faded as he neared the bar. He was less than three feet from the entrance when a guttural scream came from inside the bar.
Buffy’s door was open in an instant and she jumped out of the van with her loaded crossbow in hand.
At the first noise Giles froze. Now as he looked back over his shoulder at the van, the door of the Trap burst outward and broke off its hinges beneath the force of a large, bloody man who shot through the air, a screaming human missile. Giles stumbled backward quickly enough to avoid being hit by the door, but the man slammed into him and both of them rolled over the gravel, coming to a halt about eight feet from where Giles had been standing.
Buffy ran across the gravel parking lot as more screams rose from inside the bar. Horrible, painful screams . . . wet screams. She glanced over her shoulder at the van and saw that no one was following her.
“Come on!” she cried. “What’re you waiting for?”
She ran by Giles and shouted, “You okay?”
“Fine!” he said as he got to his feet, waving her on.
The closer Buffy got to the open doorway of the bar, the louder the screaming inside became. There were crashing sounds inside, as well. And something else, something beneath all the other sounds . . .
Low, animal growls, and sloppy, moist chewing.
Buffy entered the bar with her crossbow held ready to fire . . . and her feet went wild beneath her. She slipped on something wet and slick, and the floor slammed against her back, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She couldn’t move for a moment as bodies rushed by her above, towering over her, shooting in and out of her field of vision with lightning speed. Behind her, she heard Willow cry, “No! No!” and Xander let fly a few choice curses as motorcycle engines roared to life.
Something howled as the engines revved . . . and then began to fade away.
Silence. It was deafening. The bar was completely silent . . . except for a gentle, thick dripping nearby. The coppery odor of blood slowly filled Buffy’s nostrils . . . the blood in which she’d slipped and fallen.
She began to struggle to get to her feet, and hands gripped her arms, helping her up. Giles and Xander were with her, and Willow and Cordelia were standing just outside the door.
“C’mon,” Buffy said urgently, dismissing the carnage inside the bar with a glance. “We’ve gotta follow them. Let’s go!”
The five of them ran to the van and got inside.
“Which way did they go?” Giles asked as he started the engine.
“Straight ahead,” Cordelia said. “I saw them.”
“Do me a favor, Giles?” Buffy asked quietly.
“What’s that?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.
“Forget you’re British and step on it.”
He did, and the van shot forward. He turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Seatbelts, please? Everyone?”
Everyone in the van remained silent as Giles sped through the night, his foot pushing the accelerator to the floor, breaking the speed limit in a very non-Englishman sort of way.
The road was curvy, but with their windows rolled down, it wasn’t long before they heard the roar of the motorcycles up ahead. The sound of the motorcycles led them west. The area around them became more and more wooded, until they were driving between tall pines and firs, beyond which lay thick woods on both sides of the road.
And then the sound of the motorcycles stopped.
It didn’t stop instantly, it faded. But it faded very quickly . . . and was gone.
Giles let up on the accelerator and the van slowed.
“Where did they go?” Giles asked. “I can’t hear them anymore.”
“Neither can I,” Buffy said, leaning her head out the window.
“Maybe they outran us?” Willow said uncertainly.
“No, no, they didn’t do that,” Buffy said. “It sounded more like they . . . like they . . .” Buffy suddenly spun around and clutched Giles’s shoulder. “Stop the van. Stop it, now.”
Giles slowed down, his mouth moving nervously, but silently.
“No, no, Giles, pull over and stop! Now!”
He did as she said, parking the van on the slanted gravel shoulder.
“What do you have in mind, Buffy?” he asked.
“They went into the woods,” she said, looking out the side window into the dark woods on the western side of the road. “On those motorcycles, they could drive right in there . . . and they did, I know it. Somewhere along this road, maybe a little ways behind us, they went right into the woods.”
“You think they’re hiding in there?” Xander asked.
Cordelia let out an annoyed huff of breath and said, “No, Xander, they’re collecting frogs for a class biology project.”
“We’ve got to go in there after them,” Buffy said, ignoring the exchange in the backseat.
Giles pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as he let out a long sigh. “All right, then,” he said. “We’re hardly equipped for it, but . . . we’ll go into the woods.”
There was a long, tense silence in the van.
“Into t
he woods?” Cordelia asked. Her voice was a quiet whimper. “At night?”
“What are you afraid of?” Xander asked.
“Well, aren’t there . . . you know . . . snakes and spiders and —”
“Cordy, we’re going into the woods after hellhounds,” Xander said with a chuckle. “Snakes and spiders should be the least of your worries.”
Cordelia sighed and shook her head. “You people are so priority-impaired.”
Buffy smiled faintly at Giles, then at the others in the backseat, then at Giles again. “So . . . what are we waiting for?”
Things on the porch went downhill almost immediately.
As the creature flung the severed arm over the porch railing, blood spattered in all directions. Buffy raised her crossbow, aimed, and fired. But the hellhound had already leapt from the porch and flew over her head with a loud growl. The stake sliced through empty air and disappeared into the open doorway.
Buffy reached beneath her jacket for another stake as she spun around on the porch. Through the old wood slats beneath her boots, she could feel the stomping rush of the four other hellhounds hurrying toward her from inside the cabin, while loud rock music continued to rumble.
She had the second stake in the crossbow before she had turned all the way around, but she never had a chance to fire it. The hellhound in the tattered, bloody tank top rose up out of the darkness less than two feet in front of her. With a flick of his black, furry hand, he knocked the crossbow from Buffy’s grip and sent it tumbling into the night.
Buffy’s hand was already beneath her jacket, reaching for another stake — she had her fingers wrapped around it — when the snarling creature slapped a hand on her shoulder and another on her hip and closed his grip. She felt his claws pierce her clothing as he lifted her off the ground. With no apparent effort, the hellhound turned and threw Buffy away from the house. The cold night air hissed past her ears and her hair blew in her face as she flew through the air, the hellhound in furious pursuit.
Buffy slammed into the trunk of a tree. She was unconscious before she hit the ground.
From the time the front door of the cabin opened, only seconds had passed.
As Buffy flew from the porch, Xander and Giles hopped over the railing and moved in from each side. They stopped beside the open door, stakes raised, listening to the snarls rushing toward them.
As if expecting them, the next hellhound out the door swung his arms open wide, knocking Xander and Giles in opposite directions.
By that time, Willow had climbed onto the railing at her end of the porch. She dove off the railing and over Giles, who had been knocked on his back, and onto the hellhound. Unprepared for the attack, the creature fell. Willow wasted no time.
She buried the stake in the hellhound’s neck.
The creature immediately began to convulse and released a painful shriek that echoed through the woods around them. The hellhound’s thrashing became so forceful, Willow was thrown down onto the porch. The creature stiffened after a moment and its back arched. It made a horrible gurgling sound in its throat as its dark, fanged muzzle began to shrink rapidly. Willow backed away on all fours, disgusted by the thick, wet sound of bones moving against bones, of muscle tissue shrinking, dissolving.
The body fell limp suddenly and released a harsh death rattle. It looked like nothing more than a vicious dog now. A dead one. His eyes were open and stared glassily up at the yellow porch light.
Willow released an explosive breath as she reached forward and pulled the stake from his neck.
While Willow had been diving for the unsuspecting hellhound, Xander and Giles had been getting to their feet. By then, three more hellhounds had rushed by them and off the porch. They were somewhere in the darkness, beyond the dull pool of yellow light cast by the bulb over the door.
“Where’s Buffy?” Xander whispered.
“I-I-I don’t . . . I don’t know,” Giles stammered.
In spite of the chilly air, perspiration glistened on their faces, and their hearts were trip-hammering in their chests.
Giles turned to see Willow backing away from the convulsing body on the porch.
Once she’d pulled the stake from the hellhound’s neck, Giles leaned down, gripped her elbow, and helped her to her feet.
“Hey, somebody help me!” Cordelia cried. “I’m stuck!”
Xander, Giles, and Willow turned to the other end of the porch, where Cordelia was trying to climb over the railing. She had one leg over, stake in hand, but her khakis had gotten stuck on the end of a shard of splintered wood.
Xander rushed toward her.
A clawed, furry hand slapped the top of her head, closed on her hair, and jerked her off the railing. With a scream, Cordelia was swallowed by the darkness.
“Cordy!” Xander shouted.
She didn’t hear him. The hellhound’s snout was next to her ear and its hot, snarling breath, smelling coppery of blood, drowned out all other sounds. It still held her by the hair, pulling it hard, as it turned her around. Its black lips pulled back over its fangs, exposing its long black-mottled pink tongue.
Cordelia barely saw the thing’s face. Her eyes were tearing from the pain of her hair being pulled so hard. All fear rushed out of her as anger welled up and made her clench her teeth.
“Don’t . . . mess . . . with the hair!” she cried as she drove the stake into the creature’s abdomen.
The hellhound released her hair and fell away, hitting the ground with a loud thud. It thrashed and kicked and made horrible choking sounds in the dark, but Cordelia turned away, and came face to face with Xander.
“Are you all right?” he asked, clutching her shoulders.
She winced as she patted her hair. “Yeah. I am now. No thanks to you.”
Giles went down the front steps of the porch cautiously, with Willow a couple of steps behind him.
Although the moon was almost completely full and shone through the tall surrounding trees in needles of electric blue, the night was dark with black shadows that grew even blacker when they overlapped.
A low predatory growl came from the darkness and seemed to be everywhere . . . to the left and right, straight ahead, even above them.
“Buffy?” Giles called.
An instant after he called her name, Buffy regained consciousness. She had no idea how long she’d been out, but knew it couldn’t have been long, because she was still alive. The stake was no longer in her hand. She sat up, leaned to her right, and began to grope for the stake on the ground. The tips of her fingers touched its smooth surface —
And she was knocked onto her back again as the hellhound suddenly straddled her waist and pressed her shoulders to the ground.
The creature’s saliva dribbled onto Buffy’s face, warm and thick and noxious.
Buffy reached out as far as she could with her right arm, her fingertips tickling the ground in search of the stake.
“A Slayer,” the hellhound said. The words were nearly buried in the deep growl that came with them.
Her middle finger lightly brushed against the stake’s silver tip. She reached farther, making her shoulder hurt. With the tip of her finger, she drew the stake a little closer to her . . . a little closer.
From the corner of her eye Buffy could see Xander and Cordelia join Willow and Giles, as the four of them moved away from the cabin, their eyes fanning out to look for trouble.
There was a low, quiet growl behind them.
All four of them spun around at once to see two sets of fangs and eyes glinting at them in the moonlight.
The hellhound on top of Buffy leaned forward until his cold, wet nose almost touched the tip of hers. Its lips pulled back and its long fangs dripped tepid saliva onto her chin. The creature’s foul-smelling breath washed over her face, hot and rank with the smell of decaying meat.
Buffy placed a second fingertip on the stake . . . then a third. She curled her fingers, pulling it a little closer. Then a fourth finger . . . and her thumb . . . until
she was able to close her fist around the stake.
The creature pulled back a few inches and opened its snout wide, ready to plunge forward and sink its fangs into her throat.
Through clenched teeth, Buffy snarled, “Eat this!” She slammed the stake into its throat. The hellhound sat up with a startled growl. The stake remained in Buffy’s hand . . . with the silver pointed tip pointing at her. She’d stabbed the hellhound in the throat with the wrong end of the stake.
The hellhound grinned to reveal all its fangs as it grabbed Buffy’s right wrist and began to squeeze, trying to get her to release the stake.
Closer to the cabin, Xander tackled a hellhound without hesitation. As the two of them rolled, Xander shoved the stake in without even knowing where.
Meantime, the other hellhound pounced at Giles, who dropped to his knees immediately and thrust his stake upward.
Buffy swung her left fist around and punched her hellhound in the face once, twice, a third time. The second the creature was off balance, she rolled her body to the left and heaved it off of her.
The hellhound was on all fours in an instant, lunging for Buffy.
Buffy swung her right leg out and kicked the creature in the face. It tumbled away from her with a pained grunt, landing a few feet away. But it didn’t stay there long.
She was up on her knees as the hellhound rushed toward her again. She flipped the stake in her hand, so the silver tip pointed outward, then stabbed it upward as the hellhound pounced on her.
The stake went in deep, and the creature landed heavily on Buffy, making a horrible gurgling sound in its throat. It was immediately still as it lay pinning Buffy to the ground.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Buffy muttered as she rolled the dead weight off of her, “I don’t know you well enough, big guy.” She got up and brushed herself off, then looked down at the hellhound.